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    © Copyright english translation Dennis Litoshick
    Email: dennis_ru@hotmail.com
    WWW: http://zhurnal.lib.ru/l/litoshik_d_n/
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I


My uncle was a man of virture,





When he became quite old and sick,





He sought respect and tried to teach me,





His only heir, verte and weak.





He had the fun, I had the sore,





But grecious goodness! what a bore!





To sit by bedplace day and night,





Not  doing even step aside,





And what a cheep and cunning thing





To entertain the sad,





To serve around, make his bed,





To fetch the pills, to mourn and grim,





To sigh outloud, think along:





`God damn old man, why ain't you gone?'





















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II










So thought a playboy, young and funny,





While riding through the dust of road,





The only heir to the money,





That got his folks with help of Lord.





My reader! if introduce I may





Without comments, right away,





Onegin, my old friend





Was  born , you know, in the Niva land.





And you may have been born in there,





The place of style, the vanity fair,





Where I had spent a lot of time,





But moved - the climate wasn't fine.
















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III










With record excellent and clear,





His father lived in debt,





He gave three balls in every year





And went bankrupt. How sad.





But Fate took care of Evgeniy,





She sent Madame (the French for mammy),





And later on she sent Monseur





To care of l'enfant l'hero.





Monseur l'Abbe was French and poor,





Was easy on the kid,





Tought everything a little bit,





Was not that hard on him for sure,





Sometimes did bother him with stuff,





Though wasn't tiresome or rough.





















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 Madame   ,





 Monsieur  .





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Monsieur l'Abbe,  ,





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IV










As into teens, the age of riot,





The age of tender sorrow,





Evgeniy gradually followed,





Monseur l'Abbe was quicly fired.





And here Evgeniy's liberated,





His haircut is up-to-dated,





Dressed like a dandy, bright and bold,





He's being introduced to th'world.





He spoke Francais like Parisien





And danced mazurka like a feather,





He bowed at ease and posed like Ceaser-





The world dicieded he was fine.





















   





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Monseur   .





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 dandy  





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V










We all have studied bit by bit





All different stuff in different ways,





Thus education's not a hit





And for this fact the Lord  we praise.





Onegin was, as many thought,





(these many judged the youth a lot)





A fine smart man, a little stiff,





A one who had a lucky gift





To walk along with th'world smalltalk





And argue with done-thats' fog,





To cause the ladies' smiles





With a burst of  funny rhymes.





















   





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VI










The Latin`s  not in fashion now,





And if I should be writing truth,





He knew enough to put things down,





To craft some poems worth of use,





To chat a bit of Uvenalus,





To reason of what causes chaos,





Could cite (though with a pause)





From  Eneida  a little dose.





He didn't like historic dust,





From the Creation and so forth,





How long ago looked like the Earth,





But anecdotes - his real lust,





The scores of them till our days





Evgeniy's memory thus saves.
















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VII










Nor being gifted with the passion,





That's strong enough to burn in rhymes,





We couldn't teach him how to differ





The music of poetic size.





He scolded Homer, Pheocrith,





But praised the work of Adam Smith.





He was a good ecomonist,





E.g. he had a clue amidst





The ways a state becometh richer





And why it doesn't have to feature





Wealth in gold in treasury





But should in terms of goods  measure it.





His father did't get all these





And lands're gone to pawn and lease.
















   





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VIII










All skills that had my friend Evgeniy





I won't enclose for they are many





But where ingenious he was,





The science he knew as well as gods,





What was to him from early days,





A labor, pleasure, mystic maze,





What took his time from dawn till dawn,





What entertained him all along -





That was the science of tender passion,





So praised by Nazonus the Poet,





Exiled away, away for it,





Away to Moldova's step





Away from Italy's home lap.
















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IX

















X










How early learnt the art to mimic,





The art to desperate and hope,





To be all faithful and cynic,





To seem sometimes he lacks a rope,





To be once proud, then all humble,





To touch your heart, then have it cramble,





How wordy was he being silent,





In speech he sparckled like a diamond,





In passion notes how was he tender,





While living one, while loving one,





Forgets himself for darling dame.





And in his eyes reflects her splendor,





And how he's bold and shy and dear,





Conclusing looks with servile tears.
















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XI










How good he was in staying fresh,





Amazing modesty is easy,





To frighten with a desperate dash,





With flattery make feel you dizzy,





To catch the moment of excitement,





To try to strip the moral garnment,





To win with passion and cold mind





With innocent upbringing fight,





Demanding, praying for a `yes',





To listen how the heart is beating,





And get agreement for a meeting





(All after shadowing and chase),





And after that with hungry vilence





To give her lessons in the silence!





















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XII










How young he was when learnt to hush





The hearts of women, young and not,





And easy was for him to crush





The other men with acid mots,





If dared they to cross with him!





His traps are poisonous, firm!





But you, naive and simple men,





Still kept Evgeniy as a friend,





He was a guest of honour for





A cheated husband,





Cheating husband,





The one who weekly pays a whore,





And fat old folks who're always  glad





With having wife and being fed.
















     





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XIII. XIV





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XV










He used to lay still in the bed,





Receiving cards and reading letters,





Three invitations daily had





Three households write that he matters,





One to a party, one to ball...





So where should Evgeniy go?





It doesn't matter where go first,





He'll pay a visit t'every host,





But now so far he's dressed for walking,





In a stylish hat on rendez-vous,





Evgeniy's out to Avenue,





Enjoying air and no talking.





He stays out there till the watch





Rings time for lunch and shot of scotch.
















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XVI










It's  dark by now; in slegh he climbs,





`Go, go!' - the driver yells at horses,





Evgeniy's fur coat's silverazed





With diamond dust of Russian frosties.





Now he's headed to Talon's, where





His pale Kaverin waits out there.





He enters. The bottle cork hits th'ceiling,





Knocked out by its seething filling.





In front of him a stake with blood,





And truffles - (danties for him)-





The best of th'best of French cousine,





And Strassburg pie - the treat of gods-





And Limbourg cheese witha touch of moulding,





And a pineapple, cut and golden.





















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XVII










And more of goblets the thirst's demanding,





To cool the heat in belly,





But here's a clock a message sending:





It's time to go to th'Ballet.





As an evil demon of the stage,





In actresses' chasing being a mage,





A dark warlord behind the scenes,





Who's ready get it with all means,





Evgeniy's on the way th'Ballet,





The place where liberties and farrie





Rule, and chock in claps just any dance





Is  quite O.K., and hence





A viewer's a participant





(And feels a lot more important)
















   





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XVIII
















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XIX










My goddesses where are you now?





Please be my humble prayers facing.





Are you the same or other farries somehow





Took votre place, but not replacing.





And will I ever be seduced





While watching dancing Russian muse,





Your souls' inspired flight,





Or bored eye shall not then find





Familiar faces in the show,





And, gazing at the others' f*t





Through a fatigue lornette,





I, being in my spirits low,





I will be yawning all along,





Recalling days that now are gone.
















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XX










The house's full. The boxes packed with diamonds and fashions





The pit is boiling, crowded and loud,





The stalls are clapping with impatience,





And here it is - the curtain is on rise with sound.





Amazing, airy and radiant





To move of magic bow obidient





Istomina, surrounded by nymphs,





Is flying on some wings, not limbs,





While touching stage with one of feet,





She jumps and in the air flits,





And dances like a dawn or feather,





Or is it body's song? Or either?
















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XXI










Burst of applause. Onegin enters,





And makes his way on someone's feet.





And through th'lornette he glances





To study ladies in the pit.





He looked all the circles through,





He is upset - there're beaties not a few.





Then he exchanged bows with the men around,





And no vogue dresses found.





And after that he took,





While yawning





For the show was boring,





At the stage a vacant look:





I'm sick with ballets - so he said-





And down with music and all that





















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XXII










While cupids, devils, serpents





Still do the noise in the show,





While tired footmen sleep by th'entrance





On fur-coats, hiding from the snow,





And while spectators there continue





To cough and  hiss at the revu,





And while the streetlights still are on





To be alive from dusk till dawn





And horses hoof and neigh





For they are harnessed to the sleigh





And coachmen move around the fire





And gossip of those who them hired,





Look! Onegin's walking out all alone-





To get dressed up he's headed home.





















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XXIII










May I describe in a truthful manner





The study, closed for everyone





Where cheperoned by vogue Evgeniy





Plays lead in th'dressing ritual,





Where all sophisticated items laid-





That picky London has to trade





For our wood and our fat-





The ones we through the Baltic get,





And whats' invented a Paris





For fun and pleasure there you see





At an eighteen-year-old





Philosopher's treshold.





















    





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XXIV










Constantinople pipes with amber





And china, bronze out there exhumed





And the delight of coddled temper -





A crystal bottle of perfume,





And combs, and scissors, files for nails -





Accessories a dandy hails,





And thirty kinds of different brushes -





A real person never rushes.





Russeau (I say it by the way)





Had never got how formal Grim





Could clean his nails in front of him.





Though eloquent, but there he may





Be wrong about the case





Despite the wisdom on his face





















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XXV










One can be nice and thinking person





And care of the shape of nails.





What for shall one confront the era?





Against the customs person fails.





Evgeniy's a second Chaahdaev, sought





Afraid be viewed as someone odd,





Perfection, pedantry in clothes





And as a dandy always goes.





At least he spent three hours daily





In front of looking-glass





Exterminating mess and fuss





Until he looks like Venus airy





When she put on a virile suit





And off to masquerade as a dude.





















   





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XXVI










I might be having your attention





To detalize Evgeniy's looks:





The suit made up to the latest fashion





(of course you know it not from books)





I'm not to teach, I am to draw -





Description's what I here for.





But frac, gilet and pantalons





This words in Russian make me frown





And as I see ( and I am sorry)





That rhymes I use are full





Of borrowed words and broken rules.





I beg forgiveness for these follies





Though I used to have a look





Into the thick linguistic book.





















   





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XXVII










But let us drop linguistic edits





We'd rather hurry to the ball





To which Evgeniy's carriage's headed





Along the houses in snow,





Along St.Petersburg's ice streets





On which the East with Europe meets,





And carriage's lanterns bring the light





Into the gloomy winter night





And paint rainbows on the rime:





A mansion lighted all around





With diamonds of lanterns crowned





And one can see from time to time





Profiles of fashionable heads





Of ladies and eccentric lads.





















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XXVIII










Have had approched the entrance hall,





He passed the porter like an arrow,





Flew over stairsteps to the ball,





While with his hands he did the hair.





At last he's there, and there's a crowd,





The music's tired but still loud,





The folks are busy with the dances,





It's stuffed, and noisy, and glances





Are easily responded to,





The ladies whirl in tact to beat,





And shights of officers them hit,





But still they take it as their due.





And viloins' uproar surpresses





The wives' gossiping about the dances





















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XXIX










In days begone of mirth and wishes





I used to be into the balls





For they're the best without suspicions





To pass the secret passion notes.





To you, my dear wives and men,





To you my service's offered then.





Please, pay attention to my words -





I want to warn you of what hurts.





And you, oh mothers, also take





A closer look at your own girls -





The world reserves some painful falls,





Avoid them for goodness sake!





I write these things for I have not





Been sinning for l*ng, dear Lord.





















    





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XXX




Alas, on worldly entertainment





I've spent a lot of my lifetime,





And if there weren't degradation





I'd keep on loving balls as fine.





I love their youthfulness and glitter,





And joy, and every crowded meter,





And ladies' thought-through dress,





And love their legs, but shall confess -





One hardly can in Russia find





Some slender legs (it's fact, not fable)





But I for a long time was unable





To forget one pair that looks pleasing sight.





And sad, already cool and chilled, my heart





In dreams gets pierced with their dart.
















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XXXI










And when, in what unlucky hour





One can forget you? I don't believe it much.





Oh legs, oh feet, I wish to be the flower





You've stepped onto and left your touch.





You were charished in oriental bliss,





But in the snowy nothern mist





You've left no trace:





The carpet's lavish, tender face





And their softness were your domain.





I did neglect because of you





Not long ago ambitions, due,





The land of fathers, wishes, fame.





The youthful happiness dissolved as if it was a glimpse





Like on the meadows disappeared your footprints.





















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XXXII










Diana's brest, and Flora's cheeks,





My friends, they're truly good,





But spot where is my sight's fix





Is Terpsichore's foot.





While it prophesies me a sort





Of valuable reward,





It does attact a hive of wishes





With its beaty, solemn, precious.





I love them, dear friend Elvina,





Deep-hidden under tablecloth,





In springtime next to grass and moss,





By fireplace, seducing poor sinner,





Reflected in the glass of floor,





And on the rocks along seashore.





















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XXXIII










I recollect the sea before the storm,





I envied waves that lilac day,





The waves that rush, they're crowned with the foam,





To knee in front of her and stay.





I wish I were a wave to touch





In kiss her feet, I wish so much!





No, never in the burning days





Of boiling youth I had this craze





To wish with such a self-contempt





To kiss the farries, face to face,





Or roses of their cheeks that blaze,





Or brests that so seduce and tempt,-





No, never th'juggernaught of passion





Struck me with such a wild aggression.
















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XXXIV










I recollect some other days!





In very cherished dreams of mine,





I kiss her, drawned in happiness,





I feel her her legs in hands, and sigh.





Again imagination's seething:





Her softest touch and slightest breathing,





Have pushed the blood in fainted heart.





Again the bore, ones more love's start.





Enough of gabbling on my lyre





To celebrate the haughty ones





For they're not worthy of the fire





And songs for which inspire us.





The words and sights of enchantress





Are as delusive as her legs.





















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XXXV










But where's Evgeniy? Half-asleep,





To bedplace from the ball he's going.





The city's eyelids never meet,





And drums awaken all by rolling.





Wakes up a merchant, pedlars do,





The cabmen pass by down the rue,





Milkvendors hurry with the jugs. In dawn





The crispy snow is heard when is stepped on.





The morning's noice bids farewell to night,





The shatters are open; the chimney's smoke





Is raising up like a thick pale blue rope.





The German baker, dressed tidy and all-right,





Sits in a cotton cap, indifferent to fuss,





And greets the folks through th'open vasisdas.





















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XXXVI










Worn out by the noise at the ball,





Onegin turned the dawn into the midst of night,





Now calmly sleeps, where shade has blissful fall,





Was born to luxiory, not freight.





He will wake up long after sunny noon.





The preset, same agenda is his doom





The life is steady, with only few suprises:





What's gone will come tomorrow when the Sun rises.





With freedom, living his best days,





Amidst the victories that paved his pace,





Amidst the fun and leisure





Was there happiness to measure?





Was there a thing that caused unrest





In Onegin's life's ongoing fest?





















   





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XXXVII










No. His sences were blunted early,





The world's smalltalk has wearied him,





The beuties are no longer storming





His mind and cause his heart to steam.





The infidelity and cheeting... Bore.





His friends are dull, and friendship sore





For he wasn't able all the time





To pour champaigne on strassbourg pie





And joke with sharp and acid words





When headache so much hurts.





Though he's a playboy, he came to disguise





His old days habits - swords and whist.





















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XXXVIII










The cause of this decease's unseen





The diagnosis - always solid:





The English word for that is spleen,





Khandrah is what the Russans call it.





And step by step the spleen took over,





But, praise the Lord, his mind was sober





Not to let him shoot himself at head





But he lost intest in life, as Byron said





Did Child-Harold so languid and morose,





Evgeniy came to salons, balls





And neither ladies' passion calls





Nor gossips, cardgames, poetry or prose





Was touching him enough





He didn't care `bout the stuff.
















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XXXIX.XL. XLII.










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XLII










Oh those chic ladies of the world!





He could not take you any more





And hid from noones chained in gold





Sophisticated chitchat's such a bore!





Though there could be  some dame





Interpreting Say and Bent*m,





But as a rule what they discuss





Is aggrivating, but innocent nonsence, alas!





Besides, they are so chaste and pure,





Majestic, full of intellect,





So pious, so politically correct,





So thoughtful that no man can lure





Them. When I look at them I grim -





Seeing those causes severe spleen.





















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XLIII










And you, so beatiful young women





Who disappear late in night





On Petersburg's streets gleaming





In a midnight carriage ride -





Evgeniy left you just as well.





And lonely decieded he to dwell





Without pleasures in a hermit den.





Once, yawning, he took up a pen,





Up to tryouts did some writing,





But working hard has made him sick -





The born was shallow, very weak,





And thus he didn't join the mighty





And roaring guild of those whom I shall judge no way





For I belong to it, and there I should stay.


























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XLIV










Again, devouted to the bore,





Was restless with emptiness of soul,





He started with a loudable goal





Assuming other's wisdom as his own.





A bunch of books he seated on the shelf,





And read them avidly outloud, to himself,





And thought - this one is dull, the other is deceiving,





That one is dellusion with no meaning.





It seemed the authors were feeding





The old ideas as out-dated,





And new ones as very much belated.





As well as women, he gave up on reading,





And covered then the shelf with cloth,





Thus hid the books to feed the moth.





















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XLV










Have rioted against the social demands,





And like Onegin tired with the crowd,





I met Evgeniy, we made friends,





I liked him much without a doubt.





I liked his undeliberate allegiance to his dreams,





And that original eccentrity of his,





His cold and acid-sharpened mind.





My heart was angry, his also had no trace of light.





The game of vanities we both knew well,





And life itself was wearing us out,





No song was sang in our hearts outloud,





We both expected later on to smell





The spite of Fortune, for she's blind,





And the spite of the mankind.


























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XLVI










Who lived and thought, he cannot help





Despising men at heart in chest,





The one who pain and love had  felt





Is haunted by the ghost of past.





