With love from shy girls none too old.
And still today my blood runs cold
When I recall that dreadful sermon
And your cold eyes… But I don’t say
You did me wrong that awful day.
No, you did well. You were determined
To treat me nicely from the start.
I thank you now with all my heart. 44
In those days, hidden in the country,
Far from cheap gossip, you felt cold
Towards me. Now you have the effrontery
To persecute me and make bold!
Why have you picked me for a target?
Am I now such a better bargain
At this new social level, which
Makes me well known as well as rich?
Is it my husband, a war hero
With court connections and some fame?
Or would you just enjoy my shame,
To make sure you got noticed, merely
To stand out in the world of style,
And bask in glory for a while? 45
Excuse these tears… Let me direct you
To memories within our reach…
I’d sooner bear your stinging lecture,
The chilling tenor of your speech
(If I had some choice in this matter,)
Than all of your impassioned patter,
Your longing letters and your tears.
I’d keep the dreams of my young years—
In those days you displayed some pity,
Consideration for my youth.
But now! What brings you here to stoop
Beneath my feet? What jot or tittle?
How could your heart and mind somehow
Become slaves to emotion now? 46
For me this world of pomp and glamour,
These trappings of a life I loathe,
Social success with all its clamour,
Fine house, the soirées that I hold—
What do they mean to me, Onegin?
I’d give up this mean masquerading,
The blare, the glitter and the fumes,
And go back to our humble rooms,
A shelf of books, the rambling garden,
Those country places that I knew,
Where for the first time I met you,
The graveyard of our dear departed…
Where there’s a cross, and branches shade
My poor beloved Nanny’s grave. 47
But happiness was standing next to us,
So very close! Now everything
Is fixed for me. I’ve been impetuous,
Or maybe that’s what people think.
My mother wept, begged and besought me,
I didn’t care what fortune brought me;
It made no difference, yes or no.
I married. Now, I beg you, go.
Please leave me. Do as you are bidden.
I know your heart will be your guide
With all its honour and its pride.
I do love you—that can’t be hidden—
But now that I’m another’s wife,
I shall stay faithful all my life.” 48
She left the room. Yevgeny, reeling,
Stands thunderstruck before the burst
Of tumult and tempestuous feeling
In which his heart is now immersed.
But what is this? Spurs jingling gently,
Tatyana’s husband makes his entry…
Acute embarrassment is nigh.
But here, dear reader, you and I
Shall leave him, and our separation
Will last… for ever. Far have we
Meandered in close company,
But that’s enough. Congratulations—
We’re home at last! Let’s shout, “Hooray!”
Not before time, I hear you say. 49
Dear reader, be you friend or foeman,
My feeling now is that we ought
To part in friendship and good odour.
Goodbye. Whatever you have sought
In reading through these trivial stanzas—
Memory’s wild extravaganzas,
A break from work, artistic strokes,
Or silly little witty jokes,
Or, it may be, mistakes of grammar—
God grant within this book you find
For love, fun or a dreaming mind,
Or for the journalistic hammer,
Some crumb at least. Now you and I
Must go our separate ways. Goodbye! 50
And you, my wayfaring companion,
Goodbye. Goodbye, the vision pure.
Goodbye, my small work of long standing.
Along with you I’ve kept secure
All things that could delight a poet.
Flight from the stormy world—I know it;
Good conversation—it is mine.
The days have flown… It’s a long time
Since Tanya, youthful and reflective,
With my Onegin next to her,
Came to me in a dreamy blur.
My novel had a free perspective;
Hard though I scanned my crystal ball,
I couldn’t make it out at all. 51
And what of those good friends who listened
To my first stanzas freshly made?
“Some are no more, and some are distant,”
As Sadi said. Without their aid
Onegin’s portrait has been painted.
What of the girl who first acquainted
Me with Tatyana, perfect, pure?…
Fate steals things from us, that’s for sure!…
Blest he who leaves a little early
Life’s banquet without eating up
Or seeing the bottom of his cup,
Who drops his novel prematurely,
Bidding it suddenly adieu,
As I Yevgeny Onegin do.
THE END
PUSHKIN PRESS
Pushkin Press was founded in 1997, and publishes novels, essays, memoirs, children’s books—everything from timeless classics to the urgent and contemporary.
Our books represent exciting, high-quality writing from around the world: we publish some of the twentieth century’s most widely acclaimed, brilliant authors such as Stefan Zweig, Marcel Aymé, Antal Szerb, Paul Morand and Yasushi Inoue, as well as compelling and award-winning contemporary writers, including Andrés Neuman, Edith Pearlman and Ryu Murakami.
Pushkin Press publishes the world’s best stories, to be read and read again. Here are just some of the titles from our long and varied list. For more amazing stories, visit www.pushkinpress.com.
THE SPECTRE OF ALEXANDER WOLF
GAITO GAZDANOV
‘A mesmerising work of literature’ Antony Beevor
BINOCULAR VISION
EDITH PEARLMAN
‘A genius of the short story’ Mark Lawson, Guardian
TRAVELLER OF THE CENTURY
ANDRÉS NEUMAN
‘A beautiful, accomplished noveclass="underline" as ambitious as it is generous, as moving as it is smart’ Juan Gabriel Vásquez, Guardian
BEWARE OF PITY
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘Zweig’s fictional masterpiece’ Guardian
THE WORLD OF YESTERDAY
STEFA NZWEIG
‘The World of Yesterday is one of the greatest memoirs of the twentieth century, as perfect in its evocation of the world Zweig loved, as it is in its portrayal of how that world was destroyed’ David Hare
JOURNEY BY MOONLIGHT
ANTAL SZERB
‘Just divine… makes you imagine the author has had private access to your own soul’ Nicholas Lezard, Guardian
BONITA AVENUE
PETER BUWALDA
‘One wild ride: a swirling helix of a family saga… a new writer as toe-curling as early Roth, as roomy as Franzen and as caustic as Houellebecq’ Sunday Telegraph
THE PARROTS
FILIPPO BOLOGNA
‘A five-star satire on literary vanity… a wonderful, surprising novel’ Metro
I WAS JACK MORTIMER
ALEXANDER LERNET-HOLENIA
‘Terrific… a truly clever, rather wonderful book that both plays with and defies genre’ Eileen Battersby, Irish Times
SONG FOR AN APPROACHING STORM
PETER FRÖBERG IDLING
‘Beautifully evocative… a must-read novel’ Daily Mail
THE RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY