Blest he who in due time grows old
And steadily becomes more rueful
While finding out that life is cold,
Who entertains no idle fancies,
Who with the rabble takes his chances,
At twenty, dandified hothead,
At thirty profitably wed,
At fifty owing not a penny
To other people or the state,
And who has been prepared to wait
For reputation, rank and money,
Of whom they’ve said throughout his span
So-and-so’s such a lovely man. 11
It’s sad that youth turned out so useless,
So futile and perfidious.
How frequently we have traduced her,
And she has disappointed us.
To think we watched our strongest yearnings,
Our purest aspirations, turning
Successively to dark decay,
Like leaves on a wet autumn day.
Unbearable, the future beckons,
With life an endless dining club
With decent membership and grub,
Where others lead and we come second.
At odds with them, we tag along,
Though we share nothing with the throng. 12
Unbearable (you won’t deny it)
To suffer many a jibe and slur
From decent folk, who, on the quiet,
Call one an oddball, a poseur,
Or maybe a pathetic madman,
Or a Satanic beast, a bad man,
Even the demon that I drew.
Onegin, to begin anew,
Took off after the fatal duel
With no clear plan, living for kicks,
Until the age of twenty-six—
An idle life with no renewal
Nor anything to which to cling,
Sans work, sans wife, sans everything. 13
He felt a jolt, a sudden flurry,
A longing for a change of air
(The kind of agonizing worry
That few of us would want to bear).
He quitted his estate, thus losing
The woods, the meadows, the seclusion,
The places where a bleeding shade
Arose before him every day,
And set off on sporadic travels,
With one idea to travel for,
But travel soon became a bore—
For travel, like all things, unravels.
He’s back “like Chatsky” (someone wrote),
“Straight to the ballroom from the boat.” 14
But then the throng was stirred and furrowed,
A whisper shimmered through the hall.
A lady neared the hostess, followed
By an imposing general.
Serenely she came, not stand-offish,
Not talkative, not cold or snobbish,
Devoid of hauteur, not too grand,
Devoid of self-importance, and
Without a trace of facial grimace
Or any ingratiating glance…
Easy and calm in her advance,
She showed herself the very image
Du comme il faut. (Shishkóv, forgive!
I can’t translate the adjective.) 15
Ladies came up to her more closely,
The old ones smiled as she went by,
The men bowed lower to her, mostly
Endeavouring to catch her eye.
Girls up ahead lowered their voices.
Tallest of all, and much the haughtiest,
The general then followed her
With nose and shoulders in the air.
No one could say she was a beauty,
But nothing could have been applied
To her that might have been described,
Out of some fashionable duty,
By London’s loftiest citizen
As vulgar. (Here we go again… 16
This is a favourite expression
That I’m unable to translate.
Because it is quite new in Russia
It hasn’t taken—as of late.
In epigrams it could score greatly.)
But—let us go back to our lady.
Her charm was to be wondered at:
Gracing the table, there she sat
With lovely Nina Voronskáya,
Our Cleopatra of the north,
Whose sculpted beauty was not worth
Enough to set her any higher
Than her delightful vis-à-vis,
However stunning she might be. 17
“I don’t believe it,” thinks Yevgeny.
“Not her. Not her! It cannot be!
What, that girl from the backwoods?” Straining
With a voracious eyeglass, he
Homes in and out, keenly exploring
The sight of her, vaguely recalling
Features forgotten ages since.
“I say, who is that lady, Prince,
There in the raspberry-coloured beret,
Near the ambassador from Spain?”
The prince looks once, and looks again.
“You’ve been away from things. Don’t worry.
I’ll introduce you, on my life.”
“Who is she, though?” “She is my wife.” 18
“Married? I didn’t know. Such drama!
Since when?” “Two years back, more or less.”
“Who is she?” “Larina.” “Tatyana?”
“You know her?” “We were neighbours. Yes.”
“Come on then.” And the prince, engaging,
Goes to her and presents Onegin
As a relation and a pal.
She looks. Her eyes seem natural.
Whatever may have stirred her spirit,
However deeply she was shocked,
However wonderstruck or rocked,
Nothing has changed her yet, nor will it.
She kept her former tone somehow,
And gave the normal, formal bow. 19
Indeed, her movements were no quicker,
Her features neither blanched nor blushed,
Her eyelids failed to show a flicker,
Her lips showed not the slightest crush.
Although he gazed and sought to garner
Some vestige of the old Tatyana,
Onegin could see none. He fought
To speak with her—it came to naught;
He could not manage it. She asked him
When he’d arrived, whence had he come.
Could it be where they had come from?
She found her spouse by staring past him
With weary eyes—then she was gone.
Onegin stood there, looking on. 20
Could this have been the same Tatyana
Whom he had faced alone that time
At the beginning of our drama
In such a dead and distant clime,
When he had striven to direct her
In that warm, moralizing lecture?
The same young girl from whom he’d kept
That letter from her heartfelt depths,
So forthright and naively open?
The same girl—was it just a dream?—
He had rejected, who had been
Left lonely, downcast and heartbroken?
How could she have turned out so cold,
So independent and so bold? 21
But soon he leaves the crowded dancing
To drive home, wallowing in thoughts
(All hope of quick sleep being chancy)
Part beautiful but largely fraught.
He wakes… A letter… Oh, that writing…
It is the prince humbly inviting
Him to a soirée. “Her house. Oh!
I must accept, I will, I’ll go!”
A nice response is quickly scribbled.
Is this a weird dream? So absurd!
What is this deep thing that has stirred
Within a soul grown old and shrivelled?
Pique? Vanity? Or—heavens above!—
That ailment of the young ones—love? 22
Onegin counts the minutes, harassed.
How sluggishly the day has crept!
The clock chimes ten—he’s in his carriage,
Flying along, then at the steps.
He comes to see the princess, quaking.
Tatyana is alone and waiting.
They sit together some time, dumb.
Time passes, and the words won’t come,
Not from Onegin. He looks awkward
And surly. All that he has said
Is not a real response. His head
Holds but a single thought. Still gawking,
He watches her. She, if you please,
Sits there serenely at her ease. 23
In comes her husband, nicely ending
A most unpleasant tête-à-tête.
Soon, with Onegin, he’s remembering
Their jokes and tricks when they were mates.
There’s laughter, and guests cut across it