He has no more of great illusions,





The memory brings him confusions,





And the remorse him tantalizes





These features add to dialog with him some spices.





At first, Onegin's manner to behave





Embarressed me, but later I got used





To caustic his remarks; I got amused





With how he joked with bile, and how he gave





Birth to many mordant epigrams





That caused some laughter and some damns.
















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XLVII










How often in the summertime





The Niva night skies are so transperent and cyan,





The broken water glass does not reflect that fine





The Moon - the sole domain of Diane.





And we slipped into th'days that now are gone,





Recalling gone affairs with a mourn,





Recalling love, that struck the heart with joy and grief





And we became again more sencible and youthfully naive,





We saturated in the silence, being deaf and mute,





The viscous breath of night,





As if a prisoner who flies into the wood





When he's about to take to Morpheus a ride.





And so did we. We fled to the beginning of the youth





Led by the dream by which we were seduced.





















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XLVIII










And with his heart full of regrets,





Onegin leaned onto the bank's granite





`Through meditation guts he gets'-





As a poet once had rhymed.





It was so quiet. It was only heard





As the night guards were on the full alert,





And coaches' soft and distant rumble





From Millionannaya occasionaly mumbled.





And down the sleepy river a boat slid,





Flapping with her wooden oars,





She charmed us with a distant chorus





Of a clarion and song that meet...





But I prefer above those catchy rythms





The song and euphony of Torquato's hymns.





















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XLIX










The Adriatic sea, the Brenta,





Again I see you torquaise blaze.





My soul gets filled with inspiration





When their voice reaches my face.





The voice's sacred for Appolo's descendants,





I am familiar with it due to Byron's lyre crescendos,





I know it well as if we are related.





When daytime light in Italy has faded,





I will enjoy Italian nights' bliss





And a Venician beatiful young miss,





Who's talkative, then calm and taciturn





When we sail in a gondola. My lips then start to burn





With the language of Petrarca, tonge of love,





Noone knows it but the lovers and the dove.


























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L










Will there be the day when I am free?





It is the time! - I call for it, I cry,





I wait for wind, I walk along the sea,





Allure the sails of vessels passing by.





When will I start my run, that's free and wild,





Arguing with billows during my glide





On the face of the restless sea? -





Away from the boring shore I need to flee





(And my dislike of it's on rise)





And be amidst African hot sands





In my forbears' native lands,





And there recall the murky Russian skies





Under which I suffered and I loved





And where I bured my broken heart.





















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LI






Onegin said that he was ready





With me to travel other lands,





But we by chance got separated





For long time though we had been friends.





His father died and left a desert:





In front of Evgeniy got gathered





A hungry regiment of lenders,





Who were there own's defenders.





Onegin, in disguise of suits and courts,





Gave them the legacy, preferring peace to swords,





Still kept on being happy with the state of things





Not seeing a big loss in it as winds





Had gossiped (and he overheard)





That his beloved uncle soon would see the Lord.





















    





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LII










Indeed, he got one day





From the manager a note:





The uncle soon will pass away,





His nephew's farewell then he sought.





At once, as soon as finished reading,





Evgeniy parted for the meeting,





He rushed headlong with the post-chaise,





And yawned, forseeing boring days,





And for the money got prepared





To sigh, deceive and worry





(With these I have begun the story)





But when arrived - no loger cared:





The uncle was already dead





And on the table he was laid.





















     





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LIII










He found the courtyard full of people





From all the places nearby,





Both friends and rivals were coming





To mourn a little and to dine,





Then left for home with dignity and grace





As have fullfilled their duty with all As.





Onegin now in countyside resides.





And woods, and rivers, factories and land





Belong to him, though he had been forehand





With any order in non-ending fights.





He welcomes changes in the way he lived:





At least there is a slightest drift.


























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LIV










For 2 seqvensive days secluded fields





Seemed new and fresh to him





As well as shady oak trees,





And murmur of a quiet spring.





But on the third, the field, the grove, the hill





Caused his heart not a thing to feel.





They made him sleepy later on,





He realized that he was wrong;





The countryside is boring just as well.





Though there - no palaces, no streets,





No balls, no poems with their wits.





The bore is guarding by his cell,





Or follows him as shadow does





Or a wive that too much loves.
















    





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LV










Well, I was born for peaceful life,





For soft bucolic soundlessness,





Where my voice sounds stronger





And dreams are full of vividness.





And being fully into leisure,





I wander by the lake for pleasure,





And far niente as a law I'm taking.





And every morning I'm awaken





For feeling great, and free, and strong.





I read a little, sleep a lot,





I seek no fame I could have got.





And have I spent the years gone





In doing nothing, in the shade,





The days of mine, that were great?
















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 far niente  .





   





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LVI










Oh flowers, love, oh fields and leisure-





My heart is yours or even more so.





I'd like to note: the gap quite wide to measure





Exists between Ongin and the author.





For if it happens that a mocking avid reader,





Or a publisher of witty-crafted litter,





Compares then my features to Onegin's,





And will conclude and spread the word





That it's my portrait what I wrote





Like Byron did, as if we cannot ever since





Write poems 'bout all other things





Except for our precious ego





With which we have vertigo.


























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LVII










All poets, by the way I note,





Are friends with love, that never is disturbed.





I dreamt `bout nice things quite a lot,





And their secret images my soul has preserved.





The muse refreshed the images in me,





And I (so careless) sang praise and plea





Both to the girl of mounts, who doesn't ever fear,





And to the beuties prisoned on the banks of the Salgir.





And nowadays I hear from you, friends,





A question asked quite often:





Who caused your lyre to sigh and heart to soften?





Who is the one you want to kiss in dance?





Who is the one among that jellous crowd,





Who has inspired you to play your lyre so loud?





















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LVIII










Whose sights have caused your inspiration?





Who has awarded you with touch





For how you sang so thoughtfully with passion,





To whom your poetry's been worshiping so much?





She is noone, there isn't any one.





Love's madness, and distortion and the fun





I have experianced in vain.





Be blessed the one who managed to contain





Both loving and the fever of the rhyme:





He doubles the poetry's sacred dellusion





And is a Petrarka's follower with no confusion,





Thus he reduces pain in heart. This very time





He begets the fame. But I am not that kind of dude-





When I'm in love - I'm dumb and mute.
















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LIX










When love was gone, the muse stood up in front,





The murky mind became more clear,





I'm free again and searching for concord





Of senses, thoughts, and sounds of magic that are dear.





The heart's not sad when I write,





The pen, half-consious, by the side





Of poems draws no more seducing eyes,





Or women legs, or their profiles.





Extingushed ashes will light up no more,





I am still sad, though tears aren't seen,





And very soon the storm will dim





Inside my soul - it shall not sore.





And there in writing I will strive





To craft some verses - maybe twenty five.





















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LX










I've thought about the story's plot





And what will name the hero,





And now you see what I have wrote:





The chapter number one is here.





I looked it through, I was severe:





The contradiction are, but, well, I fear





I won't correct them - they amuse,





Thus paying sensors their dues.





And will give up my own creation





To journalists for humilation.





Now go, go to the Niva banks





And earn me fame, and earn me thanks,





And the rest of the hommage of glory:





Noise, gossips and eternal worry.





















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I





The country where Eugeniy lived in bore





Was place of lavish, tranquil nature





Its sky would bless the one who has a secret lore





Of simple joy of its majestic stature.





The master's mansion lonely, by river stood,





Where not a wind it reach there could





In front of it as far as one's eye sees,





Spread meadows, framed with trees,





And fields of many shades of gold,





And villages; and here and there





The cattle rambled everywhere,





And orchard, though unkempt and old





Grew by the mansion. Taciturn dryads





Found in the orchard shelter for their heads.











I 





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II





The estate's mansion had been built





The way such buildings are to be erected:





Was mighty firm, with calmness filled,





And by the good ol' fashion was effected.





In every room high ceilings were,





Wall papers from Damascus were there,





And Royal portraits hang on walls,





And motley tiles were decorating stoves.





But everything has fallen now into decay,





I don't know why that happened so.





My friend didn't care `bout the house though





I should take notice by the way





For old-style fashioned rooms bored him





As bad as modern ones he'd seen.






II 





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III
He took the room in which for 4 decades





The country-side old-timer wrangled





With housekeeper, mistress to all keys and spades,





Looked at the window, flies he strangled.





The furnishing was simple: on the oak floor





Stood a bookcase, cupboard,  sofa and bureau





On them had not been smallest ink-spot left.





Onegin opened bookcase not bereft:





He found expenses-book recorded up-to-date,





And in the cupboard - fruit moonshine,





And row of jugs of apple wine,





Expired calendar for year 18 and 08





As was too busy the old man now gone





To be to other kinds of reading prone.











III





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IV





Amidst his vast domains alone,





To pass his spear time,





Eugeniy sought establishing new law,





New order of some kind.





