Together crying, “Mine, she’s mine!” 20
“She’s mine!” announced Yevgeny starkly,
And suddenly the pack has gone,
Leaving behind them, cold and darkling,
Onegin, Tanya, all alone.
Onegin, though, has now withdrawn her,
Settling her gently in a corner
Upon a wobbly wooden seat.
He now inclines his head to meet
Her shoulder. But then Olga enters
With Lensky. Lights flash through the mist.
Onegin makes a threatening fist
And stares round fiercely, ill-contented,
Chiding the two intrusive guests,
While Tanya, scarcely breathing, rests. 21
They argue. Louder. Of a sudden
Yevgeny grabs a long knife. Oh,
Lensky’s struck down! Grim shadows huddle
Them close. A hideous cry of woe
Rings out… The wooden shack is shaken…
…In horror Tanya now awakens
And looks around. It’s light again,
As through the frozen windowpane
Dawn’s crimson rays send out an aura.
The door swings open. Olga flies
Across to Tanya swallow-wise,
Rosier than the north’s Aurora.
“Tanya,” she says, “Tell me, my love—
Who is it you’ve been dreaming of?” 22
Tatyana, though, ignores her sister
And lies there with a book in bed.
The pages turn—she hasn’t missed her—
And now she’s here nothing is said.
Not that this book, for those who know it,
Presents sweet fictions from a poet,
Or maxims, or delightful scenes,
Or texts from Virgil or Racine,
Scott, Byron, Seneca. No features,
Not even Ladies Fashion, could
So fascinate and stir the blood.
It was Martin Zadeck, dear readers,
A wise Chaldean sage, it seems,
And an interpreter of dreams. 23
This work of moment and profundity
Came from a travelling salesman, who
Called in one day, out in the country,
And haggled with her as they do.
For her three roubles fifty copecks
She got Malvina (not the whole text)
Plus extras, normal in such sales:
A bumper book of common tales,
A grammar and two Petrine epics,
And Marmontel’s Works (Volume Three).
Martin Zadeck soon came to be
Her favourite… So sympathetic
To her when sorrows made life grim,
And every night she sleeps with him. 24
Disturbed by what she had been dreaming,
She wondered what it had to show.
What was the ghastly vision’s meaning?
Tanya would dearly like to know.
Though short, the index was poetical.
She found, in order alphabeticaclass="underline"
Bear, black of night, blizzard and bridge,
Fir, forest, hedgehog, raven, witch,
And suchlike words. Her apprehensions,
Despite Zadeck, could not be stilled.
The nightmare showed her fate fulfilled
By most unhappy misadventures.
For several days she was distraught
With worry at this very thought. 25
But now the crimson day is dawning;
Here from the valleys soars the sun,
Ushering in for us this morning
A name day! Joy for everyone!
All day the Larins’ house was writhing
With guests, whole families arriving
Together in their various ways
In carts or carriages or sleighs.
The crowded hall is under pressure
With newcomers exchanging hugs
And kissing girls and yelping pugs,
And shouts and chuckles on the threshold,
And bows and bobs. Everyone chats
Through nursemaids’ calls and bawling brats. 26
With his well-fed wife in attendance
Here comes the portly Pustyakóv;
Gvozdín, who, as a host, shines splendid
(His peasants being not well off );
A grey-haired couple, the Skotínins,
With children of all ages (meaning
From two to thirty); Petushkóv,
The local district’s fancy toff;
And my first cousin, too, Buyánov,
Fluff-covered, wearing a peaked cap
(Already known to you, mayhap);
And the ex-councillor, old Flyánov,
A gossip, rascal and poltroon,
Bribe-taker, glutton and buffoon. 27
Here’s Panfíl Khárlikov’s horde; with ’em
They bring Monsieur Triquet, once big
In Tambov, known for wit and rhythm,
In spectacles and ginger wig.
A perfect Frenchman and a charmer,
He’s penned a ditty to Tatyana,
A children’s song in melody:
Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.
In an old tome of ancient music
This ditty had been stored away.
Ever resourceful, our Triquet
Had dug it from the dust, to use it
With one bold change: bel-le Niná
Became bel-le Ta-ti-a-ná. 28
Now from a nearby urban quarter
A company commander comes,
Idol of many a grown-up daughter
And the delight of local mums.
He’s here… with news to be applauded:
The regimental band’s been ordered.
The colonel has arranged it all.
What joy! There is to be a ball!
The prospect sets girls’ feet a-racing.
When called to table, pair by pair
And hand in hand they saunter there.
The girls crowd Tanya. Men sit facing.
All cross themselves, and at the sign
The murmuring crowd sits down to dine. 29
Then silence falls. Nobody chatters
Though mouths chew on, and everything
Is noisy—cutlery a-clatter
And glasses meeting with a clink.
But very soon again they’re at it,
Raising the roof with a great racket.
There are no listeners; they all speak,
They shout and laugh, bicker and shriek…
The door flies open… Lensky enters,
Onegin too. Tatyana’s mum
Cries, “Lord above, at last you’ve come!”
The guests squeeze up with the intention
Of freeing places. Chairs are found,
They call the friends and sit them down, 30
Facing Tatyana. Thus confronted,
Pale as the moon in morning skies,
She quivers like a doe when hunted
And will not raise her darkling eyes
Towards them. Surging passions quickly
Flood through her; she feels breathless, sickly.
The two friends greet her, but her ears
Hear nothing. She feels pricking tears
About to flow. Poor, wretched creature
She feels she is about to swoon,
But strength and reason rally soon
To win her round. Her teeth now gritted,
She mumbles something into space
And sits there rooted in her place. 31
Theatricalities and paddies,
Girls fainting, tears and all that stuff,
Yevgeny couldn’t stomach; that is,
Quite simply, he had had enough.
At this big feast he, the outsider,
Was furious. But when he spied her
Shaking, producing a dark frown,
In irritation he looked down
And sulked, feeling exasperated
With Lensky. He would rattle him;
Yevgeny’s vengeance would be grim.
He revelled in anticipation.
He mentally began to scrawl
Caricatures of one and all. 32
And other people saw those moments
When Tanya felt as if to die,
Though really all the looks and comments
Were centred on the rich meat pie
(Unfortunately oversalted),
Then on the tar-sealed bottles, faultless
Between the roast and the blancmange,
Where Russian-made champagne belongs,
And glasses lined up long and slender,
Just like your little waist, Zizí,
Pure crystal of the soul to me,
Sung in my verses, sweet and tender;