Do not try to overhear
Secrets sung and secrets said,
Do not try to watch the way
Maidens dance and maidens play.
40
She never thought—what was their song for?
The ringing voices passed her by.
Tatyana now could only long for
The tremor in her heart to die
And for her cheeks to cease their burning.
But in her breast the pain kept churning,
Warmth in her cheeks did not disperse,
Indeed it blazed up even worse.
Thus a poor butterfly will shimmer
And give one rainbow wing a flap
When caught in a rough schoolboy’s trap.
Thus, in the corn, a hare will quiver
When from afar he sees what’s what—
There in the bushes huntsmen squat. 41
But soon she gave a sigh of yearning
And stood up from the garden seat.
She walked away… The path, the turning,
The avenue… Whom should she meet
But him, with eyes ablaze—Yevgeny!—
A presence ominous and shady.
As if scorched by some fiery bolt,
She staggered slowly to a halt.
But… what came next, that subject matter
Lies at this time beyond my strength;
I cannot tell it now, my friends.
Having indulged in so much chatter,
I need to rest and have some fun.
I’ll finish this off later on.
* She was a girl, she was in love. (French.)
CHAPTER FOUR
La morale est dans la nature des choses.*
NECKER
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6] 7
The less we prize and love a woman
The more she’ll like us, and perhaps
The more she’ll be inclined to come on,
Lured into our enticing traps.
It used to be that cold seduction
Counted as amorous instruction,
Vaunting itself, consisting of
Enjoyment not involving love,
But this game, once a major pastime
Was suited to the apes of old
Much praised in granddad’s days. Behold,
Lovelace was cast off for the last time
Along with red heels flashed in jigs
And all those splendid periwigs. 8
Who isn’t weary of pretending,
Repeating things that all men know,
Convincing people without ending
Of what convinced them long ago?
Attending to the same objections,
Rejecting age-old preconceptions,
Which are not, and have never been,
Believed by young girls of thirteen?
Who does not quail before dire warnings,
Entreaties, fleeting fears and oaths,
Or seven pages filled with notes,
Deceit, rings, tears and gossips droning,
While mothers watch and aunts attend
And husbands wear you down as friends? 9
These very thoughts came to afflict him.
From early youth he’d always been
Stormy and wild, a willing victim
Of passions that he let run free.
Life spoilt him, yielding what he wanted.
With one thing for a while enchanted,
Then disenchanted with the next,
He let desire cool by neglect,
The more so when he waxed successful.
No noise nor silence could control
The incessant murmur of his soul.
Laughing through yawns had seemed less stressful,
But eight killed years had been, in truth,
The best bloom of his wasted youth. 10
When love of girls no longer reckoned
He sort of followed in their tracks:
Rejected, he came round in seconds;
Let down by them, he would relax.
He sought them out with no enthusing
And didn’t grieve much at their losing—
Love or rebuffs were quick to fade.
He, a bored guest who, having played,
An evening’s whist with everybody,
Sits there until the game is done,
Then sets off on his homeward run,
Soon settled and serenely nodding,
Though come the dawn he doesn’t know
Where in the evening he will go. 11
Her missive, though, had left him anguished.
Onegin felt moved and distraught,
For those dreams and the girlish language
Had raised in him a swarm of thoughts.
He well remembered dear Tatyana,
Her sad complexion and her pallor,
And suddenly his spirit seemed
Flooded with sweet and spotless dreams.
Was this his long-lost ardour? Will it
Take hold of him for a short time?
He had no wish to undermine
The trust of one so pure in spirit.
But let us to the garden skim,
Where our Tatyana met with him. 12
Some moments passed while they both listened,
Then he came up to her and said,
“Let’s talk about what you have written…
No, please don’t run away… I’ve read
Words from a trusting soul confessing
Pure innocence and love, expressing
Sincerity, which I admire
And which has somehow brought new fire
To feelings long since unawoken.
This is not praise in any sense,
But now I come without pretence,
Speaking to you by the same token.
Please, hear me out while I confess.
Then what I am—you can assess. 13
If my life’s purpose had been rather
To shrink in a domestic round,
If as a husband and a father
Kind destiny had set me down,
If the domestic hearth had beckoned
And caught my fancy for a second,
I could have chosen, it is true,
No bride more suitable than you.
I tell you with no frills and fancies:
Taking an ideal from the past,
I surely would have held you fast,
A soulmate facing life’s mischances,
A guarantee of all things good.
I’d have been happy—if I could! 14
But no. I was not born and nurtured
For bliss—my soul dismisses it.
I look in vain upon your virtues,
Unworthy of them and unfit.
Believe me—conscience grips like bedrock—
We’d have been agonized by wedlock.
I might have loved you once, and then
From habit unloved you again,
And you’d have wept, but my heart, frozen,
Would not let your tears to do their work;
In fact the tears would only irk.
Consider, then, what thorny roses
Hymen would scatter in our way,
Alas, perhaps for many a day. 15
Can there be anything more disheartening
Than households where the wretched wife
Is saddened by a useless partner
And daily leads a lonely life,
Where the dull spouse, who knows her value
(Though Fate’s unkind to him, he’ll tell you),
Sits there without a word and sulks?
Tetchy, cold, touchy—how he bulks!
That’s me. Do you seek such a person,
Deep in your pure and fervent soul?
Your letter was so clear and bold,
Intelligent… But are you certain
That this is how your life should be
Apportioned by harsh Destiny? 16
Dreams and lost years can’t be recovered.
My spirit cannot be restored…
I love you like a loving brother.
(Perhaps I love you rather more.)
Hear me. I ask you to be patient:
Young girls are prone to transformations
When airy dreams chase airy dreams
Like saplings changing all their leaves
Each year in springtime, all-refreshing
And moved, it seems, by Heaven’s will.
So, you will love again. But still…
Study the art of self-possession.
I understand you; some may not.
Unworldliness can hurt a lot.” 17
Thus, like a preacher, spoke Yevgeny.
Eyes blinded, as the salt tears choked,
Tatyana, breathless, uncomplaining,
Was listening to him as he spoke.
He gave his arm. Far from ecstatic,