Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics)

by Alexander Pushkin

  Her weariness and helpless languor,

  Evoked his pity more than anger:

  He bowed to her in silence, grave …

  But somehow just the look he gave

  Was wondrous tender. If asserting

  Some feeling for Tatyana’s lot,

  Or if, unconsciously or not,

  He’d only teased her with some flirting,

  His look was still a tender dart:

  It reawakened Tanya’s heart.

  35

  The chairs, pushed back, give out a clatter;

  The crowd moves on to drawing room:

  Thus bees from luscious hive will scatter,

  A noisy swarm, to meadow bloom.

  Their festive dinner all too pleasing,

  The squires face each other wheezing;

  The ladies to the hearth repair;

  The maidens whisper by the stair;

  At green-baize tables players settle,

  As Boston, ombre (old men’s play),

  And whist, which reigns supreme today,

  Call out for men to try their mettle:

  A family with a single creed,

  All sons of boredom’s endless greed.

  36

  Whist’s heroes have by now completed

  Eight rubbers; and eight times as well

  They’ve shifted round and been reseated;

  Now tea is brought. I like to tell

  The time of day by teas and dinners,

  By supper’s call. We country sinners

  Can tell the time without great fuss:

  The stomach serves as clock for us;

  And apropos, I might make mention

  In passing that I speak as much

  Of feasts and foods and corks and such

  In these odd lines of my invention—

  As you, great Homer, you whose song

  Has lasted thirty centuries long!

  (37–8) 39

  But tea is brought: the girls demurely

  Have scarcely taken cups in hand,

  When suddenly from ballroom doorway

  Bassoon and flute announce the band.

  Elated by the music’s bouncing,

  His tea and rum at once renouncing,

  That Paris of the local towns,

  Good Petushkóv, to Olga bounds;

  To Tanya, Lensky; Harlikóva,

  A maiden somewhat ripe in glow,

  My Tambov poet takes in tow;

  Buyánov whirls off Pustyakóva;

  Then all the crowd comes pouring in

  To watch the brilliant ballroom spin.

  40

  At the beginning of my story

  (In Chapter One, if you recall),

  I wanted with Albani’s glory*

  To paint a Petersburg grand ball;

  But then, by empty dreams deflected,

  I lost my way and recollected

  The feet of ladies known before.

  In your slim tracks I’ll stray no more,

  O charming feet and mad affliction!

  My youth betrayed, it’s time to show

  More common sense if I’m to grow,

  To mend my ways in deeds and diction,

  And cleanse this Chapter Five at last

  Of all digressions from the past.

  41

  Monotonous and mad procession,

  Young life’s own whirlwind, full of sound,

  Each pair a blur in quick succession,

  The rousing waltz goes whirling round.

  His moment of revenge beginning,

  Eugene, with secret malice grinning,

  Approaches Olga … idly jests,

  Then spins her round before the guests;

  He stays beside her when she’s seated,

  Proceeds to talk of this and that;

  Two minutes barely has she sat…

  And then their waltzing is repeated!

  The guests all stare in mute surprise;

  Poor Lensky can’t believe his eyes.

  42

  Now the mazurka’s call is sounded.

  Its thunder once could even rack

  The greatest hall when it resounded,

  And under heels parquet would crack;

  The very windows shook like Hades.

  But now it’s changed: we’re all like ladies;

  And o’er the lacquered boards we glide.

  But in small town and countryside

  The old mazurka hasn’t faltered;

  It still retains its pristine joys:

  Moustaches, leaps, heel-pounding noise

  Remain the same; they’ve not been altered

  By tyrant-fashion’s high decrees,

  The modern Russian’s new disease.

  (43) 44

  My bold Buyánov guides expertly

  Tatyana to our hero’s side,

  And Olga too; Eugene alertly

  Makes off with Lensky’s future bride.

  He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,

  And bending, whispers her gallantly

  Some common madrigal to please,

  Then gives her hand a gentle squeeze;

  She blushes in appreciation,

  Her prim conceited face alight,

  While Lensky rages at the sight.

  Consumed with jealous indignation,

  He waits till the mazurka’s through,

  Then asks her for the dance he’s due.

  45

  But no, she can’t. What explanation? …

  Well, she’s just promised his good friend

  The next dance too. In God’s creation!

  What’s this he hears? Could she intend? …

  Can this be real? Scarce more than swaddler—

  And turned coquette! A fickle toddler!

  Already has she mastered guile,

  Already learned to cheat and smile!

  The blow has left poor Lensky shattered;

  And cursing woman’s crooked course,

  He leaves abruptly, calls for horse,

  And gallops off. Now nothing mattered—

  A brace of pistols and a shot

  Shall instantly decide his lot.

