Than our glum rhymesters of today?….
’Your elegy lacks all perception,
Its want of purpose is a crime;
Whereas the ode has aims sublime.’
One might to this take sharp exception,
But I’ll be mute. I don’t propose
To bring two centuries to blows.
34
By thoughts of fame and freedom smitten,
Vladimir’s stormy soul grew wings;
What odes indeed he might have written,
But Olga didn’t read the things.
How oft have tearful poets chances
To read their works before the glances
Of those they love? Good sense declares
That no reward on earth compares.
How blest, shy lover, to be granted
To read to her for whom you long:
The very object of your song,
A beauty languid and enchanted!
Ah, blest indeed … although it’s true,
She may be dreaming not of you.
35
But I my fancy’s fruits and flowers
(Those dreams and harmonies I tend)
Am quite content to read for hours
To my old nurse, my childhood’s friend;
Or sometimes after dinners dreary,
When some good neighbour drops in weary—
I’ll corner him and catch his coat
And stuff him with the play I wrote;
Or else (and here I’m far from jesting),
When off beside my lake I climb—
Beset with yearning and with rhyme—
I scare a flock of ducks from resting;
And hearing my sweet stanzas soar,
They flap their wings and fly from shore.
36*
And as I watch them disappearing,
A hunter hidden in the brush
Damns poetry for interfering
And, whistling, fires with a rush.
Each has his own preoccupation,
His favourite sport or avocation:
One aims a gun at ducks on high;
One is entranced by rhyme as I;
One swats at flies in mindless folly;
One dreams of ruling multitudes;
One craves the scent that war exudes;
One likes to bask in melancholy;
One occupies himself with wine:
And good and bad all intertwine.
37
But what of our Eugene this while?
Have patience, friends, I beg you, pray;
I’ll tell it all in detailed style
And show you how he spent each day.
Onegin lived in his own heaven:
In summer he’d get up by seven
And, lightly clad, would take a stroll
Down to the stream below the knoll.
Gulnare’s proud singer* his example,
He’d swim across this Hellespont;
Then afterwards, as was his wont,
He’d drink his coffee, sometimes sample
The pages of some dull review,
And then he’d dress….
(38) 39
Long rambles, reading, slumber’s blisses,
The burbling brook, the wooded shade,
At times the fresh and youthful kisses
Of white-skinned, dark-eyed country maid;
A horse of spirit fit to bridle,
A dinner fanciful and idle,
A bottle of some sparkling wine,
Seclusion, quiet—these, in fine,
Were my Onegin’s saintly pleasures,
To which he yielded one by one,
Unmoved to count beneath the sun
Fair summer’s days and careless treasures,
Unmindful too of town or friends
And their dull means to festive ends.
40
Our northern summers, though, are versions
Of southern winters, this is clear;
And though we’re loath to cast aspersions,
They seem to go before they’re here!
The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled;
The friendly sun less often sparkled;
The days grew short and as they sped,
The wood with mournful murmur shed
Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered;
The fields all lay in misty peace;
The caravan of cackling geese
Turned south; and all around there hovered
The sombre season near at hand;
November marched across the land.
41
The dawn arises cold and cheerless;
The empty fields in silence wait;
And on the road … grown lean and fearless,
The wolf appears with hungry mate;
Catching the scent, the road horse quivers
And snorts in fear, the traveller shivers
And flies uphill with all his speed;
No more at dawn does shepherd need
To drive the cows outside with ringing;
Nor does his horn at midday sound
The call that brings them gathering round.
Inside her hut a girl is singing,
And by the matchwood’s crackling light
She spins away the wintry night.
42
The frost already cracks and crunches;
The fields are silver where they froze …
(And you, good reader, with your hunches,
Expect the rhyme, so take it—Rose!)
No fine parquet could hope to muster
The ice-clad river’s glassy lustre;
The joyous tribe of boys berates
And cuts the ice with ringing skates;
A waddling red-foot goose now scurries
To swim upon the water’s breast;
He treads the ice with care to test …
And down he goes! The first snow flurries
Come flitting, flicking, swirling round
To fall like stars upon the ground.
43
But how is one, in this dull season,
To help the rural day go by?
