And over wine she sang for guests;
And in those days when I was blest,
The young pursued my Muse like devils;
While I, mid friends, was drunk with pride
My flighty mistress at my side.
4
But from that band I soon departed
And fled afar . . . and she as well.
How often, on the course I charted,
My gentle Muse's magic spell
Would light the way with secret stories!
How oft, mid far Caucasia's glories,
Like fair Lenore,* on moonlit nights
She rode with me those craggy heights!
How often on the shores of Tauris,*
On misty eves, she led me down
To hear the sea's incessant sound,
The Nereids'* eternal chorus
That endless chant the waves unfurled
In praise of him who made the world.
5
Forgetting, then, the city's splendour,
Its noisy feasts and grand events,
In sad Moldavia she turned tender
And visited the humble tents
Of wandering tribes; and like a child,
She learned their ways and soon grew wild:
The language of the gods she shed
For strange and simple tongues instead
To sing the savage steppe,* elated;
But then her course abruptly veered,
And in my garden* she appeared
A country missinfatuated,
With mournful air and brooding glance,
And in her hands a French romance.
6
And now I seize the first occasion
To show my Muse a grand soire;
I watch with jealous trepidation
Her rustic charms on full display.
And lo! my beauty calmly passes
Through ranks of men from highborn classes,
Past diplomats and soldier-fops,
And haughty dames . . . then calmly stops
To sit and watch the grand procession
The gowns, the talk, the milling mass,
The slow parade of guests who pass
Before the hostess in succession,
The sombre men who form a frame
Around each painted belle and dame.
7
She likes the stately disposition
Of oligarchic colloquies,
Their chilly pride in high position,
The mix of years and ranks she sees.
But who is that among the chosen,
That figure standing mute and frozen,
That stranger no one seems to know?
Before him faces come and go
Like spectres in a bleak procession.
What is itmartyred pride, or spleen
That marks his face? ... Is that Eugene? !
That figure with the strange expression?
Can that be he? It is, I say.
'But when did fate cast him our way?
8
'Is he the same, or is he learning?
Or does he play the outcast still?
In what new guise is he returning?
What role does he intend to fill?
Childe Harold? Melmoth for a while?
Cosmopolite? A Slavophile?
A Quaker? Bigot?might one ask?
Or will he sport some other mask?
Or maybe he's just dedicated,
Like you and me, to being nice?
In any case, here's my advice:
Give up a role when it's outdated.
He's gulled the world . . . now let it go.'
'You know him then?' 'Well, yes and no.'
9
But why on earth does he inspire
So harsh and negative a view?
Is it because we never tire
Of censuring what others do?
Because an ardent spirit's daring
Appears absurd or overbearing
From where the smug and worthless sit?
Because the dull are cramped by wit?
Because we take mere talk for action,
And malice rules a petty mind?
Because in tripe the solemn find
A cause for solemn satisfaction,
And mediocrity alone
Is what we like and call our own?
10
Oh, blest who in his youth was tender;
And blest who ripened in his prime;
Who learned to bear, without surrender,
The chill of life with passing time;
Who never knew exotic visions,
Nor scorned the social mob's decisions;
Who was at twenty fop or swell,
And then at thirty, married well,
At fifty shed all obligation
For private and for other debts;
Who gained in turn, without regrets,
Great wealth and rank and reputation;
Of whom lifelong the verdict ran:
'Old X is quite a splendid man.'
11
How sad that youth, with all its power,
Was given us in vain, to burn;
That we betrayed it every hour,
And were deceived by it in turn;
That all our finest aspirations,
Our brightest dreams and inspirations,
Have withered with each passing day
Like leaves dank autumn rots away.
It's hard to face a long succession
Of dinners stretching out of sight,
To look at life as at a rite,
And trail the seemly crowd's procession
Indifferent to the views they hold,
And to their passions ever cold.
12
When one becomes the butt of rumour,
It's hard to bear (as you well know)
When men of reason and good humour
Perceive you as a freak on show,
Or as a sad and raving creature,
A monster of Satanic feature,
Or even Demon of my pen!*
Eugene (to speak of him again),
Who'd killed his friend for satisfaction,
Who in an aimless, idle fix
Had reached the age of twenty-six,
Annoyed with leisure and inaction,
Without position, work, or wife
Could find no purpose for his life.
13
He felt a restless, vague ambition,
A craving for a change of air
(A most unfortunate condition
A cross not many choose to bear).
He left his home in disillusion
And fled the woods' and fields' seclusion,
Where every day before his eyes
A bloody spectre seemed to rise;
He took up travel for distraction,
A single feeling in his breast;
But journeys too, like all the rest,
Soon proved a wearisome attraction.
So he returned one day to fall,
Like Chatsky,* straight from boat to ball.
14
But look, the crowd's astir and humming;
A murmur through the ballroom steals . . .
The hostess sees a lady coming,
A stately general at her heels.
