fellow, with an indiscreet request:

that into magic melodies

you would transpose

a passionate maiden’s foreign words.

8 Where are you? Come! My rights

I with a bow transfer to you….

But in the midst of melancholy rocks,

his heart disused from praises,

12 alone, under the Finnish sky

he wanders, and his soul

hears not my worry.

XXXI

Tatiana’s letter is before me;

religiously I keep it;

I read it with a secret heartache

4 and cannot get my fill of reading it.

Who taught her both this tenderness

and amiable carelessness of words?

Who taught her all that touching tosh,

8 mad conversation of the heart

both fascinating and injurious?

I cannot understand. But here’s

an incomplete, feeble translation,

12 the pallid copy of a vivid picture,

or Freischütz executed by the fingers

of timid female learners.

Tatiana’s Letter To Onegin

I write to you — what would one more?

What else is there that I could say?

‘Tis now, I know, within your will

4 to punish me with scorn.

But you, preserving for my hapless lot

at least one drop of pity,

you’ll not abandon me.

8 At first, I wanted to be silent;

believe me: of my shame

you never would have known

if I had had the hope but seldom,

12 but once a week,

to see you at our country place,

only to hear you speak,

to say a word to you, and then

16 to think and think about one thing,

both day and night, till a new meeting.

But, they say, you’re unsociable;

in backwoods, in the country, all bores you,

20 while we… in no way do we shine,

though simpleheartedly we welcome you.

Why did you visit us?

In the backwoods of a forgotten village,

24 I would have never known you

nor have known this bitter torment.

The turmoil of an inexperienced soul

having subdued with time (who knows?),

28 I would have found a friend after my heart,

have been a faithful wife

and a virtuous mother.

Another!… No, to nobody on earth

32 would I have given my heart away!

That has been destined in a higher council,

that is the will of heaven: I am thine;

my entire life has been the gage

36 of a sure tryst with you;

I know that you are sent to me by God,

you are my guardian to the tomb….

You had appeared to me in dreams,

40 unseen, you were already dear to me,

your wondrous glance would trouble me,

your voice resounded in my soul

long since…. No, it was not a dream!

44 Scarce had you entered, instantly I knew you,

I felt all faint, I felt aflame,

and in my thoughts I uttered: It is he!

Is it not true that it was you I heard:

48 you in the stillness spoke to me

when I would help the poor

or assuage with a prayer

the anguish of my agitated soul?

52 And even at this very moment

was it not you, dear vision,

that slipped through the transparent darkness

and gently bent close to my bed head?

56 Was it not you that with delight and love

did whisper words of hope to me?

Who are you? My guardian angel

or a perfidious tempter?

60 Resolve my doubts.

Perhaps, ’tis nonsense all,

an inexperienced soul’s delusion, and there’s destined

something quite different….

64 But so be it! My fate

henceforth I place into your hands,

before you I shed tears,

for your defense I plead.

68 Imagine: I am here alone,

none understands me,

my reason sinks,

and, silent, I must perish.

72 I wait for you: revive

my heart’s hopes with a single look

or interrupt the heavy dream

with a rebuke — alas, deserved!

76 I close. I dread to read this over.

I’m faint with shame and fear… But to me

your honor is a pledge,

and boldly I entrust myself to it.

XXXII

By turns Tatiana sighs and ohs.

The letter trembles in her hand;

the rosy wafer dries

4 upon her fevered tongue.

Her poor head shoulderward has sunk;

her light chemise

has slid down from her charming shoulder.

8 But now the moonbeam’s radiance

already fades. Anon the valley

grows through the vapor clear. Anon the stream

starts silvering. Anon the herdsman’s horn

12 wakes up the villager.

Here’s morning; all have risen long ago:

to my Tatiana it is all the same.

XXXIII

She takes no notice of the sunrise;

she sits with lowered head

and on the letter does not

4 impress her graven seal.

But, softly opening the door,

now gray Filatievna brings her

tea on a tray.

8 “’Tis time, my child, get up;

why, pretty one,

you’re ready! Oh, my early birdie!

I was so anxious yesternight —

12 but glory be to God, you’re well!

No trace at all of the night’s fret!

Your face is like a poppy flower.”

XXXIV

“Oh, nurse, do me a favor.”

“Willingly, darling, order me.”

“Now do not think… Really… Suspicion…

4 But you see… Oh, do not refuse!”

“My dear, to you God is my pledge.”

“Well, send your grandson quietly

with this note to O… to that… to

8 the neighbor. And let him be told

that he ought not to say a word,

that he ought not to name me.”

“To whom, my precious?

12 I’m getting muddled nowadays.

Neighbors around are many; it’s beyond me

even to count them over.”

XXXV

“Oh, nurse, how slow-witted you are!”

“Sweetheart, I am already old,

I’m old; the mind gets blunted, Tanya;

4 but time was, I used to be sharp:

time was, one word of master’s wish.”

“Oh, nurse, nurse, is this relevant?

What matters your intelligence to me?

8 You see, it is about a letter, to

Onegin.” “Well, this now makes sense.

Do not be cross with me, my soul;

I am, you know, not comprehensible.

12 But why have you turned pale again?”

“Never mind, nurse, ’tis really nothing.

