Eugene Onegin Part 12

27.

Some would have women reading Russian, A frightful prospect, if applied; Imagine females in discussion With The Well-Meaner19 at their side!

I turn to you, my poets, teach us; Is it not true: those charming creatures For whom, to expiate your wrongs, You wrote, in secret, verse and songs, To whom you pledged your heart's affection, Did they not try, with much travail, Our Russian speech, to no avail, Yet using such a sweet inflection That on their lips a foreign tongue Became their native one ere long?

28.

The Lord forbid my ever meeting A bonneted scholar at a ball Or seminarist with a greeting As she departs in yellow shawl.20 Like rosy lips unused to smiling, Russian, I find, is unbeguiling Without grammatical mistakes.

Perhaps (my head already aches) A crop of exquisite new creatures Will heed the journals, set up school And make us bow to grammar's rule: Verse will acquire more useful features; But I... what matters this to me, I shall respect antiquity.

29.

An incorrect and careless patter, An inexact delivery Will generate a heartfelt flutter Within my breast as formerly.

I've not the strength to be repenting, Since Gallicisms are as tempting As bygone sins of youth, no worse Than Bogdanovich's21 in verse.

But stop. It's time now I translated The letter of my maiden dear, I gave my word, and what? I fear My wish to do so has abated.

I know that tender Parny's22 ways Are out of fas.h.i.+on nowadays.

30.

Bard of The Feasts23 and languid sorrow, If you had still remained with me, I would have troubled you, dear fellow, With a request, immodestly: That you transpose the foreign diction Of an impa.s.sioned maid's affliction Into enchanting melodies.

Where are you? Come: my rights I raze And, with a bow, place in your keeping...

But in a land of mournful stone, His heart forgetting praise, alone, Beneath the Finnish sky escaping, He wanders, and his soul hears not My grief for his unhappy lot.

31.

Before me is Tatiana's letter; Religiously, I treasure it, I read it with a secret shudder And cannot get my fill of it.

Who could have taught such tender writing, Such words so carelessly delighting, Who taught her that affecting rot, Mad conversation of the heart, A captivating, harmful mixture?

I cannot tell. But now you'll meet My version, feeble, incomplete, Pale copy of a vivid picture, Or as Der Freischutz24 might be played By girlish pupils, still afraid.

Tatiana's Letter to Onegin

I write to you a what more is needed?

What else is there that I could say?

It's in your power, I concede it, To punish my naivete.

But if you've even slightly pitied The dismal lot that I endure, You won't abandon me, I'm sure.

At first, I did not want to vex you.

Believe me: you'd have never known The shame I've suffered all alone, Had I been hopeful to expect you Here in our home, where we could speak, If only seldom, once a week, Enough to listen to your greeting And say a word to you, and then For days and nights to wonder when I could enjoy another meeting.

They say, though, you're unsociable; You treat our world with condescension, And we're... in no way fas.h.i.+onable, But welcome you without pretension.

Why ever did you visit us?

Lost in the village where I languish I never would have known you, thus I never would have known this anguish; Time would have taught me to extinguish My naive longings (but who knows?); I would have found a friend for life, Would have become a faithful wife And virtuous mother, if I chose.

Another!... No, I'd not have given My heart to anyone on earth!

It has been foreordained in heaven...

I was marked out for you from birth; My life has been a precondition For our encounter a which I crave; I know you're sent by G.o.d's provision, And you're my guardian till the grave...

You came in dreams that soon abounded, Even unseen, I treasured you.

Your wondrous glances pierced me through, Long in my soul your voice resounded...

No, this was not a dream for me!

I knew you on your first appearing; All faint and numb, aflame and fearing, I uttered inwardly: it's he!

Wasn't it you that I was hearing When in the stillness I'd depart To help the poor folk? Weren't you nearing Each time I prayed in hope of cheering The anguish of my troubled heart?

And even at this very second, Wasn't it you, dear vision, beckoned And slipped through night's transparency, Inclining gently at my bedhead, You, who with joy and love persuaded And whispered words of hope to me?

Who are you: guardian angel, mentor, Or, if not, a perfidious tempter?

Resolve my doubts, my wavering, Perhaps my feelings are misguided, An artless soul's imagining!

And something else has been decided...

But let that be! My fate is sealed, I place it now in your safekeeping, I beg of you, become my s.h.i.+eld, If you were here, you'd see me weeping...

Imagine what it's like for me, Alone, not understood and ailing, I'm frightened that my reason's failing, That I shall die here silently.

I wait for you: you can inspirit My hoping heart with just one glance Or interrupt this heavy trance With censure, which alas I merit!

I close! I dread to read this through...

I'm faint with shame and fear... However, I boldly put my trust in you, Whose honour is my pledge for ever.

32.

By turns, Tatiana's moaning, sighing, The letter trembles in her hand, Upon her fevered tongue lies drying The rosy seal,25 a paper band.

Her head sinks downward to her shoulder, Her light chemise that won't enfold her Slips to expose her shoulder's charm...

But now the radiance of the calm And moonlit sky grows dim. A valley Is outlined through the mist of dawn, Streams silver; and a shepherd's horn Wakes villagers to rise and rally.

It's morn, all bustle here and there, But my Tatiana does not care.

33.

The rising dawn does not affect her; Sitting with lowered head and still, She does not set upon the letter Her monogram and graven seal.

But now the door has opened quietly, Grey-haired Filipyevna treads lightly, Carrying tea upon a tray.

'It's time, my child, to greet the day.

But look, my pretty one, you're ready!

Aren't you my early little bird!

Oh, last night I was so afeard!

But thank the Lord, you're well and steady!

There's not a trace of last night's fret, Your face is now all poppy red.'

34.

'Oh nurse, I need a favour, listen.'

'Of course, dear, I'm at your command.'

'Don't think.... who knows?... perhaps suspicion...

But don't refuse, please understand.'