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