Yevgeny Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

  51

  And he was loved… At least he needed

  To think so. Happy was the thought.

  Blest hundredfold is the believer

  Who sets his chilling mind at naught

  And rests in heartfelt joy, reposing

  Like a drunk tramp abed and dozing,

  Or like a butterfly (less gloom!)

  Swooning in spring upon its bloom.

  But pity him who has forebodings,

  Whose mind is set and never whirls,

  Who views all movement, and all words

  That carry extra sense, with loathing.

  His heart is chilled by life, it seems,

  And barred from dreaming woozy dreams.

  * Morality is in the nature of things. (French.)

  CHAPTER FIVE

  May you never know these nightmares, My dear Svetlana.

  ZHUKÓVSKY

  1

  That year the weather stayed with autumn,

  As if the world outside had slowed,

  But winter waited—then it caught them

  In January, when it snowed,

  The third night. Up betimes, Tatyana

  Looked through the windowpane to garner

  A picture of the white world hence—

  The flowerbeds and the roofs and fence,

  The windowpanes with gentle patterns,

  Trees in their winter silver, hard,

  With happy magpies in the yard

  And all the hillocks smoothly flattened.

  A brilliant white had overset

  All things with winter’s coverlet.

  2

  Winter! A sledding peasant revels

  In ploughing through a virgin plot.

  His pony, snuffling snow, bedevilled,

  Gets through it at a struggling trot.

  A covered sleigh flies past, and flurries

  Of powdered snow rise as it scurries.

  The seated coachman in a flash

  Speeds by in long coat and red sash.

  A peasant lad, the little tinker,

  Runs round with Blackie as his fare

  And him the horse. Without a care,

  The scamp ignores his frozen finger,

  Which hurts a bit, and still he laughs

  At mummy scolding through the glass.

  3

  But you may think this kind of picture

  Is hardly worth a second glance.

  Here’s Nature mean and unrestricted,

  Deprived of any elegance.

  Warmly inspired, as if divinely,

  Another bard, of verbal finery,

  Has shown us first snow and displayed

  Winter delights of every shade.

  I know he’ll charm you with his talent,

  His use of keen poetic skills

  On sleigh rides with their secret thrills!

  But neither poet do I challenge,

  Not him, not you. Be not afraid,

  Singer of that young Finnish maid.

  4

  The Russian spirit deep within her

  Made Tanya inexplicably

  A lover of our Russian winter,

  So cold and beautiful to see,

  The rimy sheen in frosty sunshine,

  Sledging in the late dawn and, sometimes,

  The bright pink texture of the snow,

  Its January evening glow…

  They marked the church days after Christmas

  The old way, in the evenings there,

  And maids came in from everywhere

  To guess the fortune of each mistress.

  Each year, the same thing: what’s in store?

  A soldier husband and a war.

  5

  Tanya loved legends from all quarters,

  To old tales she was well attuned,

  And dreams, and cards, and telling fortunes,

  Prognostications by the moon.

  Omens of every kind upset her,

  And everything was a begetter

  Of mystery amid dismay.

  Forebodings took her breath away.

  If Snobs, the cat, sat on his oven

  And purred, pawing to clean his face,

  This was a definite foretaste

  Of coming visitors. Above her,

  If a young crescent moon was heft

  Into the heavens from the left—

  6

  She would turn pale and give a shudder,

  And if a shooting star should speed

  Through the dark firmament above her

  And shower down, ah, then indeed

  Tanya made haste in great confusion,

  While the said star was downward cruising,

  To whisper forth her heart’s desire.

  If a chance meeting should transpire

  To place a black-robed monk before her,

  Or if a swift hare shot across

  Her field path, she was at a loss,

  Deciding what to do, from horror,

  And, full of premonitions, she

  Expected a calamity.

  7

  So what? She welcomed the contagious

  Thrill of the horror and its shocks.

  And that’s how Mother Nature made us,

  Susceptible to paradox.

  Epiphany comes round—so thrilling!—

  And giddy youth goes fortune-telling,

  For whom there’s no cause for regret,

  For whom the span of life as yet

  Shines far ahead, a boundless treasure.

  Old age divines, with specs on nose,

  As life is coming to its close

  And all is lost and gone for ever.

  No matter. Hope on them has smiled

  (With the false prattle of a child).

  8

  When hot wax was dropped into water

  Tatyana looked at it transfixed,

  And wonderful the things it taught her

  When it was wonderfully mixed.

  Then from fresh water in a basin

  Their rings emerged in quick succession,

  And when her tiny ring emerged

  They sang an old song with these words:

  “Rich toilers dwell in that far city,

  Shovelling silver all day long.