She isn't hurried or obtrusive,
Is neither cold nor too effusive;
She casts no brazen glance around
And makes no effort to astound
Or use those sorts of affectation
And artifice that ladies share
But shows a simple, quiet air.
She seems the very illustration
Du comme il faut. . . (Shishkov,* be kind:
I can't translate this phrase, I find.)
15
The ladies flocked to stand beside her;
Old women beamed as she went by;
The men bowed lower when they spied her
; And sought in vain to catch her eye;
Young maidens hushed in passing by her;
While none held head and shoulders higher
Than he who brought the lady there
The general with the prideful air.
One couldn't label her a beauty;
But neither did her form contain,
From head to toe, the slightest strain
Of what, with fashion's sense of duty,
The London social sets decry
As vulgar. (I won't even try
16
To find an adequate translation
For this delicious epithet;
With us the word's an innovation,
But though it's won no favour yet, '
Twould make an epigram of style.* .
. . But where's our lady all this while?)
With carefree charm and winsome air
She took a seat beside the chair
Of brilliant Nina Voronskya,*
That Cleopatra of the North;
But even Nina, shining forth
With all her marble beauty's fire
However dazzling to the sight
Could not eclipse her neighbour's light.
17
'Can it be true?' Eugene reflected.
'Can that be she? ... It seems . . . and yet. . .
From those backwoods!' And he directed
A curious and keen lorgnette
For several minutes in succession
Upon the lady whose expression
Called up a face from long ago.
'But tell me, Prince, you wouldn't know
Who's standing there in conversation
Beside the Spanish envoy, pray .. .
That lady in the red beret?'
'You have been out of circulation.
But I'll present you now with joy.'
'Who is she, though?' 'My wife, old boy.'
18
'You're married! Really?''On my honour.'
'To whom? How long?''Some two years since . . .
The Larin girl.''You mean Tatyana!'
'She knows you?''We were neighbours, Prince.'
'Well then, come on . . . we'll go and meet her.'
And so the prince led up to greet her
His kinsman and his friend Eugene.
The princess looked at himserene;
However much the situation
Disturbed her soul and caused her pain,
However great her shock or strain,
She gave no hint of agitation:
Her manner stayed the same outside,
Her bow was calm and dignified.
19
It's true! The lady didn't shiver,
Or blush, or suddenly turn white .. .
Or even let an eyebrow quiver,
Or press her lips together tight.
Although Eugene with care inspected
This placid lady, he detected
No trace of Tanya from the past.
And when he tried to speak at last,
He found he couldn't. She enquired
When he'd arrived, and if of late
he'd been back home at his estate
Then gave her spouse a look so tired,
He took her arm. She moved away . . .
And left Eugene in mute dismay.
20
Was this the Tanya he once scolded
In that forsaken, distant place
Where first our novel's plot unfolded?
The one to whom, when face to face,
In such a burst of moral fire,
He'd lectured gravely on desire?
The girl whose letter he still kept
In which a maiden heart had wept;
Where all was shown ... all unprotected?
Was this that girl... or did he dream?
That little girl whose warm esteem
And humble lot he'd once rejected? . . .
And could she now have been so bold,
So unconcerned with him ... so cold?
21
He left the rout in all its splendour
And drove back home, immersed in thought;
A swarm of dreams, both sad and tender,
Disturbed the slumber that he sought.
He woke to find, with some elation,
Prince N. had sent an invitation.
'Oh God! I'll see her. . . and today!
Oh yes, I'll go!'and straightaway
He scrawled a note: he 'd be delighted.
What's wrong with him? . . . He's in a daze.
What's stirring in that idle gaze,
What's made that frigid soul excited?
Vexation? Pride? Or youth's old yen
For all the cares of love again?
22
Once more he counts the hours, pacing;
Once more can't wait till day is past.
The clock strikes ten: and off he's racing,
And now he's at the porch at last;
He enters in some apprehension;
The princess, to his added tension,
Is quite alone. Some minutes there
They sit. Eugene can only stare,
He has no voice. Without a smile,
And ill at ease, he scarcely tries
To answer her. His mind supplies
But one persistent thought the while.
His eyes retain their stare; but she Sits
unconstrained, quite calm and free.
23
Her husband enters, thus arresting
This most unpleasant tte--tte;
Eugene and he recalled the jesting,
The pranks and fun when first they'd met.
They laughed. Then guests began arriving.
And on the spice of malice thriving,
The conversation sparkled bright;
The hostess kept the banter light
And quite devoid of affectations;
Good reasoned talk was also heard,
But not a trite or vulgar word,
No lasting truths or dissertations
And no one's ears were shocked a bit
By all the flow of lively wit.
24
The social cream had gathered gaily:
The nobly born and fashion's pets;
The faces one encounters daily,
The fools one never once forgets;
The aged ladies, decked in roses,
In bonnets and malignant poses;
Eugene Onegin Page 20