A sage of place at back of the beyond,





He substituted the corvee's old bond





With quit-rent easy to be paid;





The serf then started thanking fate.





But in his home at once got pauted





Perceiving awful harm in what Onegin did





A thrifty neighbor. Another one just hid





An archly smile observing what Eugeniy started.





But out loud decision t'which they all agreed:





Onegin's an eccentric, dang'rous kid.











IV





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V





At first all neighbours came to visit.





But once hoofs clattered down the road





Onegin had Don stallion exquisite





Sent up to back porch and was gone.





The neighbours soon got hurt, insulted





Amicability was halted





And word-to-mouth passed a notion





(and many shared this emotion):





Onegin's full of extravagance,





He's ignoramus, un mason,





With red wine has strong liason,





And never kisses ladies' hands





And never uses `nay' or `yes'





As only `nope' and `yeah' he says.






V





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VI





That very time to near-by estate





Arrived its new land-lord.





The neighbours rated him the same





And put him on the spot.





Vladimir Lensky was the name of man,





His soul coined in that German Gettingen,





Was handsome in the age of bloom





Kant's devotee, a poet of the gloom,





He brought from Germany a lot





Fruits of enlighted education:





Dreams vague about liberalization,





L'esprit of passion, l'esprit odd,





And burlesque manner of the speech





And curly darkish hair that his shoulders reach











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VII





He hasn't been yet burned and faded





With world's hypocrisy and lies





As soul was warmed and well protected





By friends and young shy ladies' smiles;





At heart he cutely knew a thing,





As rose of hope there grew within,





Yet captured was his avid mind





By shine of world, its glitter side.





With most enlighted visions, sweetest dreams





He pacified all doubts of his soul;





He searched for porpose of the life, its goal,





And tried to hack enigma of the realms.





In doing that he racked his brains,





Suspecting miracles and saints.






VII 





   





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VIII





With all his heart Vladimir then believed





There's a mate soul with which he is to join.





Until that day the soul had to live





Without joy and crawing for the moment.





His friends, he thought, would go to prison





If thus defend his honor they had reason





And they would fight against insulting rumour





That him defames the way does cancer tumor.





He knew there were chosen guides,





Some chosen friends of the mankind.





One day, immortal, they, with brightest light





That passes far to all the sides,





Would gift the world salvation with its ray.





He knew - there had to be such day.






VIII





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IX





From early days his blood was steaming





With fury, passion and regret,





He loved the good to which was leaning





As was to glory, sweet and sad.





He traveled world, rolled like a dice,





Beneath the Schiller-Goethe skies,





And with their poetic fire





His soul flamed as did his lyre.





He was no shame, -of lucky him! -





To airy muses of creative





In songs of his was pride of native





Pure snow-white virgin dream,





And songs to village versus city





And that cute simpli-city.











IX





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X





Its humble slave, he sang to love





His song - celestially clear





Like thoughts of virgin `bout a dove





Like dreams of infant, sweet and dear,





Like sailing goddess of the gloom,





Of mysteries and sighs - the Moon.





He sang of missed ones, storm del mar,





Of something, of the murky far





And of the roses of romance;





He sang of lands of far away,





Where had in silence cried by day,





Where tears fallen; hence,





Of faded colours of the world,





Not being 18 years old.











X





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XI





In desert where Onegin only





Could value Lensky's gifts,





The latter couldn't stand the phony





Their neighbours' feasts and eats.





As in discussion covered topics





Were not the jewels of rhetorics,





But decent chat of harvest, kin,





Wine, dogs and dreams had seen.





Although it didn't provide the flame,





The passion of poetic strength,





It wasn't sharp or smart or tense,





But mostly mundane and the same





What their good wives chit-chatted `bout





Was much more worse and much more loud.











XI





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XII





As rich and handsome, Lensky was received





In every house as perspective groom;





Such was tradition in the countryside perceived





And every neighbour's daughter in the bloom





Intended was for fellow semi-Russian;





If he comes over then at once discussion





By little, like the slightest tingle,





Turns to drawbacks of being single;





And then he's called to samovar





And Dunya serves the drink,





They wisper `Girl, observe!' and wink





Then bring to her guitar,





And good my Lord! she starts to squeek:





To golden palace come for me to seek!











XII





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XIII





But Lensky didn't want, of course,





To ties of marriage to be bound,





But sought becoming bit more close





With E.Onegin, which was found.





Made friends. But stone and waves,





The coldest ice and hottest flames





Have more in common, differ less;





At first, it bored them to death





Then came to liking one another,





And every day they side by side





Joined for a horseback-ride





Until became unseparatable rather.





So people (I'm first t'confess to you)





Make friends because of nothing else to do.






XIII





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XIV





Friendship like this exists no more.





As with the prejudice we're done,





We view the rest as round zero





Regarding ourselves as `one'.





We aim at Napoleon to be;





Bipedal creatures millions we see





As simple tools fulfilling our plans.





We view as alien and funny feelings, sense.





Evgeniy was bearable compared to the rest;





Though he knew well the human kind





And as a rule held it in contempt and out of sight





But (as exemption t'every rule or test)





He did distinguish rare, rare men,





And even he respected some of them.











XIV





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XV





He listened t'Lensky with a smile,





To poet's fervent, ardent speech,





Observed his mind in search for why,





Inspired sight and cheeks of peach.





Onegin found these were new for him;





While he did try to cool his steam





With words reserved prepared in advance





But thought: I'd be so stupid taking chance





To meddle in his temporary bliss; Oh, Lord!





Without me that time will come;





Let him be odd, be dreamy and be rum,





Believing in the perfect world;





Let us forgive youth's fever and illusion





As well as youth' excitement and delusion.






XV





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XVI





Just everything could lead to verbal fights,





To meditation, revelation and upheaval:





Some treaties of some vanished tribes,





The fruits of science, the good and evil,





And superstitions ages old,





Enigmae of sepulchre deathly cold,





The fate and life in their turn





Their car'ful judgement undergone.





The poet in the ardour of discourse





En reverie read out-loud verses -





Of northern poets cited clauses.





Onegin, he, despite was used to prose,





Did heed him diligently though did not





Get words and issues he then heard






XVI.





    





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   .





    





, ,  





  ,





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    ,





  .















XVII





And often passions, hot and cool,





Preoccupied my hermits' minds.





Once freed of their restless rule,





Onegin spoke of them sometimes





With sigh of pity and regret.





Is blessed the one who passions had





But left them after all; a lot





More blessed the one who had them not,





Who cooled his love with distant journey,





His rivals cooled with irony and puns,





Who was not jealous even once





While with his friends and wife was yawning





Who did not trust the legacy he got





To cunning cards and fickle lot.






XVII.





   





  .





    ,





   





   .





,    





    ;





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   -- ,





 -- ; 





     ,





   ,





   





   .















XVIII





When all of us become allied





Around banner of judicious quiet





When flames of passion in the heart subside





We laugh at passion's willful riot,





Its gust and its belated comments





And passion's little acid torments. -





When we surrender having no concession,





Sometimes to others' tongue of passion





We love to listen, love to hear.-





It touches softly our heart.





Likewise forgotten in his hut





Old crippled man so gladly gives his ear





To stories brought him in rush





By some young men avec moustache






XVIII.





    





 ,





   





   





   





  , --





   ,





   





   ,





    .





   





   





  ,





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XIX





Likewise cannot conceal a thing





That flashy and flamboyant youth.





They'll bring out their joy and grim





And love without a permission or excuse.





Considering himself a kind of love-impared,





Onegin listen'd thoughtfully as if he cared





To deepest secrets poet told -





He loved t'confess and have his heart unfold;





His candid conscience





He bared in a way naive.





Onegin easily archived





Access to poet story, wild like oceans,





About his love so turbulent and rich -





For us familiar for long. To it now let us switch.






XIX.





   





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  .





   





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  ,





    .










XX





Oh, how he loved! He loved in such a way





Nobody does in our time.





To such a love is sentenced by to-day





Few poets fervent soul for an unmentioned crime:





Always and everywhere - dreaming, fever, fire,





And that familiar desire





And that familiar sad look.





And neither distant trip he took,





Nor years and years of separation,





Nor hours dedicated to the muse,





Nor to the fun (he tried himself t'amuse),





Nor foreign lands, nor to the studies dedication





Could him disperse, could alter poet's soul





Warmed by pure virgin fire on the whole






XX.





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    ,





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XXI.





When hardly into teens, by Olga captured,





Not knowing yet how heart may hurt,





He was a witness humble, yet enraptured,





Of games she played, of toys she got.





And in the shade of oak-wood





Together play the games they would.





And neighbours, parents, after all





Foretold them t'join under wedding toll.





Deep in the country under humble seal





Filled with innocence she grew,





And was in dear parents' view





A blooming secret lily, fair daffodil,





Concealed in high and wild field weed





Unknown to butterflies and bees it hid.











XXI.





 ,  ,





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XXII





She was the first to gift the poet





With dream of passionate delight,





The thought she caused was first t'be followed





By moan of the poet's pipe.