  We wish the subject of our song

  Fortune and fame!” But this sad ditty

  Tells of sad losses soon for us;

  Girls are more moved by “lady-puss”.

  9

  Night falls… Clear skies and frosty weather.

  A wondrous choir of heavenly suns

  Wheel in sweet harmony together.

  Into the wide yard Tanya comes,

  Wearing a dress with neckline open.

  Her mirror picks the moon out, hoping,

  But in the dark glass, if you please,

  Sad, trembling moon is all she sees.

  Hush!… Creaking snow… Who is that passing?

  On tiptoe, over there she speeds

  And, softer than a pipe of reeds,

  Her fluting voice sings to him, asking,

  “What do they call you?” Whereupon

  He glares and answers, “Agaphon.”

  10

  Tatyana’s nurse had once suggested

  That conjured dreams at night come true,

  So in the bathhouse she requested

  A secret table set for two.

  But sudden panic struck Tatyana

  (As once, when thinking of Svetlana,

  I panicked too… But let that go…

  We’re not in Tanya’s magic show).

  She took her silk sash and undid it,

  Then she undressed and went to bed,

  A love charm hanging by her head.

  Neath the down pillow, where she’d hid it,

  Lay the maid’s mirror she had kept.

  And all went quiet; Tanya slept.

  11

  And Tanya dreams a dream fantastic,

  She dreams of a wh
ite glade snow-kissed,

  Which she is walking through, while past it

  There swirls a dismal circling mist.

  Ahead, through snowdrifts, roars a current,

  A steaming, wavy, boiling torrent,

  Its waters dark with light-grey flocks,

  Left by the winter still unlocked.

  Two sticks icily glued together

  Flimsily, perilously spanned

  A gorge where rushing waters ran,

  The loud deeps racing hell for leather,

  And there she halted in dismay,

  Her footsteps dwindling away.

  12

  Tanya viewed this unwanted hiccup

  And cursed the stream, but nowhere could

  She see a proffered hand to pick up

  And use to help her cross the flood.

  Then suddenly a snowdrift shuddered.

  You’ll never guess what it uncovered—

  A great, big, full-size, bristling bear.

  She screamed, he roared, and then and there

  He offered her his claws, a pawful.

  She rallied, taking courage, and

  Steadied herself with trembling hand.

  Warily, dreading something awful,

  She crossed. Then, with no more ado,

  She walked on—but the bear came too!

  13

  Too scared to look back—so horrendous!—

  Faster she runs. Not fast enough:

  He’s coming, her hirsute attendant,

  And he will not be shaken off.

  The ghastly bear grunts as he lumbers,

  Ahead of them the pinewood slumbers,

  Wasting its beauty in a scowl,

  And all the branches are weighed down

  With clumps of snow. The starlight pushes

  Down through the treetops—birches, limes

  And aspens—but though it shines,

  There is no road. Gorges and bushes

  Have gone from sight. They’re down below,

  Everything buried deep in snow.

  14

  Into the woods… The bear comes after…

  She struggles, knee-deep in soft snow.

  First a long branch comes down to grasp her

  Around the neck, then a sharp blow

  Sends both her golden earrings tumbling.

  Her wet shoe sticks (the snow is crumbling)

  And bares a charming little foot.

  She lets her handkerchief fall, but

  Can’t stop to pick it up. She flinches,

  Hearing the bear behind her, and

  Modesty keeps her shaking hand

  From raising her skirts a few inches.

  She runs, and still he follows on,

  Until she can no longer run.

  15

  Down she goes in the snow, and swiftly

  He scoops her up. He’s off with her.

  She yields herself coldly and stiffly.

  She’s breathes not, neither does she stir

  As down the forest road he rushes

  To a shack lost in trees and bushes.

  The woods are dense, and far and wide

  The snows lie deep on every side.

  Here is a window shining brightly.

  From inside comes a raucous din.

  The bear announces, “They’re my kin.

  Inside you’ll soon get warmed up nicely.”

  Into the hallway. On the floor

  He sets her down before the door.

  16

  Tanya stares out as her swoon passes.

  He’s gone. She’s at the door, through which

  She hears loud talk and clinking glasses—

  It’s like a funeral for the rich.

  It doesn’t make sense. It’s uncanny.

  She sneaks a look in through a cranny.

  What’s this? A table, and round it

  All sorts of ugly monsters sit:

  A horned beast and a dog-faced creature,

  One with a cockerel’s head, a weird

  Old witch sporting a goatee beard,

  A skeleton with proud, prim features,

  A long-tailed dwarf and, after that,

  A hybrid thing, half-crane, half-cat.