  Chapter 6

  La sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,

  Nasce una gente, a cui l’morir non dole.*

  Petrarch

  1

  Though pleased with the revenge he’d taken,

  Onegin, noting Lensky’d left,

  Felt all his old ennui awaken,

  Which made poor Olga feel bereft.

  She too now yawns and, as she dances,

  Seeks Lensky out with furtive glances;

  The endless dance had come to seem

  To Olga like some dreadful dream.

  But now it’s over. Supper’s heeded.

  Then beds are made; the guests are all

  Assigned their rooms—from entrance hall

  To servants’ quarters. Rest is needed

  By everyone. Eugene has fled

  And driven home alone to bed.

  2

  All’s quiet now. Inside the parlour,

  The portly Mr. Pustyakóv

  Lies snoring with his portly partner.

  Gvozdín, Buyánov, Petushkóv—

  And Flyánov, who’d been reeling badly—

  On dining chairs have bedded gladly;

  While on the floor Triquet’s at rest

  In tattered nightcap and his vest.

  The rooms of Olga and Tatyana

  Are filled with girls in sleep’s embrace.

  Alone, beside the windowcase,

  Illumined sadly by Diana,

  Poor Tanya, sleepless and in pain,

  Sits gazing at the darkened plain.

  3

  His unexpected reappearance,

  That momentary tender look,

  The strangeness of his interference

  With Olga—all confused and shook

  Tatyana’s soul. His true intention

  Remaine
d beyond her comprehension,

  And jealous anguish pierced her breast—

  As if a chilling hand had pressed

  Her heart; as if in awful fashion

  A rumbling, black abyss did yawn….

  ‘I’ll die,’ she whispers to the dawn,

  ‘But death from him is sweet compassion.

  Why murmur vainly? He can’t give

  The happiness for which I live.’

  4

  But forward, forward, O my story!

  A new persona has arrived:

  Five versts or so from Krasnogory,

  Our Lensky’s seat, there lived and thrived

  In philosophical seclusion

  (And does so still, have no illusion)

  Zarétsky—once a rowdy clown,

  Chief gambler and arch rake in town,

  The tavern tribune and a liar—

  But now a kind and simple soul

  Who plays an unwed father’s role,

  A faithful friend, a peaceful squire,

  And man of honour, nothing less:

  Thus does our age its sins redress!

  5

  Time was, when flunkies in high places

  Would praise him for his nasty grit:

  He could, it’s true, from twenty paces,

  Shoot pistol at an ace and hit;

  And once, when riding battle station,

  He’d earned a certain reputation

  When in a frenzied state indeed

  He’d plunged in mud from Kalmuk steed,

  Drunk as a pig, and suffered capture

  (A prize to make the French feel proud!).

  Like noble Regulus,* he bowed,

  Accepting hostage bonds with rapture—

  In hopes that he (on charge) might squeeze

  Three bottles daily from Véry’s.*

  6

  He used to banter rather neatly,

  Could gull a fool, and had an eye

  For fooling clever men completely,

  For all to see, or on the sly;

  Of course not all his pranks succeeded

  Or passed unpunished or unheeded,

  And sometimes he himself got bled

  And ended up the dunce instead.

  He loved good merry disputations,

  Could answer keenly, be obtuse,

  Put silence cunningly to use,

  Or cunningly start altercations;

  Could get two friends prepared to fight,

  Then lead them to the duelling site;

  7

  Or else he’d patch things up between them

  So he might lunch with them as guest,

  And later secretly demean them

  With nasty gossip or a jest….

  Sed alia temporal Such sporting

  (With other capers such as courting)

  Goes out of us when youth is dead—

  And my Zaretsky, as I’ve said,

  Neath flow’ring cherries and acacias,

  Secure at last from tempest’s rage,

  Lives out his life a proper sage,

  Plants cabbages like old Horatius,

  Breeds ducks and geese, and oversees

  His children at their ABCs.

  8

  He was no fool; and consequently

  (Although he thought him lacking heart),

  Eugene would hear his views intently

  And liked his common sense in part.

  He’d spent some time with him with pleasure,

  And so was not in any measure

  Surprised next morning when he found,

  Zaretsky had again called round;

  The latter, hard upon first greeting,

  And cutting off Eugene’s reply,

  Presented him, with gloating eye,

  The poet’s note about a ‘meeting’.

  Onegin, taking it, withdrew

  And by the window read it through.

  9

  The note was brief in its correctness,

  A proper challenge or cartel:

  Politely, but with cold directness,

  It called him out and did it well.

