Eugene Onegin Part 15

21.

The love you get from tender beauties Is surer than from kin or friend: However turbulent its duties, Your rights are honoured in the end.

That's so. But then there's whirling fashion And nature's wayward disposition, And what the monde thinks is enough...

And our sweet s.e.x is light as fluff.

And then, it is to be expected That virtuous wives will all be true To husbandly opinions, too; Your faithful mistress has defected Before you know it: love's a joke That Satan plays on gentlefolk.

22.

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in?

Who can there be who won't betray?

Who'll judge a deed or disputation Obligingly by what we say?

Who'll not bestrew our path with slander?

Who'll cosset us with care and candour?

Who'll look benignly on our vice?

Who'll never bore us with his sighs?

Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker, You waste your energy in vain: Love your own self, be your own man, My worthy, venerable reader!

A worthwhile object: surely who Could be more lovable than you?

23.

What followed on from the encounter?

Alas, it is not hard to guess!

Love's pangs continued to torment her, Continued to inflict distress Upon a young soul craving sadness; No, in her pa.s.sion near to madness Still more does poor Tatiana burn; Sleep shuns her bed, will not return; Health, bloom of life that sweetly flowers, Smile, virginal repose and peace a All, like an empty echo cease.

On Tanya's youth a darkness lowers; Thus does the shadow of a storm Enshroud a day that's scarcely born.

24.

Alas, Tatiana's fading, waning; Grows pale, is wasting, does not speak!

There is no joy for her remaining, Nothing to make her soul less bleak.

Shaking their heads, the neighbours gather, Whispering gravely to each other: 'It's high time that we married her!'

But that will do. I much prefer To cheer up the imagination With pictures of a happy love, And from this sad one take my leave.

I cannot help, though, my compa.s.sion; Forgive: I love Tatiana so, It's hard for me to let her go.

25.

From hour to hour with still more rapture For Olga, young and beautiful, Vladimir to delightful capture Surrendered now with all his soul.

He's constantly beside her, whether In darkness in their room together Or in the garden, arm in arm, Wandering in the morning calm.

What then? By love intoxicated, Bewildered by a tender shame, He only dares from time to time, By Olga's smile invigorated, To play with an unravelled tress Or kiss the border of her dress.

26.

He sometimes takes and reads out for her An edifying novel on The state of nature, which the author Knows better than Chateaubriand,2 Meanwhile omitting certain sections (Inanities or pure confections Too dangerous for Olga's age), And blushes as he turns the page.

Sometimes, all company forsaking, They settle to a game of chess And, leaning on a table, guess What move the other may be making, And Lensky with a dreamy look Allows his p.a.w.n to take his rook.

27.

At home or homewards, at all stages He's with his Olga occupied, Upon an alb.u.m's fleeting pages He sketches pictures for his bride a Of rural prospects, small and simple, A gravestone, Aphrodite's temple, Or draws a dove atop a lyre With pen and wash she might admire; On pages meant for recollections, Beneath the names already signed, He leaves a tender verse behind, Mute monument of his reflections, Of sudden thought the drawn-out trace, Still, after many years, in place.

28.

Of course, you've more than once encountered The alb.u.m of a country miss, Where all her girlfriends will have entered Their messages in every s.p.a.ce.

With orthographic imprecision, Unmetered verses, by tradition, In shortened or in lengthened line Betoken friendship's loyal sign.

Upon the first leaf you'll be meeting Qu'ecrirez-vous sur ces tablettes?

And signed with toute a vous, Annette;3 And on the last you will be reading: Whoever loves you more than I, Let them append here how and why.

29.

You'll find here, doubtless, on some pages Two hearts, a torch and tiny flowers; You're bound to read here all the pledges Of love until the final hours; Some army poet here has scribbled A verselet, villainously ribald.

In such an alb.u.m, I confess, I, too, am glad to pen a verse, Secure in my presupposition That any zealous rot of mine Will merit a regard benign, And not the solemn inquisition Of those, who, with their wicked smile, Appraise my nonsense by its style.

30.

But you, O miscellaneous volumes From every devil's library, Magnificent, resplendent alb.u.ms, A voguish rhymester's calvary, In which Tolstoy4 with nimble touches Has plied his wonder-working brushes Or Baratynsky lent his lyre, May G.o.d consume you with his fire!

Whenever, holding her in-quarto, Some brilliant lady comes to me, I shake with animosity, An epigram I'd fain resort to, Already stirring in my soul, But all they want's a madrigal!5

31.

It is not madrigals that Lensky In Olga's alb.u.m writes to please, His pen breathes love, his tender entry Refrains from frosty pleasantries; Olga alone holds his attention, All that concerns her, every mention: And, river-like, his elegies Flow forth aglow with verities.6 Just so indeed, with like elation, Your heart, Yazykov,7 finds the room To sing of someone, G.o.d knows whom, And when the precious compilation Of all your elegies appears, They'll show how fate has shaped your years.

32.

But hush! I hear an awesome critic8 Cry: 'Drop your wreath of elegies, So miserable and pathetic,'

And to us rhymesters bellow: 'Cease Your whimpering and endless croaking About those times you keep invoking, Regretting what is past, what's gone: Enough! Sing us another song!'

'You're right and you will surely steer us To trumpet, dagger and the mask, And with each one set us the task Of resurrecting dead ideas.