Farewell, oh games of days of gold!





He fell in love with groves that old,





With solitude, with silence, gloom,





And night, and stars, and Moon.





The Moon - the heaven's icon-lamp





To which we used to dedicate





Walks in the dusk and in the shade





And tears - consolation of the ramp...





But now we see in it a mere substitute





For lanterns wan: too big, but cute.











XXII.





  





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,  ,





  





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  .















XXIII.





She's always modest, always is agreeing,





And cheerful like the morning sun,





Like poet's life is open, not a thing concealing,





Nice like a kiss of love that's just begun.





Her eyes are blue like springtime skies;





The smile, and flaxen locks, again - the eyes





And movements, voice, slender waist-





These all you'll find in Olga... But don't waste





Your time, just open any of heart-braking books,





There must be her por-trait, I bet,





Once real love for such I had,





But now am tired of these standard looks;





Now let me, dear miss or mister,





Proceed with you to Olga's elder sister.











XXIII.





 ,  ,





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  .















XXIV





The sister was baptized Tatyana...





We must be first a name like that





To put on tender pages of the piano





Novel, and there's nothing to be smiling at.





What's wrong with it? It's nice, it has the sound,





But, yes, I know this name's a sort of bound





To times long gone, to things now out of fashion,





To servant rooms! We all must make confession:





There isn't much of taste been left





In ourselves, in our names (and might





Be in the poetry we write):





For us enlightenment is time-theft,





All what we learn is questionable art





Of being finical and not too smart.






XXIV





   ...





  





  





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  ?  , ;





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:   





     





(    );





   





    





, -  .















XXV





But, anyway, Tatyana was her name.





She had nom beauty of her sister,





Nor rosy freshness equally same,





T'attract of glances twister.





Wild, sad, and taciturn, not vivid,





Like forest dear timid,





She seemed a stranger in her home,





Among her family - alone.





She didn't know how to caress





Her father and her mother,





As kid she'd stand alone than with the other





Kids play in noise and in mess.





And often lonely all the day





By window silently she could there stay.






XXV





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   .















XXVI





And pensiveness, her dear friend





From cradle days she was a baby





Filled up her spare-time content





With dreams as if a fairy, maybe.





Her softest fingers never touched a needle,





On tambour plate appeared no silk riddle,





Nor pattern did as neither did design,





However vivid was or fine.





A sign of future wish to rule,





With servile dolls a kid prepares





Through games to make no stupid errors





Along the traps of which the world is full.





And to the doll retells a daughter (or a son)





The lesson's just been taught by Mom.











XXVI





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  .















XXVII





But even as a kid Tatyana never





Played with a doll or happened to discuss





With her new fashions what-so-ever





Or city news, its gossips or its fuss.





She didn't like t'engage in follies





Or other games with other kids; but horror stories





Were what did capture young girl's mind





In winter long and scary night.





When nanny gathered on wide lawn





For Olga little girls she had befriended,





To play with them Tatyana not intended





Preferring t'stay somewhere, be alone





For bored she was with pals' loud laughter





And noisy games that followed after.











XXVII





     





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XXVIII





To greet Aurora coming out,





She loved to stand on balcony before sunrise,





In time when stars seem just to be about





To fade away on getting pale high skies,





When edge of earth lights up so low





And  wind, dawn's partner, starts to blow,





When day his power starts t'embark.





In winter, when the lightless dark





Possesses hemisphere longer,





And longer dreams the lazy East





In silence calm with Moon in mist





When cold grows faster stronger,





She woke in neither morning nor in night





And had the bedside candle light.






XXVIII





   





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XXIX





Since days of childhood she was into books,





They substituted her the life itself.





She fell in love with stories of two crooks,





Rousseau and Richardson, in novels on her shelf.





Her father was good man, a decent one,





Left in the century just passed, its son,





No harm in books he ever could perceive





As never touched a single printed leaf.





He thought them be a trifle, kind of toy,





He never slightest care took





What was his daughter secret book





Laid under pillow, calm and coy.





His wife was woman kind of such





That loved old Richardson so much






XXIX





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XXX





She loved the books by Richardson





But not because them read, alas,





Nor due to fact that Grandison





She would prefer to old Lovlas.





But long ago princess Aline,





Her moscow cousin very fine,





Did talk a lot about them.





Was fiance her man back then,





But she longed for another person,





Who looked more handsome and refined,





Attracted her with more profound mind,





Who seemed to her a way more awesome:





This Grandison, who was that fine and smart,





Was quite a gambler and a sergeant in the guard.











XXX





  





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XXXI





Like his outfits, her dresses were





Well-made and followed couture haut;





But there was none of her opinion to care





And to the altar girl was brought.





To make her sorrow gradually fade,





The clever husband too her to estate





That was quite far from city in the countryside





Where she amongst some strangers had t'reside.





At first she cried, smashed china - was enraged,





And even tried to seek divorce,





But things went smoothly not bit worse,





In household routine she got engaged -





Got used. The habit is God's gift, it's His tribute:





To happiness it's equal substitute.






XXXI





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XXXII





The habit sweetened sorrow's pain





She'd thought she couldn't bear;





But soon she found out way





Placated her forever:





She by the way found out means





To rule husband unsuspecting this,





To govern him like autocrat -





And things went better after that.





She ran estate with iron hand,





Ran budget and conserved mush-rooms,





Shaved heads of servants, serves and grooms,





On Saturdays to banya went,





And beat her maids up when mad -





T'her husband not reporting that.











XXXII





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    .










XXXIII





In albums of her friends and kin





She wrote with blood as ink in pen





And called Praskovia `Pauline'





And spoke as if she sang,





She wore a corset though too tight,





And Russian `N' t'pronounce liked





The nasal way French people do;





But soon got tired of  these too;





And she forgot princess Aline





And corset, albums, poems she collected -





The touchy ones t'which  girls so well reacted,





And called Akulka maid she used to call Seline,





And had remodeled a bonnet





And quilted housecoat she hidden had.











XXXIII





,  





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    N 





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    .










XXXIV





Her husband's love was very tender -





He cared not of what she did,





He trusted her, in business did not enter,





In dressing gown came dawn to eat;





His life flowed smoothly at a stable pace;





By evenings visited his place





Of neighbours friendly flock,





Friends with whom easy was to joke,





And gossip, and sometimes complain -





Thus time was spent;





And by the way was Olga sent





T'prepare tea for those who came,





Tea followed supper, then time approached to sleep,





And at this point guests would start to leave.






XXXIV





    ,





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    .















XXXV





In their life they didn't trait and didn't amend





The customs of the gracious past,





Had pancakes rich on winter's last weekend,





And twice a year they had fast,





They loved round dancing, round swing,





Folk songs at dinner table to sing,





On day of Trinity when people at the church





Would gather service there to watch,





To listen t'it concealing yawn,





When moved the two would sure drop





Three tears, then they'd stop;





Like air needed kvas alone,





At their table it was strictly quite observed





T'have their guests according to the rank be served.






XXXV





    





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XXXVI





In such a life they both were growing old.





And finally sepulchre's doors were opened





To let the husband in the darkness and in cold =





He left the family be orphan.





Before the dinner-time he gone,





A neighbour came, he came to mourn,





And mourned man's kids, his wife as well -





A way more faithful and sincere, I should tell.





He was a simple, good landlord,





And where his ashes now are laying





The tombstone there is saying:





`Dimitry Larin, slave of Lord,





A humble sinner and a brigadier,





He rests in peace beneath right here.'






XXXVI





    .





  





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    .





     ,





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  :





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    .










XXXVII





When back to home Penates he came,





Vladimir visited the tombstone





That beared neighbour's humble name,





Sighed over ashes laid alone.





For many hours Lensky's heart remained sad





`Oh, Poor Yorick!- solemnly he said,-





He used to hold me in his arms,





As kid I played more times than ones





With medal for Ochakovo he'd got.





He wanted Olga marry me,





He wondered if he was that day to see...'





And moved with gloom he never sought





Vladimir quickly after that inscribed





A tombstone madrigal of epitaphic type.











XXXVII





  ,





  





  ,





    ;





    .





"Poor Yorick!1-   ,-





    .





     





  !





    ,





 :   ?.."





,   ,





   





  .










XXXVIII





And there as well, in tears, with a sad inscription





He honored ashes of beloved kin:





His father's memory, his mother's in addition...





Alas! How much it's sad and grim,





As momentary harvest on the furrows of the life,





A generation cometh, growth t'meet sciecle's knife,





It follows the divine intent unknown,





And then it's followed by another to be grown...





And so behaves the flippant tribe of us -





It grows, it moves, and boils, even dares





To push to grave its own forbears.





But soon enough the time will come, alas,





Grandchildren our will one lucky day





Push us all off world, push us away!






XXXVIII





    





  ,  ,





   ...





!   





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, , 





    .





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    !















