To far Moldavia’s steppes, where he
Pined for his native Italy.
[9]14
10
How soon he learned the skill of feigning,
Of seeming jealous, hiding hope,
Inspiring faith and undermining,
Appearing sombre and to mope,
Now acting proud and now submissive,
By turns attentive and dismissive!
How languid, when no word he said,
How fiery, when he spoke, instead,
In letters of the heart how casual!
Loving one thing exclusively,
How self-forgetting he could be!
How rapid was his look and bashful,
Tender and bold, while off and on
With an obedient tear it shone.
11
What talent for appearing novel,
Causing with feigned despair alarm,
Jesting to make the guileless marvel,
Flattering to entertain and charm,
Pouncing upon a moment’s weakness,
Subduing innocence and meekness
With passion and intelligence,
Expecting certain recompense,
Begging, demanding declarations,
Eavesdropping on the heart’s first sound,
Chasing his love, and, in a bound,
Snatching clandestine assignations…
And later in tranquillity
Giving her lessons privately!
12
How soon he knew how to bedevil
The heart of a professed coquette!
Or, to annihilate a rival,
How bitingly he would beget
A train of malice, spite and slander!
What snares he’d set to make him founder!
But you, blest husbands, you remained
His friends and kept him entertained:
The cunning spouse, a Faublas15 pupil,
Was eager to become his man,
So, too, the wary veteran,
And the grand cuckold, without scruple,
Forever satisfied with life,
His dinner and adoring wife.
[13, 14]
15
Sometimes, when still in bed he drowses,
Notelets are brought to greet the day –
What? Invitations? Yes, three houses
Inviting him to a soirée:
A ball here, there a children’s evening,
For which will my young scamp be leaving?
With which begin? It matters not:
He’ll be wherever on the dot.
Meanwhile, apparelled for the morning
And, donning a broad bolivar,16
Onegin to the boulevard
Drives out and strolls, at leisure swanning,
Until Bréguet17 with watchful chime
Rings out that it is dinner time.
16
It’s dark: into a sleigh he settles.
The cry resounds: ‘Away, away’;18
Upon his beaver collar, petals
Of frostdust form a silver spray.
Off to Talon’s:19 he’s sure that therein,
Waiting for him, he’ll find Kaverin.20
He enters: cork to ceiling goes
And comet wine21 spurts forth and flows,
Bloody roast beef22 is there to savour,
And truffles, young men’s luxury,
The bouquet of French cookery,
And Strasbourg pie, that keeps for ever,23
Between a golden ananas24
And Limburg cheese’s living mass.25
17
Thirst still replenishes the beakers
To down hot cutlets one by one,
But Bréguet tells the pleasure seekers
Of a new ballet that’s begun.
The theatre’s heartless legislator,
Fickle adorer and spectator
Of actresses, who are the rage,
An honoured citizen backstage,
Onegin flies off to the theatre,
Where liberty’s admirers26 are
Prepared to clap an entrechat,
To hiss off Cleopatra, Phaedra,
Call for Moëna27 (in a word,
Make sure their voices can be heard).
18
Enchanting world! There shone Fonvizin,28
Bold king of the satiric scene,
A friend of liberty and reason,
And there shone copycat Knyazhnin.29
There, Ozerov30 shared the elation
Of public tears and acclamation
With young Semyonova; there our
Katenin31 reproduced the power
of Corneille’s genius; there the scathing
Prince Shakhovskoy32 delivered his
Resounding swarm of comedies;
There was Didelot,33 in glory bathing;
There, in the wings that gave me shelter,
My youthful days sped helter-skelter.
19
My goddesses! Where now? Forsaken?
Oh hearken to my call, I rue:
Are you the same? Have others taken
Your place without replacing you?
When shall I listen to your chorus,
Behold in soul-filled flight before us
Russia’s Terpsichore34 again?
Or will my mournful gaze in vain
Seek a known face on dreary stages,
And, with my disabused lorgnette
Upon an alien public set,
Indifferent to its latest rages,
Shall I in silence yawn and cast
My mind back to a bygone past?
20
The house is full; the boxes brilliant;
Parterre and stalls – all seethe and roar;
Up in the gods they clap, ebullient,
And, with a swish, the curtains soar.
Semi-ethereal and radiant,
To the enchanting bow obedient,
Ringed round by nymphs, Istomina35
Stands still; one foot supporting her,
She circles slowly with the other,
And lo! a leap, and lo! she flies,
Flies off like fluff across the skies,
By Aeolus36 wafted hither thither;
Her waist she twists, untwists; her feet
Against each other swiftly beat.
21
Applause all round. Onegin enters,
Treading on toes at every stall,
Askew, his double eyeglass centres
On ladies whom he can’t recall;
At boxes, at the tiers he gazes;
With all the finery and faces
He’s dreadfully dissatisfied;
Bows to the men on every side
And, in profound abstraction pacing,
Looks at the stage, then turns away –
And yawns, exclaiming with dismay:
‘The whole damn lot there need replacing.
I’ve suffered ballets long enough,
And even Didelot’s boring stuff.’37
22
Still cupids, devils, snakes keep leaping
Across the stage with noisy roars;
And weary footmen still are sleeping
On furs at the theatre doors;
There’s coughing still and stamping, slapping,
Blowing of noses, hissing, clapping;
Still inside, outside, burning bright,
The lamps illuminate the night;
And still in harness shivering horses
Fidget, while coachmen round a fire,
Beating their palms together, tire,
Reviling masters with their curses;
Already, though, Onegin’s gone
To put some new apparel on.
23
Shall I attempt to picture truly
The secret and secluded den
Where fashion’s model pupil duly
Is dressed, undressed and dressed again?
Whatever trinket-dealing London
To satisfy our whims abundant
Exports across the Baltic flood,
Exchanging it for tallow, wood;
Whatever Paris, in its hunger,
Having made taste an industry,
Invents for our frivolity,
For luxury and modish languor –
These graced, at eighteen years of age,
The study of our youthful sage.
24
Pipes from Tsargrad,38 inlaid with amber,
Bronzes and china on a stand,
Perfumes39 in crystal vials to pamper
The senses of a gentleman;
Combs, little files of steel, and scissors,
Straight ones and curved, and tiny tweezers,
And thirty kinds of brush to clean
The nails and teeth, and keep their sheen.
Rousseau40 (I’ll note with your permission)