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For rather more than two hours straight,

But then in Kharitónov passage

The ponderous sleigh came to a gate

And stopped. Here lived an ageing auntie

Who’d fought for four years valiantly

Against consumption. They’d arrived,

And the front door was opened wide

By an old, grizzled Kalmyk servant

Wearing a loose coat, specs on nose,

Stocking in hand. A cry arose

From the princess, couch-bound but fervent.

The old girls swooned in tears and hugs,

Loud greetings pouring forth in floods. 41

“Princess, mon ange!” “Pachette!” “Alina!”

“Incredible!” “At last we meet!

Astonishing!” “Ma chère cousine!

Will you stay long? Do take a seat.

It’s like a novel… All this drama…”

“This is my daughter, dear Tatyana!”

“Oh. Tanya, come to me. This seems

Too much. It’s like the stuff of dreams.

Remember Grandison? You must do.”

“What Grandison? Oh, you mean him!

I do remember. Where’s he been?”

“He’s near St Simeon’s here in Moscow.

Dropped in to see me Christmas Eve.

Married his son off, I believe. 42

And he… But let’s save this till later,

Shall we? Tomorrow we must show

Tatyana off to her relations.

Sorry, I’m poorly. I can’t go.

My feeble legs will barely serve me…

But you’re exhausted from the journey.

Why don’t we have a little rest?

I’m feeble. Oh, my tired old chest…

Now, even pleasure is a burden,

And not just sadness. Oh, my dear,

I’m pretty useless now, I fear.

Old age is dreadful, that’s for certain.”

She was exhausted. That was it.

She wept and had a coughing fit. 43

The good cheer of her ailing auntie

Moves Tanya, although, truth to tell,

Her new rooms are not to her fancy

Compared with those she knew so well.

The drapes are of a silken sweetness,

But in her new bed she lies sleepless,

And then the early sound of bells,

Heralding morning work, propels

Her out of bed. Her chair is placed by

The window, where she now stays put.

The darkness thins, she looks out, but

Instead of her home fields she’s faced by

A yard she doesn’t know at all,

A stable, a kitchen and a wall. 44

To family dinner after dinner

Tanya is taken, to impress.

With grans and grandads she’s a winner,

For all her dreamy idleness.

As kinfolk, come from distant places,

They’re met with warmth and smiling faces,

With exclamations and nice meals.

“She’s grown!…” “But yesterday—it feels!—

I stood for you when you were christened.

I held you in my arms, my dear.

I used to tweak your little ear.

I gave you sweeties.” Tanya listens

To granny’s age group and their cries

Of “How the years have gone. Time flies!” 45

They haven’t changed. Depend upon it:

The old ways are their golden rule.

Thus Princess (Aunt) Yeléna’s bonnet

Is of unfashionable tulle,

Ivan Petróvich is no wiser,

Semyón, his brother’s still a miser,

Lukérya’s face is all white paint.

Is Lyubóv truthful? No, she ain’t.

You’ll find that Auntie Pelagéya

Still friends with Finemouche (gentilhomme),

Still has a husband, and a pom.

He’s still a clubman, a long-stayer,

Still henpecked, deaf and someone who

Still eats and drinks enough for two. 46

Their girls greet Tanya with embraces,

But, there being much they want to know,

Silently these young Moscow Graces

Examine her from top to toe.

They find her rather odd, provincial,

With mannerisms strangely mincing,

A little thin and pale withal—

Though otherwise not bad at all.

But nature will prevail—with passion

They make friends, entertain her, and

They kiss her often, squeezing hands,

Fluffing her curls in the new fashion.

With girlish giggles they impart

The secrets of their girlish hearts— 47

Details of conquests, theirs and others’,

Their hopes and schemes, daydreams and such,

Flowing in guileless chat that buzzes

With scandal (though not all that much).

Then in return for all this chatter

They lean on Tanya, getting at her

To tell the stories of her heart,

But dreamily she stands apart.

She hears things but forgets soon after,

For nothing heard makes any sense.

Her feelings, private and intense,

Her secret thoughts, her tears and laughter

She keeps unspoken, for herself

And shareable with no one else. 48

Tatyana is quite keen to listen

To what they’re saying, but, alas,

The room is swamped with the transmission

Of incoherent, vulgar trash.

It’s so banal and so insipid;

Even the scandal’s far from gripping.

In the dry desert of their views,

Their queries, slurs and bits of news,

Days pass with nothing thought-provoking,

No twist of fate or happenstance

To set the weary mind a-dance,

Nothing heart-lifting, nothing jokey,

No silly fun to be enjoyed

Anywhere in this social void. 49

Young men with sinecures look at her

In priggish, condescending ways,

Then walk off to discuss the matter

With nothing very nice to say.

Among them one pathetic jester

Found her “ideal” as he assessed her,

And now he leans against the door

To pen an ode. Guess who it’s for.

Once Vyázemsky sat down beside her

When she was at a boring aunt’s

And captivated her, by chance.

An old man, looking on, espied her,

And curiously began to dig,

While neatly straightening his wig. 50

But in the halls, where raging Tragedy

Is still performed in one long wail,

With spangled mantles wielded, waggling,

At the full house (to no avail),

Where Comedy lies gently napping

And sleeps through even friendly clapping,

Where the young public is entranced

By nothing but the Muse of Dance—

That’s how it was in former ages

When you and I were in our prime—

Tanya was cut dead all the time

By the lorgnettes of jealous ladies

And the eye-tubes of strutting beaux

In boxes or the lower rows. 51

She’s taken on to the Assembly,

With all its crowds, excitement, heat,

The blaring band, the candles trembling

As pairs sweep by with flashing feet.

The lovely girls arrayed in flimsy,

The galleries with their gaudy whimsy,

And nubile girls in one wide arc—

All this struck her and made its mark.

Made manifest by dazzling dandies,

Bravado gleams, and waistcoats too,

Eyeglasses spurned but kept in view,

Hussars on leave, fine and upstanding,

Leap to the fore, gallop and stamp,

Delight the eye, and then decamp. 52

The night has many stars, resplendent,

Moscow has lovely girls on view,

Yet of these friends the moon ascendant

Outshines them all in the deep blue.

And she… (I wouldn’t dare upset her;

To mute my lyre would be far better…)

Gives off her splendour, casting shade

On every mother, every maid.

With heavenly poise and proud composure

She deigns to tread the earth, and breathes