The legends of a Russian family,
The charming dreams love brings to us,
The manners of our ancestors.
14
I’ll set down the plain conversation
Of dads, and uncles past their prime,
The children’s secret assignations
Down by the brook, beside the limes,
Throes of the hapless jealous-hearted,
Tears, and the making-up when parted…
I’ll show their tiffs, but without fail
They’ll end up at the altar rail.
I’ll catch the tones of love. The blissful
Accents of aching hearts, which I
Was wont to use in days gone by
At lovers’ feet, where I lay wishful,
Inspired me, tripping off the tongue,
But now their memory is not strong.
15
Tatyana, oh, Tatyana, darling,
I weep along with you. That man’s
A modish brute, and you are falling—
Your destiny is in his hands.
You’ll perish, but first, darling woman,
Dazzled with hope, you wish to summon
At least a darkling form of bliss
And sample what life’s sweetness is—
Desire. You drink a magic poison.
You are pursued by waking dreams,
And everywhere you fancy schemes
For meeting places blithely chosen.
Look everywhere, and everywhere
Your deadly tempter will be there.
16
Driven by aching love, Tatyana
Goes down the garden, there to brood.
She drops her gaze; her eyes are calmer.
She falters now from lassitude.
Her bosom heaves, her cheeks are bright red
And momentarily ignited.
Her breath stops at her lips and dies,
Her ears ring, flashes sear her eyes…
And night falls, with the moon patrolling
The far depths of the firmament,
And in the treetops, eloquent,
A nightingale is sweetly trolling.
Darkness. No sleep. It’s getting worse.
Tatyana whispers to her nurse.
17
“I can’t sleep, Nanny. It’s oppressive.
Open the window. Sit with me.”
“Tanya. What’s wrong?” “I feel so restive.
Let’s talk about our history.”
“Our what? Oh, Tanya, once I gloried
In lots of well-remembered stories
Of things that don’t and things that do,
With evil sprites and young girls too,
But now it’s all gone dark. Oh, Tanya,
I knew it once, but now it’s gone,
And awful times are coming on.
It’s painful.” “Tell me, Nanny—can you?—
What happened to you long ago?
Were you in love? I want to know.”
18
“Oh, come, come, Tanya. I look back on
Times when we never heard of love.
His mother would have sent me packing
(God rest her soul in heaven above).”
“But how did you get married, Nanny?”
“It must have been God’s will. My Vanya
Was not as old as me, my dear,
And I was in my fourteenth year.
A matchmaker came over, plying
My kinsfolk for a week or two,
The father gave the blessing due,
Which left me bitter, scared and crying.
They cried too, shaking out my hair
For church, and then they sang me there.
19
So I was sent to a new family…
…But you’ve not heard a word I’ve said…”
“I’m feeling awful, dearest Nanny,
I have a kind of sickly dread.
I could start crying, sobbing.” “Surely,
My little one, you must be poorly.
God save you in his mercy, dear.
What do you want? Ask, I am here.
I’ll sprinkle you with holy water.
You’re burning hot…” “I’m not ill, though,
Nanny… I’m… I’m in love.” “Oh, no,
The Lord be with you!” Nanny caught her,
Prayed softly for Tatyana, and
Crossed the maid with her small, frail hand.
20
“Yes, I’m in love,” again she whispered,
Lamenting in a doleful tone.
“You’re feeling poorly, sweetheart. Listen…”
“No, I’m in love. Leave me alone.”
And all the time the moon was glowing
With a subdued light, clearly showing
The maiden’s pale charms, and her hair
Undone and scattered everywhere,
Her tears, and near the young Tatyana
Her nanny on the wooden seat,
A scarf on her grey head, complete
With her long-hanging body-warmer.
Silence and dreams. The moon on high
An inspiration in the sky.
21
Tatyana’s heart was feeling freer
As she gazed at the moon, and lo!
She had an interesting idea.
“I want to be alone. Please go,
Nanny, but give me pen and paper.
Bring me that table. I’ll sleep later.
I’m sorry.” And when she has gone
Stillness descends… The moon shines on…
Head propped on elbow, Tanya forges
Ahead with writing (him in mind)
A hasty missive to be signed
By an ingénue lovelorn and gorgeous…
The letter’s done, folded in two.
