Eugene Onegin Part 10

'A habit, Lensky a all that chatter.'

'But you seem worse.' 'The same old thing.

But look, the light is vanis.h.i.+ng.

Faster, Andryushka, hasten, hasten!

What silly places all these are!

Oh, by the way, your Larina Is simple, but a dear old person; I fear the lingonberry juice May cause my stomach some abuse.

5.

'Please tell me which one was Tatiana.'

'Oh, she's the sister who appeared All sad and silent like Svetlana,4 And by the window sat and stared.'

'But surely you don't love the younger?'

'Why not?' 'Were I like you a singer, I'd choose the other for my wife.

In Olga's looks there's no more life Than Van Dyck has in his madonnas: Her countenance is round and fair Just like the daft moon s.h.i.+ning there Above the daft horizon on us.'

Vladimir answered icily And all the way sat silently.

6.

Meanwhile, Onegin's visitation Had made on all the Larin folk A most significant impression And given neighbours cause for talk.

Conjecture followed on conjecture, All started furtively to lecture, To joke, to judge, not without spite And view Tatiana as a bride; Some, going further still, a.s.serted That wedding plans had all been made And simply had to be delayed Till modish rings had been located.

And as for Lensky's wedding, they Had long ago arranged the day.

7.

Tatiana listened with vexation To gossip of this kind; but she, With inexplicable elation, Kept thinking of it secretly; And in her heart the thought was live; The time had come, she fell in love.

So will a seed that's fallen in The earth be quickened by the spring.

For long had her imagination, Consumed with pain and la.s.situde, Yearned to a.s.say the fatal food; For long a heartsick enervation Constrained her youthful breast; her soul Waited... for somebody to call,

8.

And was requited... Eyes asunder, She said: 'It's he! He's made his call.'

And now, alas, her hot, lone slumber, And every day and night were full Of him; by some enchanted force All objects seemed without a pause To speak of him; how tedious The kind entreaties and the fuss, The watchful looks of worried servants!

Enveloped in despondency, She paid no heed to company And cursed their leisurely observance Of custom and the sudden way They would arrive and overstay.

9.

Now with what eager concentration She reads delicious novels through, With what enlivened fascination She drinks deception's honeydew.

In fantasy she visualizes The characters that she most prizes: The lover of Julie Wolmar,5 Malek Adhel6 and de Linar,7 And Werther,8 martyr to his pa.s.sion, And Grandison9 the consummate Who dulls us like an opiate a All these in her imagination Were in a unique shape expressed, All in Onegin coalesced.

10.

The authors that she loves so seize her, She feels herself their heroine, She is Julie, Delphine,10 Clarissa;11 Alone, Tatiana roams within The silent woods, armed with a novel In which she seeks and finds some marvel: Her secret glow, her dreamy mood, Her heart's abounding plenitude; She breathes a sigh and, taking over Another's grief or ecstasy, Whispers by heart, unconsciously A letter for her hero lover...

But he, whatever else he'd done, Was certainly no Grandison.

11.

His manner gravely elevated, The fervent author in times gone Showed us a hero dedicated To perfect aims a a paragon.

To him, forever persecuted Iniquitously, he committed A tender soul, intelligence And an attractive countenance.

Nursing the flame of purest pa.s.sion, The hero, always rapturous, Was ready for self-sacrifice, And, in the novel's closing action, Vice was forever beaten down And virtue gained a worthy crown.

12.

But nowadays all minds are clouded, A moral brings on somnolence, Vice in the novel, too, is lauded And there has gained pre-eminence.

The British Muse's tales12 intrude on The slumber of our Russian maiden, And now she's ready to adore Either the pensive vampire13 or The vagrant Melmoth,14 restless, gloomy, The Wandering Jew15 or the Corsair16 Or the mysterious Sbogar.17 Lord Byron's whim most opportunely Clothed even hopeless egotism In woebegone romanticism.

13.

My friends, this makes no sense, I know it.

Perhaps by heavenly decree I shall no longer be a poet, A demon new will enter me; And having scorned the threats of Phoebus, I'll settle to prosaic labours; A novel of the ancient kind Will occupy my blithe decline.

There, not the secret pangs of villainy I shall in grim relief narrate, But simply, friends, to you relate The legends of a Russian family, Love's charming dreams in former days And ancient Russia's rural ways.

14.

I shall record the plain orations When fathers or old uncles met, The children's chosen a.s.signations By ancient limes, by rivulet; The jealous agonies of lovers, Partings, and tears as love recovers; I'll have them quarrel once again And lead them to the altar then...

I shall recall the tender feeling, Love's aching words upon my tongue, Impa.s.sioned speeches made when young And courting a fair mistress, kneeling And uttering an ardent vow From which I'm disaccustomed now.

15.

Tatiana, dear Tatiana, vanquished!

Together with you, now I weep; Your fate already you've relinquished Into a modish tyrant's keep.

You'll perish, dear; but till we lose you The dazzling light of hope imbues you: You'll summon up a sombre bliss, Discover life's felicities, Imbibe the magic bane of yearning, Daydreams will court your every pace, And you'll imagine in each place A tryst to which you're always turning; In front of you and everywhere You'll see your fateful tempter there.

16.

Tatiana seeks the garden bowers To grieve in, chased by aching love, But soon her lifeless eyes she lowers And loses the desire to rove.

Her bosom lifts, her features redden, A sudden flame consumes the maiden, Upon her lips her breath has died, Her ears with sound, her eyes with light Are filled... Night comes, the moon's patrolling The distant s.p.a.ce of heaven's dome, The nightingale sings in the gloam Of trees, its sonorous accents calling.