With me whenever silence reigned,
When I was with the poor, or phrasing
A prayer to heaven, and assuaging
The anguish of a soul in pain?
Here is a sudden apparition;
Is it not you, my dearest vision?
Through the bright dusk did you not slope,
Softly above my pillow bending,
Bringing delight and love while sending
To me the whispered words of hope?
What can you be—my guardian angel,
Or someone luring me into danger?
Scatter my doubts. I must be told.
Is this an empty dream created
By one who cheats a simple soul
While something different is fated?
So be it. My destiny
Is in your hands, and I surrender.
I shed my tears for you to see,
And pray you will be my defender.
Picture me: I am all alone,
And no one knows me, nothing alters.
My senses reel, my reason falters,
I cannot speak, my life is gone.
I wait. Your glance has the potential
To raise new hope and hearten me
Or wreck my hard dream, giving me
What I deserve, alas!—your censure.
I close, and dread to read this through.
I feel embarrassed, I feel frightened,
But honour is a pledge from you;
To this my trust is boldly plighted…
32
Now only sighs and moans escape her.
The letter trembles in her hand.
She licks at the pink-coloured wafer,
Dry on her fevered tongue-tip, and
Her darling head slumps at an angle,
Her light slip slides down in a tangle,
Laying a lovely shoulder bare,
And now the moonlight everywhere
Fades in its radiance. Mist comes creeping
Along the vale, the stream reborn
In silver light. The herdsman’s horn
Rouses the village from its sleeping.
Morning… Folk are long out of bed.
My Tanya isn’t interested. 33
She has not noticed the dawn breaking.
She sits, head bowed, in dishabille,
Viewing the letter without making
An imprint with her graven seal.
Then the door opens, slow and quiet;
Grey-haired Filípyevna stands by it,
Bearing a tray, tea-things and cup.
“Come on, my child, time you were up.
My goodness, lovely girl, you’re ready!
My early birdie, what a fright
You brought upon me yesternight.
But, heavens, how your health has steadied,
And last night’s fret has passed. Instead,
Your face has gone all poppy red.” 34
“Nanny, would you do me a favour?”
“Of course, my dear. How does it go?”
“You won’t think… there’s a funny flavour?…
You see… It’s like this… Don’t say no.”
“I won’t, my dear, God be your ransom.”
“Well, on the quiet get your grandson
To take this note to O… that man,
Our neighbour… Ask him, if he can,
To tell him nothing, just keep quiet
And be sure not to give my name.”
“But who’s it for, though? Such a shame—
I’m muddled now, I won’t deny it.
There’s lots of neighbours hereabouts,
Too many, more than I can count.” 35
“Oh dear, you are slow-witted, Nanny.”
“I’m getting on, dear, getting on…
My mind is dull now, not so canny.
Once it was sharp, but now it’s gone.
Time was, with one word from the master…”
“Oh, Nanny, dear, try to move faster.
What has your mind to do with me?
It’s all about this letter. See,
It’s for Onegin.” “Such a business…
Darling, you mustn’t take offence.
You know me. I don’t make much sense…
You’ve gone all pale again. What is this?”
“It’s nothing, Nanny. Don’t delay.
Just send your grandson on his way.” 36
A day passed, and Tatyana tarried.
No answer—and next day, the same.
She got dressed early, looking pallid.
When would he write—what was his game?
Then Olga’s suitor came to see them.
“He’s your close friend—where can he be, then?”
The mistress asked him, curious.
“I’m sure he’s quite forgotten us.”
Tatyana, meanwhile, blushed and shivered.
“He said today he would come by,”
Lensky confided in reply.
“He’ll come—the post is being delivered.”
At which Tatyana dropped her eyes
Like someone suddenly chastised. 37
Dusk settles. On the table, seething,
The evening samovar now sings
And warms the Chinese teapot, wreathing
Its clouds of steam in rising rings.
Dispensed by Olga’s expert fingers,
The tea is poured, its odour lingers
In a dark aromatic stream,
And a young boy goes round with cream.
Tatyana, by the table brooding,
My sweet soul, breathes on the cold glass
And ponders as the moments pass,
Her gorgeous tiny finger doodling…
The pane is steamed, the message brief:
Y.O. She cherished the motif. 38
Sinking in spirit, she felt shattered;
Her languid eyes filled up with tears.
Hoof beats! Her heart froze as they clattered
Into the yard—and he appeared,
Yevgeny! Shadow-like, the lassie
Slips out into another passage…
Porch, yard and garden are attacked,
She flies and flies, not looking back,
Not daring to, as on she rushes
Past edges, bridges, onward drawn
Towards the lake, across the lawn,
Crashing her way through lilac bushes,
Past neat beds to the brook. The wench
Was breathless when, reaching a bench, 39
She flopped…
“It’s him! He’s here! Yevgeny!
Good gracious! What can he have thought?”
Her agonizing heart is straining,
With a dark dream of hope restored.
She shakes. Her temperature has risen.
She waits. Is this him?… No, it isn’t.
Out in the beds the maids, by chance,
Were picking berries from the plants,
And singing, as decreed, in chorus
(A rule intended to preclude
The master’s berries being chewed
By opportunist mouths—a flawless
Country device that substitutes
Singing aloud for scrumping fruits). SONG OF THE GIRLS
Come, ye pretty maidens, come,
Little darlings, little friends,
Frolic, maidens, have your fun,
Dance and play and dance again.
Sing your song, oh, sing your song,
Secret and mysterious,
Lead your lad, bring him along,
Make him join the dance with us.
When you’ve seen him from afar,
When you’ve lured him into place,
Break and run, girls, where you are,
Throw your cherries in his face.
Cherries! Raspberries! Come near.
Berries round and berries red!