Take walks? The views give little reason,
When only bareness greets the eye.
Go ride the steppe’s harsh open spaces?
Your mount, if put to try his paces
On treacherous ice in blunted shoe,
Is sure to fall … and so will you.
So stay beneath your roof… try reading:
Here’s Pradt* or, better, Walter Scott!
Or check accounts. You’d rather not?
Then rage or drink…. Somehow proceeding,
This night will pass (the next one too),
And grandly you’ll see winter through!
44
Childe Harold-like, Onegin ponders,
Adrift in idle, slothful ways;
From bed to icy bath he wanders,
And then at home all day he stays,
Alone, and sunk in calculation,
His only form of recreation—
The game of billiards, all day through,
With just two balls and blunted cue.
But as the rural dusk encroaches,
The cue’s forgot, the billiards fade;
Before the hearth the table’s laid.
He waits. … At last his guest approaches:
It’s Lensky’s troika, three fine roans;
‘Come on, let’s dine, my stomach groans!’
45
Moët, that wine most blest and heady,
Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class,
Is brought in bottle chilled and ready
And set beside the poet’s glass.
Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly,
It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly
(A simile in many ways);
It charmed me too, in other days:
For its sake once, I squandered gladly
My la
st poor pence … remember, friend?
Its magic stream brought forth no end
Of acting foolish, raving madly,
And, oh, how many jests and rhymes,
And arguments, and happy times!
46
But all that foamy, frothy wheezing
Just plays my stomach false, I fear;
And nowadays I find more pleasing
Sedate Bordeaux’s good quiet cheer.
Aï* I find is much too risky,
Aï is like a mistress—frisky,
Vivacious, brilliant… and too light.
But you, Bordeaux, I find just right;
You’re like a comrade, ever steady,
Prepared in trials or in grief
To render service, give relief;
And when we wish it, always ready
To share a quiet evening’s end.
Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!
47
The fire goes out; the coal, still gleaming,
Takes on a film of ash and pales;
The rising vapours, faintly streaming,
Curl out of sight; the hearth exhales
A breath of warmth. The pipe smoke passes
Up chimney flue. The sparkling glasses
Stand fizzing on the table yet;
With evening’s gloom, the day has set…
(I’m fond of friendly conversation
And of a friendly glass or two
At dusk or entre chien et loup*—
As people say without translation,
Though why they do, I hardly know).
But listen as our friends speak low:
48
‘And how are our dear neighbours faring?
Tatyana and your Olga, pray? …’
‘Just half a glass, old boy, be sparing …
The family’s well, I think I’d say;
They send you greetings and affection….
Oh, God, my friend, what sheer perfection
In Olga’s breast! What shoulders too!
And what a soul! … Come visit, do!
You ought to, really … they’ll be flattered;
Or judge yourself how it must look—
You dropped in twice and closed the book;
Since then, it seems, they’ve hardly mattered.
In fact … Good Lord, my wits are bleak!
You’ve been invited there next week!’
49
‘Tatyana’s name-day celebration
Is Saturday. Her mother’s sent
(And Olga too!) an invitation;
Now don’t refuse, it’s time you went.’
‘There’ll be a crush and lots of babble
And all that crowd of local rabble.’
‘Why not at all, they just intend
To have the family, that’s all, friend;
Come on, let’s go, do me the favour!’
‘Alright, I’ll go.’ ‘Well done, first class!’
And with these words he drained his glass
In toast to his attractive neighbour …
And then waxed voluble once more
In talk of Olga. Love’s a bore!
50
So Lensky soared as he awaited
His wedding day two weeks ahead;
With joy his heart anticipated
The mysteries of the marriage bed
And love’s sweet crown of jubilations.
But Hymen’s cares and tribulations,
The frigid, yawning days to be,
He never pictured once, not he.
While we, the foes of Hymen’s banner,
Perceive full well that home life means
But one long string of dreary scenes—
In Lafontaine’s* insipid manner.
But my poor Lensky, deep at heart,
Was born to play this very part.
51
Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving …
Or so at least with joy he thought.