  17

  But weirder still—and more horrific—

  A crayfish on a spider’s back,

  A red-capped skull hermaphroditic.

  Rotating on a goose’s neck,

  A windmill dances round, legs squatting,

  With sails that crack and swing like nothing.

  They bark, laugh, whistle, bang and screech

  To clopping hooves and human speech.

  But one thing got the better of her:

  Among the strange guests had appeared

  The one man that she loved and feared—

  Onegin—hero of out novel!

  He’s at the table. What is more,

  He’s sneaking glances at the door.

  18

  A sign from him, and they looked ruffled.

  If he drinks, they drink, and they shout.

  If he laughs, they begin to chuckle,

  And when he scowls noise peters out.

  He is the undisputed master.

  Tanya, less fearful of disaster,

  Begins to wonder how things are.

  Gently she sets the door ajar…

  A sudden gust of wind then douses

  The light from all the candlesticks;

  The ghostly gang fades with the wicks.

  Eyes flashing, now Onegin rouses,

  Clattering as he leaves the board.

  They rise; he walks towards the door.

  19

  Feeling afraid and in a panic,

  Tatyana tries to flee. It seems

  She cannot run. Her mood is manic,

  She casts about, but cannot scream,

  He flings the door wide. The effect is

  That all these glaring hellish spectres

  Turn upon her, and mocking cries

  Ring out against her. All those eyes,

  The clopping hooves, the muzzles curvy,

  The tufty tails, the tusky prongs,

  Moustaches and the bloody tongues,

  The horns and bony fingers turning

  To point at her, while voices whine,

  Together crying, “Mine, she’s mine!”

  20

  “She’s mine!” announced Yevgeny starkly,

  And suddenly the pack has gone,

  Leaving behind them, cold and darkling,

  Onegin, Tanya, all alone.

  Onegin, though, has now withdrawn her,

  Settling her gently in a corner

  Upon a wobbly wooden seat.

  He now inclines his head to meet

  Her shoulder. But then Olga enters

  With Lensky. Lights flash through the mist.

  Onegin makes a threatening fist

  And stares round fiercely, ill-contented,

  Chiding the two intrusive guests,

  While Tanya, scarcely breathing, rests.

  21

  They argue. Louder. Of a sudden

  Yevgeny grabs a long knife. Oh,

  Lensky’s struck down! Grim shadows huddle

  Them close. A hideous cry of woe

  Rings out… The wooden shack is shaken…

  …In horror Tanya now awakens

  And looks around. It’s light again,

  As through the frozen windowpane

  Dawn’s crimson rays send out an aura.

  The door swings open. Olga flies

  Across to Tanya swallow-wise,

  Rosier than the north’s Aurora.

  “Tanya,” she says, “Tell me, my love—

  Who is it you’ve been dreaming of?”

  22

  Tatyana, though, ignores her sister

  And lies there with a book in bed.

  The pages turn—she hasn’t missed her—

  And now she’s here nothing is sai
d.

  Not that this book, for those who know it,

  Presents sweet fictions from a poet,

  Or maxims, or delightful scenes,

  Or texts from Virgil or Racine,

  Scott, Byron, Seneca. No features,

  Not even Ladies Fashion, could

  So fascinate and stir the blood.

  It was Martin Zadeck, dear readers,

  A wise Chaldean sage, it seems,

  And an interpreter of dreams.

  23

  This work of moment and profundity

  Came from a travelling salesman, who

  Called in one day, out in the country,

  And haggled with her as they do.

  For her three roubles fifty copecks

  She got Malvina (not the whole text)

  Plus extras, normal in such sales:

  A bumper book of common tales,

  A grammar and two Petrine epics,

  And Marmontel’s Works (Volume Three).

  Martin Zadeck soon came to be

  Her favourite… So sympathetic

  To her when sorrows made life grim,

  And every night she sleeps with him.

  24

  Disturbed by what she had been dreaming,

  She wondered what it had to show.

  What was the ghastly vision’s meaning?

  Tanya would dearly like to know.

  Though short, the index was poetical.

  She found, in order alphabetical:

  Bear, black of night, blizzard and bridge,

  Fir, forest, hedgehog, raven, witch,

  And suchlike words. Her apprehensions,

  Despite Zadeck, could not be stilled.

  The nightmare showed her fate fulfilled

  By most unhappy misadventures.

  For several days she was distraught

  With worry at this very thought.

  25

  But now the crimson day is dawning;

  Here from the valleys soars the sun,

  Ushering in for us this morning

  A name day! Joy for everyone!

  All day the Larins’ house was writhing

  With guests, whole families arriving