XXXIX





Enjoy this fragile life, my dear friends,





Enjoy it now while you are allowed!





I realize how far its insignificance extends,





I'm not attached to it - I state it out-loud!





I closed my eyes to phantams and illusion,





But vaguest hopes sometimes do bring confusion





In my old heart that beats in chest:





Without trace I'd be upset to rest





In peace, when I'm most fair Judge await.





I live and write not for a praise;





But seems to me, I should seek ways





To have some fame in my most humble fate,





To have at least a sound to remind





About Pushkin to the mankind











XXXIX





  ,





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   .















XL





Maybe one day it will be touching someone's heart;





And stanza I had written,





Preserved by fate, would not depart





To Hades, sink in Lethe or be smitten.





Or (that's a hope too flattering to me)





An ignoramus-then-to-be





Would point at my then renowned picture





And say without mock or stricture





`That was a poet, man, I'm tellin'. '





Accept my thanks, disciple of the muses,





The one whose memory then chooses





T'preserve my fleeting verse, maybe its spelling,





Whose gracious hand would pet





The laurels on the oldman's head!











XL





  -     ;





,  ,





  ,       





,  ;





  ( !),





  





   





 : -  !





   ,





  ,





 ,   





  ,





  





  !














I

"?    !"



-- , ,  .

"   ;   

  ?" --

  .- "  .

 !    

    ?"



--  .- "  .


 ,  :

- (,   ?),

,  ,

   ,

,  

 ,  ,   ..."



I

Where are you going? Oh, these poets' follies!

- Goodbye, Onegin, time for me to go.

"I don't delay you, but where do you always

Go every evening, who attracts you so?"

-I go to th'Larins -- "Oh, now that is the news!

For goodness sake, how came you are seduced

To kill all evenings over there?"



-- I'm not at all. -- "Oh, listen, let's be fair:


Tell me the secret as all I see is such:

First (though I'd admit I might be wrong)

A simple Russian family, too prone

To comfort dear guests too much,

Jam served, and endless fruitless talk

Of rain, of flax, and newest breed of hog..."		





II



--      .


", ,  ,  ".



--     ;


   ,

  ... - " !

 , ,  .

  ?  :  .

, , ;   

    ,

  ,  ,

 ,   et cetera?..

  ". -  .- "".



--  .- " ?" --  .


     .



II



-- I do not see a trouble in these yet.


"But bore, my friend, the boredom is the trouble."



-- The fashionable monde -- it makes me fret,


I would prefer home circle, on its rubble

I may... - "Oh, that's eclogue again!

Enough, good friend, become mundane.

So, you are leaving: what a pity.

And, listen, Lensky, to that closed forbidden city

Could I proceed with you for meeting

Phyllida, the object of your thoughts and lines,

And tears and your many rhymes?..

Acquaint us".- You must be kidding. --

"No way". -- "I'd love to" -- "When?"

- "Right now, they would be happy t'see us then."		





III

.-

 ,

;  

  

 .

  :

   ,

   

   ,

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



III

Let's go. --

And both galloped down hill in race.

When they arrived, upon them were showered

All hospitality of past sometimes so hard to face

Though with tradition it's empowered:

Cer'mony's known of how to treat the guest:

On saucers -- confiture  (the better of the best),

On table then is brought and set

A jag of berry water, yet...


 		





IV

    

    .

  

  :



--   , ?  .-

-- ", ".-  


 - .- ", .

     ;

! , , !

  !

 :  ,

    ,

 :  

    .		


IV

Returning home, they took the shortest way

And all the way they were hurrying.

Let's overhear what the heroes had to say

Though, it's  not good and kind of cunning.



-- So, how was it, Onegin? You are yawing.-


- "Just habit, Lensky" -- Was it that much boring?



-- Not really, boredom made bout half of it.


It's getting dark, to move we need,

Now go, Andryushka, move away from shady

And stupid looking area around;

And, by the way, t'admit I'm bound

That Larina is simple, but she's cute old lady,

I worry if the berry water that we had

Could bother stomach, dear Lensky friend.		





V

:  ?"



--  ,  


 ,  ,

    .-

"    ?"



--  ? - "   ,


   ,  , .

     .

--   :

,   ,

   

   .

  

     .		


V

Now tell which of the two's Tatyana?"



-- The one who was so taciturn,


And like Svtlana, she was piana

When came and sat by window in her turn.-

"And you're in love with younger one, ar'n't you?

-So what? "I would have chosen then

The other of the two if I were poet as you are

In Olga's features il'ya pas

De life as in Madonna by Van Dyke:

Her face is round, it is red,

With stupid Moon  that has been set

On this most stupid skies she is alike."

Vladimir t'it replied in manner quite restrained

And in the silence rest of ride was made.		





VI

   

  

   

   .

   .

   ,

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  :

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   ,

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0   

    .		


VI

The fact that to the Larins E.Onegin paid a visit

Impressed all neighbors quite a lot

Society felt stirred, thou 'tis quite hard to please it

It felt amused and explanations sought

A guess was aired after guess --

The flow that no one thought t' suppress

Of implications, jokes that started touching soon

Tatyana Larina's prospective groom:

There were some who swore to know

The wedding's set but paused for little while

cause couldn't find the rings in style

Of duly fashion; there was even more to go:

About the date when Lensky will get married

They neither contradicted nor in options varied.






VII

    

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   ;

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   ;

 ... -,



VII

Tatyana heard with irritation

Those gossips, but at heart she thought

With unexplain'ble satisfaction

Of whether gossips grounds got.

In heart a thought was planted there to dwell;

The time had come, in love she fell.

In manner such a seed revives

When springtime Sun has opened its warm eyes.

For long the girl's imagination

Combusting was in sorrow and in bliss

Was craving her seducing pain to please,

To pacify that torturing sensation

That tore her chest and burnt her like the Sun.

She waited for specifically... someone.		





VIII

 ...  ;

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!     ,

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   ,

  

  .



VIII

And found one... Her eyes got filled with light

He is the one' -- the girl has met her prince

Alas! Now all the day as well as all the night

As well as her so hot and lon'ly dream

Are filled with him, and every cell

About him is eager t' tell

With magic power. Bored became

With how-are-yous always the same,

With caring sights of house-maids.

But in the blue,

She wants her quests be gone but few,

But even few she sees and hates

For dropping in and staying late

Not caring how much welcome was their raid.		





IX

    

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-   ,

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   ,-

   

   ,

   .



IX

Now how attentively she reads

Love novel with deep sighs,

And drinks the juice of sweetest seeds

Of its seducing lies!

With happy force of dream embodied,

With life by thought again rewarded

Were lover of known Julia Wolmar,

Malek Adel and de Lenar

And Werther, martyr full of riot,

And that unique pal Grandison,

Who t' make us sleepy very prone, --

All these for the day-dreamer quiet

United in one single person,

In one Onegin, made him awesome.		





X

 

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   ...

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    .



X.

A heroine herself she sees

For writers she adores,

Like their Delphina, Julia, Claris,

She walks in silent woods, of coarse,

With dan'g'rous book. Between the lines

She searches for (and there she finds)

Source for her dreams, her secret fire,

Fruits for the flooding heart desire.

She sighs and chooses t' overtake

Some strangers' grief and joy the way they art

And whispers in the bliss by heart

A letter to the one who came her to awake...

However that would be quite wrong

T' consider our hero kind of Grandison.		





XI

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XI

Once had his quill tuned to the serious tone,

Creative writer would begin

Depicting hero as embodiment alone

Of perfect man without sin.

He'd give to his beloved creation,

Who's always under an unjust, sad condemnation,

Sensible soul, quick mind,

Good-looking face and blue-eye sight.

And, burning with some pure passion,

This always joyous friend would rise

For something himself t' sacrifice,

And by the end there will be a confession,

And will be punished evil vice

The good will shine freed of all lies.		





XII

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XII

Now, it appears, human minds are blunted,

Morality is bore and makes us yawn,

The vice is welcome and no longer hunted,

In novels neither short nor long.

And fairy-tales of British muse

Disturb sweet dream of tender youth,

And then she started to admire

As idol taciturn Vampire,

Or Melmoth, gloomy vagabond,

Or Wandering Jew, or the Corsair,

Or that mysterious Sbogar.

Lord Byron with his lovely folly turned

Sad, joyless romanticism

Into hopeless egoism.		





XIII

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XIII

My dear friends, tell what all this is for?

Maybe, one day by heaven's will

I won't be poet any more

And other devil me would fill,

And caring not of Phoebus' threats

I'll condescend to some prosaic sets;

And novel in such out-dated manner

Would fill my joyous dusk in country manor.

I shall depict in that my piece

No secret tortures of the evil,

But simple life without upheaval

Of Russian family in peace,

Its legends, dreams of love and rest

And habits of the world of days of past  		





XIV

  

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XIV

To readers then I shall be just repeating

What father or aged uncle told,

Recount how kids secretly were meeting

By creek, or bass-trees old;

I will describe how jealousy them tore,

How two were parted, reconciled once more.