Send, then, your grandson.”

XXXVI

But the day lapsed, and there’s no answer.

Another came up; nothing yet.

Pale as a shade, since morning dressed,

4 Tatiana waits: when will the answer come?

Olga’s adorer drove up. “Tell me,

where’s your companion?” was to him

the question of the lady of the house;

8 “He seems to have forgotten us entirely.”

Tatiana, flushing, quivered.

“He promised he would be today,”

Lenski replied to the old dame,

12 “but evidently the mail has detained him.”

Tatiana dropped her eyes

as if she’d heard a harsh rebuke.

XXXVII

‘Twas darkling; on the table, shining,

the evening samovar

hissed as it warmed the Chinese teapot;

4 light vapor undulated under it.

Poured out by Olga’s hand,

into the cups, in a dark stream,

the fragrant tea already

8 ran, and a footboy served the cream;

Tatiana stood before the window;

breathing on the cold panes,

lost in thought, the dear soul

12 wrote with her charming finger

on the bemisted glass

the cherished monogram: an O and E.

XXXVIII

And meantime her soul ached,

and full of tears was her languorous gaze.

Suddenly, hoof thuds! Her blood froze.

4 Now nearer! Coming fast… and in the yard

is Eugene! “Ach!” — and lighter than a shade

Tatiana skips into another hallway,

from porch outdoors, and straight into the garden;

8 she flies, flies — dares not

glance backward; in a moment has traversed

the platbands, little bridges, lawn,

the avenue to the lake, the bosquet;

12 she breaks the lilac bushes as she flies

across the flower plots to the brook,

and, panting, on a bench

XXXIX

she drops. “He’s here! Eugene is here!

Good God, what did he think!”

Her heart, full of torments, retains

4 an obscure dream of hope;

she trembles, and she hotly glows, and waits:

does he not come? But hears not. In the orchard

girl servants, on the beds,

8 were picking berries in the bushes

and singing by decree in chorus

(a decree based on that

sly mouths would not in secret

12 eat the seignioral berry

and would be occupied by singing; a device

of rural wit!):

The Song Of The Girls

Maidens, pretty maidens,

darling girl companions,

romp unhindered, maidens,

4 have your fling, my dears!

Start to sing a ditty,

sing our private ditty,

and allure a fellow

8 to our choral dance.

When we lure a fellow,

when afar we see him,

let us scatter, dearies,

12 pelting him with cherries,

cherries and raspberries,

and red currants too.

“Do not come eavesdropping

16 on our private ditties,

do not come a-spying

on our girlish games!”

XL

They sing; and carelessly

attending to their ringing voice,

Tatiana with impatience waits

4 for the heart’s tremor to subside in her,

for her cheeks to cease flaming;

but in her breasts there’s the same trepidation,

nor ceases the glow of her cheeks:

8 yet brighter, brighter do they burn.

Thus a poor butterfly both flashes

and beats an iridescent wing,

captured by a school prankster; thus

12 a small hare trembles in the winter corn

upon suddenly seeing from afar

the shotman in the bushes crouch.

XLI

But finally she sighed

and from her bench arose;

started to go; but hardly had she turned

4 into the avenue when straight before her,

eyes blazing, Eugene

stood, similar to some grim shade,

and as one seared by fire

8 she stopped.

But to detail the consequences

of this unlooked-for meeting I, dear friends,

have not the strength today;

12 after this long discourse I need

a little jaunt, a little rest;

some other time I’ll tell the rest.

CHAPTER FOUR

La morale est dans la nature des choses.

Necker

VII

The less we love a woman

the easier ’tis to be liked by her,

and thus more surely we undo her

4 among bewitching toils.

Time was when cool debauch

was lauded as the art of love,

trumpeting everywhere about itself,

8 taking its pleasure without loving.

But that grand game

is worthy of old sapajous

of our forefathers’ vaunted times;

12 the fame of Lovelaces has faded

with the fame of red heels

and of majestic periwigs.

VIII

Who does not find it tedious to dissemble;

diversely to repeat the same;

try gravely to convince one

4 of what all have been long convinced;

to hear the same objections,

annihilate the prejudices

which never had and hasn’t

8 a little girl of thirteen years!

Who will not grow weary of threats,

entreaties, vows, feigned fear,

notes running to six pages,

12 betrayals, gossiping, rings, tears,

surveillances of aunts, of mothers,

and the onerous friendship of husbands!

IX

Exactly thus my Eugene thought.

In his first youth

he had been victim of tempestuous errings

4 and of unbridled passions.

Spoiled by a habitude of life,

with one thing for a while

enchanted, disenchanted with another,

8 irked slowly by desire,

irked, too, by volatile success,

hearkening in the hubbub and the hush

to the eternal mutter of his soul,

12 smothering yawns with laughter:

this was the way he killed eight years,

having lost life’s best bloom.

X

With belles no longer did he fall in love,

but dangled after them just anyhow;

when they refused, he solaced in a twinkle;

4 when they betrayed, was glad to rest.

He sought them without rapture,

while he left them without regret,

hardly remembering their love and spite.

8 Exactly thus does an indifferent guest

drive up for evening whist:

sits down;