But, Tanya—who is it going to?
22
I’ve known intractable young beauties
As cool and pure as driven snow,
Implacable, non-venal cuties,
Not for the minds of men—oh, no!
They faze me, modish and high-minded;
Their virtue has good blood behind it.
Yes, I admit to having fled,
Methinks with horror, once I read
Upon their brows that phrase from Hades:
Abandon hope now for all time.
To rouse love is, for them, a crime;
Deterrence gratifies these ladies,
And maybe by the Neva, you
Have come across such persons too.
23
With worshippers no less subservient
Other strange females I have seen
Who were self-centred and impervious
To sighs of love and flattery.
What did I find? I was astonished:
Those austere girls who had admonished,
And turned down shy love, did not lack
The clever skills to win it back,
At least by showing some compassion.
At least in the odd spoken word
A touch of tenderness was heard,
And in his unperceiving fashion
A blind and gullible young swain
Would strive for his sweet dreams again.
24
What is Tatyana’s worst transgression?
That in her sweet way she has been
Free from deceit? Her one obsession
Has been to trust her chosen dream?
Or that she loves without art, yielding
To the seductive call of feeling?
That she is trustingly naive?
That heaven chose her to receive
Imagination of wild splendour,
A will so sharp, a mind so shrewd,
A head so full of attitude,
A heart so passionate and tender?
Forgive! She’s only guilty of
Scatterbrain tendencies in love.
25
; Whereas a flirt will judge things coldly,
Tatyana loves with true intent.
She dedicates her spirit wholly
To love, with childlike innocence.
She doesn’t say, “No need to hurry,
Love’s price will rise, we need not worry,
Delay will lure things to our nets.
Let’s puncture vanity, and let’s
Use hope and bafflement together
To overwhelm a heart, and then
Bring it to jealous fire again.
For otherwise, sated with pleasure,
Our wily captive will respond
With a strong urge to burst his bonds.”
26
One further problem: I had better
Protect the honour of my land
By giving you Tatyana’s letter
Translated. You must understand:
Her grasp of Russian was defective,
Our Russian journals she neglected,
And found it hard to get along
With speakers of her mother tongue.
Her letter, then, was in French phrases.
What can we do about this—what?
Again I say: Russian was not
A medium fit for love and ladies.
Our worthy language, I suppose,
Has not grown into postal prose.
27
I know some people want to make them
Read Russian. Horrible indeed!
Is this how I should recreate them:
Clutching The Well-Wisher? Agreed!
Poets! I need to know for certain:
Is it not true that these sweet persons,
To whom you sinners have conveyed
In verse a secret serenade,
To whom you gave your hearts of marble—
How little Russian did they know!
But did they not strain at it so
That, in the end, however garbled,
The foreign language that was wrung
From them became their mother tongue?
28
I pray that at a ball I wouldn’t
Meet there, or on the porch mayhap,
A yellow-shawled religious student
Or academic in his cap.
Red lips are nothing when unsmiling,
And Russian speech is unbeguiling
Without grammatical mistakes.
Perhaps—ah, me! For Heaven’s sake—
Sweet girls in a new generation,
Hearing the journals’ siren voice,
Will teach us grammar as by choice,
And verse will add to the occasion.
But what has this to do with me?
I shall keep faith with history.
29
All incorrect and mindless chatter
And speech that is not of the best
Will always set my heart aflutter,
As long ago, within my breast.
I have no strength now for repentance,
I’ll take French words in any sentence,
And tolerate old sins and worse
With Bogdanóvich and his verse.
But that will do. I must get busy.
Tatyana’s letter is at stake.
I promised… But, for Heaven’s sake,
I could back out… I’m in a tizzy.
I know that Parny’s tender brogue
Has gone, and is no more in vogue.
30
Bard of The Feasts and aching sadness,
If only you were with me here.
I would approach with brazen gladness,
Old friend of mine, and bend your ear:
“Bring melody with magic laden
To this inflamed, impassioned maiden
And the French phrases she recites.
Where are you? Come to me! My rights
I yield to you. Your line is my line.”
But under the sad, beetling crags,
All praise gone by, his way he drags,
Alone beneath the Finnish skyline.