I'll break them up again before the ending

Which would be them in front of altar standing...

In this my piece I'll have to recollect

Words of delight and sad infatuation

That used t' sustain my soul's ration

Long time ago when in neglect

I knelt in front of beautiful my lover,

Words now forgotten, dust is their cover.		





XV

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XV

Tatyana! Dear sweet my girl!

I cry with you not able to stay silent;

You have already made the fatal hurl

When gave your life to fashionable tyrant.

You'll perish, dear, but before you' re lost

In dazzling hope you will exhaust,

In summoning obscure beatitude

You learn life's happiness so crude,

You drink enchanting poison of desire,

You're hunted by day-dreams,

And everywhere to you there seems

To be asylum for a rendezvous; and dire,

Beloved tempter stands beside

Always and everywhere, day and night.		





XVI

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XVI

Love's anguish can her bring no peace,

To yearn Tatyana goes to garden,

Becomes she there weak in knees,

Can step no more all of a sudden.

She straightens up, her lips then light

With instant fire very bright,

And something takes her breath away,

She hears noise, her eyes ray...

The night then comes; on patrol Moon

Makes tour across the heaven's sphere,

And nightingale in trees somewhere very near

Sings its most clear tune.

Tatyana doesn't sleep, red are her cheeks,

With nanny quietly she speaks:






XVII

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XVII

"Can't sleep, sweet nanny, it's so stuffy here!

Please, open window and come sit by me."



-- Oh, Tanya, what is wrong with you, my dear?

-- "I'm bored. Let's talk bout past, can we?"

-- bout what? Now gone those days


When easily from top of head I'd says

The stories that took place and that did not

bout evil spirits and bout girls in their plot;

Now, Tanya, for me it's all blank:

What'd known -- forgot, you see

It looks like it's black stripe in life for me!

"Tell, nanny, and with me please be frank,

About times you were young,

Were you in love with some... someone?"		





XVIII



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XVIII



-- Oh, come on, Tanya, we back then


bout love didn't hear, didn't know,

If did I'd be kicked out when

My mom-in-law would learn me knowing so. --

"But nanny, how was then your wedding done?" --

How god arranged, you see, my man Ivan

Was younger than I was

I was thirteen then. But because

For two weeks a matchmaker had been coming

To all my kin, so finally

My father gave his bless to marrying me,

And scared, shivering and crying

I had undone my braid,

And went to church, in tears and afraid.






XIX

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  .



XIX

So, I was brought to other household...

But, you don't seem to listen t' me...

"But nanny, nanny, I am miserable, cold,

I am sick... how can't you see?

To cry I'm ready, weep I will!..."



-- My child, oh dear, are you ill?


For goodness sake, save us the Lord,

Is there something you may want?

And let me sprinkle holy water,

You are in fever... "Heavens are above,

I am not ill, I am... in... love"-

Lord be with you, oh sweet my daughter! --

And nanny with a trembling hand in prayer

Made sign of cross over her head in air.		





XX

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XX

I am in love' -- she whispered once again

To the old nanny sadly. --

My sweetie-pie, you are not well,

Leave me, I am in love so badly'.

Meanwhile the moon was shining bright,

And lit with tired opaque light

Tatyana's pale and beautiful young face,

Her hair undone that spread like waves,

Her teardrops, old woman sitting by

On bench in front of heroine so sad

With a kerchief on gray her head

In quilted jacket. Blessed by sky,

All things were resting in the quiet

Beneath the moon that everything inspired.






XXI

   

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XXI

Was far away with all her heart

Tatyana looking at the moon,

And suddenly a thought came up:

"Leave me alone, go to your room,

Give me some paper, give me quill,

And move the table, soon I will

Go to the bed. I'm sorry' -- finally alone.

Moon shines. It's quiet, every sound has gone,

Tatyana starts to write a letter then,

And dear Eugeniy is in mind.

The words she writes are all of such a kind

That love of virgin lives in them.

The letter's done, the letter's ended...

Tatyana! T' whom is it intended?		





XXII

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XXII

I knew those beauties one can't reach,

Like winter cold and pure,

Those one can't please, persuade, bewitch,

Or comprehend or otherwise allure;

With their vogue conceit and decency innate

I was amazed, but after all I am to state

Away from them I fled as I had read,

To me now seems, on their forehead

Inscription carved on gates of hell

"Abandon hopes whoever enters in"

T' inspire love for them is almost sin,

Inspiring fear makes them well.

You might have seen the women of this kind

When walked along the Neva by your side.		





XXIII

  

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XXIII

Another kind among their devotees

I did observe in now gone days,

Those women cared not in selfish bliss

bout sighs of passion and of praise.

What did I learn with such surprise?

The way they manage to disguise,

With strict behavior scared those in love and shy

But then attracted back the poor rejected guy

Sometimes entrapped him by remorse,

Sometimes -- with tenderness of voice

So that then he in love would have no choice

But follow blindly voice's source.

And runs the poor enchanted man

After that nonsense sweet. Like many ran.		





XXIV

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XXIV

Why should we think Tatyana's worse?

For being beaut'fully naive

She knew no lies, or just because

Her chosen dream she wouldn't leave?

Or for the fact in love she can't pretend,

Her heart's desire able not t' amend,

Or cause she's very trusting girl

Cause her by heavens gifted soul

Is blessed with fierce imagination,

With swiftest mind and lively will,

Persistent character and real

Combusting heart. On this occasion

Won't you forgive her that she has

In heart affairs easy-minded-ness?		





XXV

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XXV

While a cocotte thinks in cold blood,

Tatyana's love not to be joked,

She is in it with all her heart

Like simple child in it she's soaked.

She doesn't say: let's push away the guy

For so we would love's value multiply

And better catching be the net;

At first his vanity we'll get

With hope, then -- have his heart to ache

With being uncertain, then to life

With jealous fire him we will revive;

Or, bored in pleasure, cunning slave will make

Attempt to run away

In every second on just any day.		





XXVI

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XXVI

Obstacles of another kind I also can foretell:

Defending honor of homeland

I'll have to make as well

Translation t' letter by Tatyana's hand.

She Russian knew quite far from mere good,

Read our magazines she almost never would,

With quite an effort she herself expressed

In mother tongue though did her best.

She wrote the letter par la langue Francaise

What can I do? But stressing it once more

A lady's love's unable now and couldn't before

Itself in Russian dare to express.

Till now proud our tongue unable was to force

Itself to fall to using postal prose.






XXVII

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XXVII

I know: it has been circulating

To make the ladies read en Russe

But Gee! How can I just be waiting

To find a lady with The good-intentioned' used?

My poets, I appeal to you

Would it be terribly untrue

To say: sweet objects t' whom you poems wrote,

Redeeming sins, in front of whom unfold

You had your hearts, so, haven't they

In speaking Russian being bad

And looking stressed and kind of sad,

Blurred it in such a darling way,

And turned a language of another nation

Into a mother tongue of choice and occasion?		





XXVIII

      

    

    

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XXVIII

And God forbids me meeting at a ball

Or have me by an entrance met

By scholar wearing shoes avec high sole

Or member of Academy in quilted hat!

Like seeing smileless lips of color of a peach

I do not like to listen to the Russian speech

Without a slight grammatical mistake.

Maybe, the newest beauties' make

Would teach us being used to grammar

For they had heard the plea

Of magazines -- this'd mean the end for me --

Thus making poetry an article of glamour;

But I... With me it doesn't have a thing to do,

To past I'll carry on allegiance due.		





XXIX

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XXIX

Not right and careless way of talk,

And not correct pronunciation

Still make my heart to thrill and rock

In its chest-locked location.

I've got not strength to feel remorse,

So, French-originated words

Remain welcome deep inside,

Like poems Bogdanovich used to write.

But that's enough. Now I've got to proceed

To letter of young beautiful my lady,

You have my word, but looks like I am ready

To call it back. And nowadays, indeed,

A fruit of quill of tender old Parny

Can't seek much interest as far as I can see.		





XXX

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XXX

Oh, troubadour of Feasts and blissful lachrymose

If still you were standing by my hand

With impolite request you I would bother,

My utmost dear precious friend:

Would you translate to some enchanting chords

In foreign language written words

By girl in passion and delight?

Where are you? T' you I'll  pass my right

For my respect to you is high...

But he, amidst those sad gray cliffs

Must've forgotten feeling an approval leaves

Alone, he walks beneath the Finnish sky,

His soul hears me no longer

My grief meanwhile is growing stronger		





XXXI

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XXXI

And treasured as a sacred one, Tatyana's letter

Lays right in front of me on table

With reading it I'm able not myself to cater

Rereading it to satisfy me is unable.

Who taught her all this tenderness,

With words this nicest carelessness,

Who showed her how to look so pleasing

To speak her heart this way so teasing,

So fascinating and with such a drive?

