And all his ancestors here sleeping.
Life with its furrows comes, alas,
To a swift harvest. Generations,
By Providence’s machinations,
Arise and flourish and are gone,
And others always follow on…
And thus our giddy tribe will breeze on,
Will rise and writhe and boil and bloom,
Then speed us to the family tomb.
For all of us there comes a season,
And grandchildren will one fine day
Drive us from mother earth away. 39
But you must now enjoy life (shall you?)
In all its emptiness, my friends.
I know its less-than-nothing value,
And there my interest in it ends.
My eyes are closed to all things ghostly,
Yet hope, of the remote kind mostly,
Sometimes intrudes upon my heart.
It would be dismal to depart
This life leaving no half-seen marker.
I live and scribble not for fame,
Though I have wanted all the same
To flaunt my fate as it grows darker.
Sound is my true friend. May it thrive
And keep my memory alive. 40
And may my sounds lift hearts tomorrow,
When, by the grace of Destiny,
Perhaps the Lethe will not swallow
This stanza now compiled by me.
And also (though false hope is famous!)
Perhaps some future ignoramus
Will point to a known sketch of me
And say, “That poet, what a man was he!”
My thanks to you who take delight in
The muses and their gentle work,
In whose remembrance there will lurk
Signs of my evanescent writings,
And whose too generous hand will pat
An old man’s laurel wreath—like that.
* O countryside!… (Latin.)
CHAPTER THREE
Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse. *
MALFILÂTRE
1
“Where are you off to? Oh, you poets!…”
“Onegin, I must disappear.”
“Do go. One thing, though… Take me through
it—
Where do you spend your evenings here?”
“I go to see the Larins.” “Splendid.
But so much time—how do you spend it?
For Heaven’s sake, isn’t it dull?”
“No, not at all.” “Incredible.
I see it all from where I’m standing:
You have first—tell me if I’m wrong—
A Russian family plain and strong,
All welcoming and open-handed,
Then jam and never-ending chat:
Rain, flax, the farmyard—things like that.”
2
“There’s nothing wrong; it’s just propriety.”
“Well, being bored is wrong, I’ve found.”
“I’ve no time for your smart society.
Give me the old domestic round,
Where I…” “Spare me the eclogue, Lensky.
For God’s sake, put it differently.
You’re going now. Too bad… But, hey,
Listen to me. Is there some way
For me to meet this Phyllis woman,
This object of your heart and quill,
And tears, and rhymes, and what you will?
Take me.” “You’re joking.” “No, no, come on…”
“I’d be delighted.” “When, though?” “Now.
They’ll make us welcome anyhow.” 3
“Let’s go.” The friends sped off together
And soon arrived, only to be
Smothered by many a warm endeavour
Of old-world hospitality.
A common ceremony this is
With jams served up in little dishes,
And on waxed tables close at hand
Jugs of red-berry water stand.
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They take the shortest way home, racing
The horses, giving them their head.
Let’s eavesdrop on the conversation
Between our heroes. What was said?
“What’s wrong, Onegin. You are yawning.”
“Just habit, Lensky.” “Was it boring?
There’s something else.” “I’m fine… Look how
The fields are getting darker now.
Andryushka, move! Don’t spare the horses.
Oh, what a stupid place to be!
Though Larina is straight, and she
Was so nice, such a pleasant hostess.
I fear the berry water could
Have done my state of health no good. 5
But tell me—which one was Tatyana?”
“The one who came and didn’t speak.
She looked unhappy like Svetlana,
Sitting there in the window seat.”
“You love the younger one, then, brother?”
“What if I do?” “I’d choose the other
If I had been like you, a bard.
Your Olga’s face is lifeless, hard,
Madonna-like, with van Dyck’s dry line.
It’s round and pretty, but its bloom
Reminds me of that stupid moon
Standing upon that stupid skyline.”
Vladimir’s curt response was heard,
Then, all the way home, not a word. 6
Meanwhile Onegin’s recent visit
Made an impression on them all.
“There’s something here,” they thought. “What is it?”
And local folk were much enthralled,
Which then gave rise to lots of guesses,
And enigmatic noes and yesses,
And jokes and judgements, some quite rude:
Tatyana—was she being wooed?
And some already were presuming
That marriage plans had reached a pause,
Although long fixed, only because
The latest rings were not forthcoming.
While Lensky’s wedding hereabout
Was pencilled in beyond all doubt. 7
Tatyana listened with vexation
To all this gossip, yet, within,
An inexpressible elation
Rose from her thoughts about this thing.
Thoughts stirred her heart like a new seedling.
Love’s time had come; here was the feeling.
Thus fallen granules, flourishing,
Quicken to warm soil in the spring.
Long had she felt, in flights of fancy,
When relishing a blissful mood,
A craving for the fateful food.
Long had her straining heart been lancing
Her young girl’s breast. Her soul was numb,
Waiting for somebody to come… 8
…And here he was! Her eyes were opened.
“It’s him, he is the man,” she said.
Alas! Now, days and nights unbroken,
And lonesome sleep in a hot bed,
He fills them all. All things now tally,
Charming the sweet girl magically,
Speaking of him. She’s quickly bored
By warm thoughts and the knowing word,
Or servants anxious for her pleasure.
Now, permanently plunged in gloom,
She will ignore guests in the room,
Cursing them for their idle leisure,
For dropping in at all—that’s wrong—
And then for staying on too long. 9
How closely is her mind now captured,
In her sweet tales deeply immersed.
And with what energizing rapture
She makes the charming fancies hers.
Through the delightful power of dreaming
Characters most authentic-seeming—
The lover of Julie Wolmar,
Malek-Adhel and de Linar,
And Werther, the unsettled martyr,
And Grandison, to some unique,
Though most of us he sends to sleep—
For this young dreamer, tender-hearted,
Into a single form they ran,
Onegin being the one man. 10
A dreamt-up heroine, peculiar
To her beloved writers, she—
The new Delphine, Clarissa, Julia—
Walks to the silent woods to be
Alone, roaming with unsafe fiction,
In which she seeks and finds depicted
Her inmost secrets and her dreams,