He wanders, knowing no relief,
And cannot hear me in my grief.
31
Tatyana’s letter lies before me.
I hold it like a holy thing.
I read it through in secret torment
With a delight unwavering.
Who taught her all these tender phrases,
The easy kindness that amazes?
Who taught her this warm gibberish,
This heartfelt talk so feverish,
So fascinating yet so tainting?
I cannot tell. This version here
Is poor and incomplete, I fear,
A thin take of a vibrant painting.
It’s like Der Freischütz tightly squeezed
From girl beginners at the keys.
TATYANA’S LETTER TO ONEGIN
What can I do but write this letter
To you? Can I say something more?
I know that now you have the better
Of me, to punish me with scorn.
But if you, with my sad fate settled,
Retain one drop of sympathy,
You will not now abandon me.
At first I wanted to keep quiet.
Believe me, you would not have known
About the shame that I have shown,
If only I could have got by it
By simply hoping we might meet
Once weekly in the village street,
Or I might listen to you speaking,
And say a word to you, and then
Withdraw to think and think again,
Around the clock, of our next meeting.
But you’re unsociable, they say;
And we… don’t shine in any way.
We’re plain, though welcoming your visit.
Why did you come here? What to do?
In our remote, forgotten village
I would have known nothing of you,
Nor this raw suffering. God willing—
Who knows?—at long last, after stilling
The turmoil of a maiden soul,
I might have found a friend, a heartener,
I might have been his faithful partner,
And played a virtuous mother’s role.
Another man? My heart will answer:
It cannot go to others, no.
This comes forth from the highest council:
By Heaven’s will I’m yours alone.
My life has long been dedicated
To meeting you, the person whom
I see as sent by God, and fated
To be my guardian to the tomb.
In dreams I have divined your presence,
Dear to my heart, though still unseen,
Your dear glance pierced me with its gleam,
Your voice has stirred my soul with resonance
For some time now. No dream was this.
I knew you even as you entered;
I felt all faint, ablaze, tormented,
Telling myself: yes, here he is!
Did I not hear your voice engaging
With me whenever silence reigned,
When I was with the poor, or phrasing
A prayer to heaven, and assuaging
The anguish of a soul in pain?
Here is a sudden apparition;
Is it not you, my dearest vision?
Through the bright dusk did you not slope,
Softly above my pillow bending,
Bringing delight and love while sending
To me the whispered words of hope?
What can you be—my guardian angel,
Or someone luring me into danger?
Scatter my doubts. I must be told.
Is this an empty dream created
By one who cheats a simple soul
While something different is fated?
So be it. My destiny
Is in your hands, and I surrender.
I
shed my tears for you to see,
And pray you will be my defender.
Picture me: I am all alone,
And no one knows me, nothing alters.
My senses reel, my reason falters,
I cannot speak, my life is gone.
I wait. Your glance has the potential
To raise new hope and hearten me
Or wreck my hard dream, giving me
What I deserve, alas!—your censure.
I close, and dread to read this through.
I feel embarrassed, I feel frightened,
But honour is a pledge from you;
To this my trust is boldly plighted…
32
Now only sighs and moans escape her.
The letter trembles in her hand.
She licks at the pink-coloured wafer,
Dry on her fevered tongue-tip, and
Her darling head slumps at an angle,
Her light slip slides down in a tangle,
Laying a lovely shoulder bare,
And now the moonlight everywhere
Fades in its radiance. Mist comes creeping
Along the vale, the stream reborn
In silver light. The herdsman’s horn
Rouses the village from its sleeping.
Morning… Folk are long out of bed.
My Tanya isn’t interested.
33
She has not noticed the dawn breaking.
She sits, head bowed, in dishabille,
Viewing the letter without making
An imprint with her graven seal.
Then the door opens, slow and quiet;
Grey-haired Filípyevna stands by it,
Bearing a tray, tea-things and cup.
“Come on, my child, time you were up.
My goodness, lovely girl, you’re ready!
My early birdie, what a fright
You brought upon me yesternight.
But, heavens, how your health has steadied,
And last night’s fret has passed. Instead,
Your face has gone all poppy red.”
34
“Nanny, would you do me a favour?”
“Of course, my dear. How does it go?”
“You won’t think… there’s a funny flavour?…