I can't get this. But you may find below

And incomplete translation, quality its -- low

Like copy's -- to a picture full of life,

Or school production of Free Shooter'

Deserving label couldn't be cuter'		





   


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Tatyana's letter to Onegin


I write to you -- what can be more than this?

What else to say could I attempt?

And now, I know, you may if you would please,

To punish me with your contempt.

But you cannot abandon me at ease

If slightest pity has been left

T' my fate of happiness bereft.

T' not say a word at first I wanted

Believe: about my shameful fall

You would've never learnt at all

If I still was by hope haunted

To have you come just once a week,

To see you here, listen how you speak

A couple words to you to tweet,

About one thing to think and then

All night and day to think bout it again

Until next time when we will meet.

But people say you're not that out-going,

And here, in the countryside, you're bored

But we... we have no glitter brightly showing

And simply heartfelt welcome can afford.


Why did you come to our part of land?

I would've never met you nor I would've learnt

Such bitter torment in this settlement

By Lord forgotten in the back of the beyond.

And having pacified (who knows?) the Fronde,

Unrest of verdant soul as the time flies by,

I would've found a friend for heart, a mate,

A faithful wife I could've made,

A virtuous mother could be I.


Somebody else!.. I couldn't give my heart

To anyone except you on the Earth

The Supreme Judge decided way things art...

Tis' heaven's will that I am yours.

And all my life's been a tribute, a guarantee,

That we're to meet and this we couldn't deny;

I know you're sent by Lord to me,

You are my guardian till time for me to die...

You came to me in dreams deep in the night,

I liked you though you were yet unseen,

You made me pine with stare your so clean,

Your voice sounded inside

So long before...no! that was not a dream!

When you came in, I recognized you right away

I froze, I bursted into flame,

I said t' myself: now that is him!

Isn't it true? I've heard your voice for sure:

Weren't you the one who spoke to me in quiet

When I was helping poor

Or with a prayer tried to cure

My soul's anguish, my heart's riot?

And now, this moment in addition

Is it not you, sweet apparition,

Who's in translucent dark flashed by

And nestled calmly at the head of bed,

Who has with love and consolation said

These words of hope to ears my?

Are you my guardian angel or you are

A treacherous seducer who is me to char:

Please do resolve my doubts.

Maybe all this is pure idle talk in vain,

A verdant soul's illusions with no grounds

And something else for me is foreordain'd...

But, anyway, so let it be! My fate

From now on I to you entrust,

In front of you I into tears bust,

For your protection now I supplicate...

Imagine this: I'm here all alone,

There's no one me to understand

My mind is so much enervated and

In silence t' perish I am thrown.

I wait for you: hopes that my heart has borne

With single glance come and revive

Or cut my heavy dreams with knife

Of well-deserved reproach and scorn.


I close. Afraid to read it through...

I freeze in shame and fright...

And be my guarantee your honor t' which I do

Entrust so bravely myself this night...		





XXXII.

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XXXII

Tatyana moans and Tatyana sighs;

Is shaking letter in her hand;

On fevered tongue her lies and dries

A rosy sealing band.

Her head to shoulder has stooped down

Has fallen her so light night-gown

Off charming shoulder... And has died away

Already shine of the Moon's ray.

And over there valley lightens bright

Through mist. And there has silvered stream.

Down there the village folk wakes up from dream

To shepherd's pipe proclaiming end of night.

It's morning: everyone has risen long ago,

But my Tatyana doesn't care though.		





XXXIII.

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XXXIII

She hasn't noticed dawn to ramp,

She's sitting and her head's held low,

She hasn't yet decided t' stamp

The letter with engraved her seal though.

But quietly proceeding through the doorway

Grey-headed old Phillipyevna on tray

Brings to Tatyana her tea-cup:

Wake up, my child, it's time t' get up:

You're up and ready, what a day!

Oh, early birdie! But last night

I was afraid if you're all-right!

But, Lord all mighty, you're OK!

Your nightly yearn has gone without a trace

As poppy-flower fresh and nice's your face."






XXXIV.

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XXXIV

- Oh nanny! May I ask you t'undertake a mission?

 "Go on, sweetheart, just tell what I can do"-

You shouldn't think...indeed...  suspicion...

But see... oh, do not turn me down, not you. -

"My friend, I swear by the heavens high."-

So would you send your grandson on the sly

With this short letter to O... you know the one,

The neighbor. Tell him he to none

Would say a word however is inquired,

Would name me not...-

"Sweetheart, to whom, to what?

I have become slow-witted now and tired.

There're tons of neighbors all around; I am

Unable to remember all of them 		





XXXV.

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XXXV

-- But, nanny, nanny, can't you guess? --

"But, dear friend, I'm growing old,

I'm old: my mind is in regress,

When I was sharp I got what told

Me lord or lady right away"

-- Oh, nanny, why do you this say?

I have no need your mind be better

You see, the matter's bout this letter

To Onegin -- "Now I see, the mail.

Do not be angry, sweetie-pie,

You know, how muddle-headed I...

But why do you again turn pale?"--

Oh, nothing, nanny, nothing's about it.

Now will you send your male grandkid with it?		





XXXVI.

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XXXVI

A day passed by, and there was no response.

Another day: still there is none.

Tatiana's waiting, feigning  nonchalance,

Though pale as shade: when will it come?

Then Olga's idolater arrived her to attend.

"Please tell us where is now your friend?" --

Asked him landlady to his face.

"It seems he has forgotten our place".

Tatyana, reddened, shook and shivered.  --

He promised me to come to you today, -

But post must have delayed him on the way. --

Such answer Lensky to old lady then delivered -- Tatyana dropped her eyes and faded

As if she was maliciously upbraided		





XXXVII.

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XXXVII

Was growing dark. The evening samovar on table

Was hissing, warming the Chinese teapot.

And over it were curling rings unstable

Of light pellucid stream that hot.

And being poured by Olga's hand

To cups as if it was a dark pearl strand

The fragrant tea was flowing,

And cream the boy was serving;

Tatyana then in front of window stood

On the cool glass she breathed,

And, as in thoughts she lost and sheathed,

With her fine finger write she would

On misted glass the E' and O' --

The letters that she cherished so.		





XXXVIII

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XXXVIII

And all this time her soul was aching,

Were full of tears her eyes and heart.

Hoof thud! --  her heart was breaking,

It's coming up! -- right to the yard!

Evgeniy! "Ah!" -- as shadow swift all of a sudden,

Tatyana jumps to other hall and runs to garden

Through the porch. She flies, flies,

Not daring to look back or to disguise.

In just a moment dashed across

The flower beds,  the bridges and the lawn,

Took alley to the lake, to copse she then was gone

Broke through the lilac with tremendous force,

And, smashing flowers, flew to creek

Then, gasping, onto bench she sneaked.






XXXIX

...

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(,   ,

   

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XXXIX

Fell down...

                       "He's here! Here is Eugeniy!

Oh, Lord Almighty, what he could've thought!"

Her heart, of tortures straining,

Preserves dark dream of hope not yet distraught;

She's shivering, and burning in a stir,

And waiting: is he coming? Nothing can she hear.

As maids in garden berries then collected,

In doing that they were directed

To sing in chorus out-loud

(The order based on an assumption

That silent lips begin consumption

Their masters' berries non-allowed,

Unless these lips are forced to sing:

Idea rustically keen!) 		





 

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The Song of the Girls

Girls, you, girls n' beauties,

Sweetie-hearts n' friends,

Get to play, you, girls so dear,

And get going, girls so nice!

And begin to sing a ditty

Secret ditty of the girls,

And entice a fellow

For our round dance.

When the fellow is attracted,

Seen from far away,

We should run away, sweet-hearts,

Throwing at him cherries

Cherries and raspberries,

And as well red currents

Do not come eavesdropping

On our secret ditties,

Do not come to spy on

Our girlish games.		





XL

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XL

And as they sang, Tatyana heeded

Their voice resonant with a slight,

The only thing impatiently she needed

Is her heart's trembling to subside,

To stifle fire of her lips,

And thrill in bosom and in hips,

Flame of her lips fades not although

Instead, it grows and raises over all...

Likewise a poor butterfly flops

With rainbow-colored wing when caught

By playful kid not many years old,

Likewise a hare palpitates in winter crops

When sees from pretty far away

A gunman hiding in the hay.		





XLI

   

    ;

,   

 ,   ,

 , 

   ,

,   ,

 .

   

,  ,

    ;

    

   :

  -.



XLI

And finally she sighed

Stood up from bench and paced,

Then turned to alley, there -- right

In front of her -- she faced

Eugeniy, he was fire-eyed,

He stood like shadow spreading fright.

She stopped as if she was

Scorched from inside, and then she froze.

Describing aftermath, my friends,

To this encounter at alley

I just cannot go on today:

For this I have no strength.

I've got to take a break, to stroll:

I shall continue sometime after all.







Last-modified: Thu, 30 Aug 2001 09:35:47 GMT

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