At least by showing some compassion.
At least in the odd spoken word
A touch of tenderness was heard,
And in his unperceiving fashion
A blind and gullible young swain
Would strive for his sweet dreams again. 24
What is Tatyana’s worst transgression?
That in her sweet way she has been
Free from deceit? Her one obsession
Has been to trust her chosen dream?
Or that she loves without art, yielding
To the seductive call of feeling?
That she is trustingly naive?
That heaven chose her to receive
Imagination of wild splendour,
A will so sharp, a mind so shrewd,
A head so full of attitude,
A heart so passionate and tender?
Forgive! She’s only guilty of
Scatterbrain tendencies in love. 25
Whereas a flirt will judge things coldly,
Tatyana loves with true intent.
She dedicates her spirit wholly
To love, with childlike innocence.
She doesn’t say, “No need to hurry,
Love’s price will rise, we need not worry,
Delay will lure things to our nets.
Let’s puncture vanity, and let’s
Use hope and bafflement together
To overwhelm a heart, and then
Bring it to jealous fire again.
For otherwise, sated with pleasure,
Our wily captive will respond
With a strong urge to burst his bonds.” 26
One further problem: I had better
Protect the honour of my land
By giving you Tatyana’s letter
Translated. You must understand:
Her grasp of Russian was defective,
Our Russian journals she neglected,
And found it hard to get along
With speakers of her mother tongue.
Her letter, then, was in French phrases.
What can we do about this—what?
Again I say: Russian was not
A medium fit for love and ladies.
Our worthy language, I suppose,
Has not grown into postal prose. 27
I know some people want to make them
Read Russian. Horrible indeed!
Is this how I should recreate them:
Clutching The Well-Wisher? Agreed!
Poets! I need to know for certain:
Is it not true that these sweet persons,
To whom you sinners have conveyed
In verse a secret serenade,
To whom you gave your hearts of marble—
How little Russian did they know!
But did they not strain at it so
That, in the end, however garbled,
The foreign language that was wrung
From them became their mother tongue? 28
I pray that at a ball I wouldn’t
Meet there, or on the porch mayhap,
A yellow-shawled religious student
Or academic in his cap.
Red lips are nothing when unsmiling,
And Russian speech is unbeguiling
Without grammatical mistakes.
Perhaps—ah, me! For Heaven’s sake—
Sweet girls in a new generation,
Hearing the journals’ siren voice,
Will teach us grammar as by choice,
And verse will add to the occasion.
But what has this to do with me?
I shall keep faith with history. 29
All incorrect and mindless chatter
And speech that is not of the best
Will always set my heart aflutter,
As long ago, within my breast.
I have no strength now for repentance,
I’ll take French words in any sentence,
And tolerate old sins and worse
With Bogdanóvich and his verse.
But that will do. I must get busy.
Tatyana’s letter is at stake.
I promised… But, for Heaven’s sake,
I could back out… I’m in a tizzy.
I know that Parny’s tender brogue
Has gone, and is no more in vogue. 30
Bard of The Feasts and aching sadness,
If only you were with me here.
I would approach with brazen gladness,
Old friend of mine, and bend your ear:
“Bring melody with magic laden
To this inflamed, impassioned maiden
And the French phrases she recites.
Where are you? Come to me! My rights
I yield to you. Your line is my line.”
But under the sad, beetling crags,
All praise gone by, his way he drags,
Alone beneath the Finnish skyline.
He wanders, knowing no relief,
And cannot hear me in my grief. 31
Tatyana’s letter lies before me.
I hold it like a holy thing.
I read it through in secret torment
With a delight unwavering.
Who taught her all these tender phrases,
The easy kindness that amazes?
Who taught her this warm gibberish,
This heartfelt talk so feverish,
So fascinating yet so tainting?
I cannot tell. This version here
Is poor and incomplete, I fear,
A thin take of a vibrant painting.
It’s like Der Freischütz tightly squeezed
From girl beginners at the keys. TATYANA’S LETTER TO ONEGIN
What can I do but write this letter
To you? Can I say something more?
I know that now you have the better
Of me, to punish me with scorn.
But if you, with my sad fate settled,
Retain one drop of sympathy,
You will not now abandon me.
At first I wanted to keep quiet.
Believe me, you would not have known
About the shame that I have shown,
If only I could have got by it
By simply hoping we might meet
Once weekly in the village street,
Or I might listen to you speaking,
And say a word to you, and then
Withdraw to think and think again,
Around the clock, of our next meeting.
But you’re unsociable, they say;
The country’s not exciting, is it?
And we… don’t shine in any way.
We’re plain, though welcoming your visit.
Why did you come here? What to do?
In our remote, forgotten village
I would have known nothing of you,
Nor this raw suffering. God willing—
Who knows?—at long last, after stilling
The turmoil of a maiden soul,
I might have found a friend, a heartener,
I might have been his faithful partner,
And played a virtuous mother’s role.
Another man? My heart will answer:
It cannot go to others, no.
This comes forth from the highest counciclass="underline"
By Heaven’s will I’m yours alone.
My life has long been dedicated
To meeting you, the person whom
I see as sent by God, and fated
To be my guardian to the tomb.
In dreams I have divined your presence,
Dear to my heart, though still unseen,
Your dear glance pierced me with its gleam,
Your voice has stirred my soul with resonance
For some time now. No dream was this.
I knew you even as you entered;
I felt all faint, ablaze, tormented,
Telling myself: yes, here he is!
Did I not hear your voice engaging