Oh, blest is he who lives believing,
Who takes cold intellect for naught,
Who rests within the heart’s sweet places
As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces,
Or as, more tenderly I’d say,
A butterfly in blooms of May;
But wretched he who’s too far-sighted,
Whose head is never fancy-stirred,
Who hates all gestures, each warm word,
As sentiments to be derided,
Whose heart… experience has cooled
And barred from being loved … or fooled!
Chapter 5
Oh, never know these frightful dreams, My dear Svetlana!
Zhukovsky
1
The fall that year was in no hurry,
And nature seemed to wait and wait
For winter. Then, in January,
The second night, the snow fell late.
Next day as dawn was just advancing,
Tatyana woke and, idly glancing,
Beheld outdoors a wondrous sight:
The roofs, the yard, the fence—all white;
Each pane a fragile pattern showing;
The trees in winter silver dyed,
Gay magpies on the lawn outside,
And all the hilltops soft and glowing
With winter’s brilliant rug of snow—
The world all fresh and white below.
2
Ah, wintertime! … The peasant, cheerful,
Creates a passage with his sleigh;
Aware of snow, his nag is fearful,
But shambles somehow down the way.
A bold kibitka skips and burrows
And ploughs a trail of fluffy furrows;
The driver sits behind the dash
In sheepskin coat and scarlet sash.
And here’s a household boy gone sleighing—
His Blackie seated on the sled,
While he plays horse and runs ahead;
The rascal froze his fingers, playing,
And laughs out loud between his howls,
While through the glass his mother scowls.
3
But you, perhaps, are not attracted
By pictures of this simple kind,
Where lowly nature is enacted
And nothing grand or more refined.
Warmed by the god of inspiration,
Another bard in exaltation
Has painted us the snow new-laid
And winter’s joys in every shade.*
I’m sure you’ll find him most engaging
When he, in flaming verse, portrays
Clandestine rides in dashing sleighs;
But I have no intent of waging
A contest for his crown … or thine,
Thou bard of Finland’s maid divine!*
4
Tatyana (with a Russian duty
That held her heart, she knew not why)
Profoundly loved, in its cold beauty,
The Russian winter passing by:
Crisp days when sunlit hoarfrost glimmers,
The sleighs, and rosy snow that shimmers
In sunset’s glow, the murky light
That wraps about the Yuletide night.
Those twelfthtide eves, by old tradition,
Were marked at home on their estate:
The servant maids would guess the fate
Of both young girls with superstition;
Each year they promised, as before,
Two soldier husbands and a war.
5
Tatyana heeded with conviction
All ancient folklore night and noon,
Believed in dreams and card prediction,
And read the future by the moon.
All signs and portents quite alarmed her,
All objects either scared or charmed her
With secret meanings they’d impart;
Forebodings filled and pressed her heart.
If her prim tomcat sat prot
ected
Atop the stove to wash and purr,
Then this was certain sign to her
That guests were soon to be expected;
Or if upon her left she’d spy
A waxing crescent moon on high,
6
Her face would pale, her teeth would chatter.
Or when a shooting star flew by
To light the sombre sky and shatter
In fiery dust before her eye,
She’d hurry and, in agitation,
Before the star’s disintegration,
Would whisper it her secret prayer.
Or if she happened anywhere
To meet a black-robed monk by error,
Or if amid the fields one day
A fleeing hare would cross her way,
She’d be quite overcome with terror,
As dark forebodings filled her mind
Of some misfortune ill defined.
7
Yet even in these same afflictions
She found a secret charm in part:
For nature—fond of contradictions—
Has so designed the human heart.
The holy days are here. What gladness! …
Bright youth divines, not knowing sadness,
With nothing that it must regret,
With all of life before it yet—
A distance luminous and boundless….
Old age divines with glasses on
And sees the grave before it yawn,
All thoughts of time returning—groundless;
No matter: childish hope appears
To murmur lies in aged ears.
8
Tatyana watches, fascinated,
The molten wax submerge and turn
To wondrous shapes which designated
Some wondrous thing that she would learn.
Then from a basin filled with water
Their rings are drawn in random order;
When Tanya’s ring turned up at last,
The song they sang was from the past:
‘The peasants there have hoards of treasure,
They spade up silver from a ditch!
The one we sing to will be rich
Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Page 11