  Onegin, with his first reaction,

  Quite curtly offered satisfaction

  And bade the envoy, if he cared,

  To say that he was quite prepared.

  Avoiding further explanation,

  Zaretsky, pleading much to do,

  Arose … and instantly withdrew.

  Eugene, once left to contemplation

  And face to face with his own soul,

  Felt far from happy with his role.

  10

  And rightly so: in inquisition,

  With conscience as his judge of right,

  He found much wrong in his position:

  First off, he’d been at fault last night

  To mock in such a casual fashion

  At tender love’s still timid passion;

  And why not let the poet rage!

  A fool, at eighteen years of age,

  Can be excused his rash intentions.

  Eugene, who loved the youth at heart,

  Might well have played a better part—

  No plaything of the mob’s conventions

  Or brawling boy to take offence,

  But man of honour and of sense.

  11

  He could have shown some spark of feeling

  Instead of bristling like a beast;

  He should have spoken words of healing,

  Disarmed youth’s heart… or tried at least.

  ‘Too late,’ he thought, ‘the moment’s wasted….

  What’s more, that duelling fox has tasted

  His chance to mix in this affair—

  That wicked gossip with his flair

  For jibes … and all his foul dominion.

  He’s hardly worth contempt, I know,

  But fools will whisper … grin … and crow! …’

  So there it is—the mob’s opinion!

  The spring with which our honour’s wound!

  The god that makes this world go round!

  12

  At home the poet, seething, paces

  And waits impatiently to hear.

  Then in his babbling neighbour races,

  The answer in his solemn leer.

  The jealous poet’s mood turned festive!

  He’d been, till now, uncertain … restive,

  Afraid the scoundrel might refuse

  Or laugh it off and, through some ruse,

  Escape unscathed … the slippery devil!

  But now at last his doubts were gone:

  Next day, for sure, they’d drive at dawn

  Out to the mill, where each would level

  A pistol, cocked and lifted high,

  To aim at temple or at thigh.

  13

  Convinced that Olga’s heart was cruel,

  Vladimir vowed he wouldn’t run

  To see that flirt before the duel.

  He kept consulting watch and sun …

  Then gave it up and finally ended

  Outside the door of his intended.

  He thought she’d blush with self-reproach,

  Grow flustered when she saw his coach;

  But not at all: as blithe as ever,

  She bounded from the porch above

  And rushed to greet her rhyming love

  Like giddy hope—so gay and clever,

  So frisky-carefree with her grin,

  She seemed the same she’d always been.

  14

  ’Why did you leave last night so early?’

  Was all that Olga, smiling, said.

  Poor Lensky’s muddled mind was swirling,

  And silently he hung his head.

  All jealousy and rage departed

  Before that gaze so openhearted,

  Before that soft and simple trust,

  Before that soul so bright and just!

  With misty eyes he looks on sweetly

  And see
s the truth: she loves him yet!

  Tormented now by deep regret,

  He craves her pardon so completely,

  He trembles, hunts for words in vain:

  He’s happy now, he’s almost sane….

  (15–16) 17

  Once more in solemn, rapt attention

  Before his darling Olga’s face,

  Vladimir hasn’t heart to mention

  The night before and what took place;

  ‘It’s up to me,’ he thought, ‘to save her.

  I’ll never let that foul depraver

  Corrupt her youthful heart with lies,

  With fiery praise … and heated sighs;

  Nor see that noxious worm devour

  My lovely lily, stalk and blade;

  Nor watch this two-day blossom fade

  When it has yet to fully flower.’

  All this, dear readers, meant in fine:

  I’m duelling with a friend of mine.

  18

  Had Lensky known the deep emotion

  That seared my Tanya’s wounded heart!

  Or had Tatyana had some notion

  Of how these two had grown apart,

  Or that by morn they’d be debating,

  For which of them the grave lay waiting!—

  Ah, then, perhaps, the love she bore

  Might well have made them friends once more!

  But no one knew her inclination

  Or chanced upon the sad affair.

  Eugene had kept his silent air;

  Tatyana pined in isolation;

  And only nanny might have guessed,

  But her old wits were slow at best.

  19

  All evening Lensky was abstracted,

  Remote one moment, gay the next;

  But those on whom the Muse has acted

  Are ever thus; with brow perplexed,

  He’d sit at clavichord intently

  And play but chords; or turning gently

  To Olga, he would whisper low:

  ‘I’m happy, love … it’s true, you know.’

  But now it’s late and time for leaving.

  His heart, so full of pain, drew tight;

  And as he bid the girl goodnight,