XXXIV
Now greetings come, congratulations;
Tatiana thanks them all.
Then, when the turn of Eugene
4 arrived, the maiden's languid air,
her discomposure, lassitude,
engendered pity in his soul:
he bowed to her in silence,
8 but somehow the look of his eyes
was wondrous tender. Whether
because he verily was touched
or he, coquetting, jested,
12 whether unwillfully or by free will,
but tenderness this look expressed:
it revived Tanya's heart.
The chairs, as they are pushed back, clatter;
the crowd presses into the drawing room:
thus bees out of the luscious hive
4 fly meadward in a noisy swarm.
Pleased with the festive dinner,
neighbor in front of neighbor wheezes;
the ladies by the hearth have settled;
8 the maidens whisper in a corner;
the green-baized tables are unfolded:
to mettlesome cardplayers call
boston and omber of the old,
12 and whist, up to the present famous:
monotonous family,
all sons of avid boredom.
Eight rubbers have already played
whist's heroes; eight times they
have changed their seats —
4 and tea is brought. I like defining
the hour by dinner, tea,
and supper. In the country
we know the time without great fuss:
8 the stomach is our accurate Bréguet;
and, apropos, I'll parenthetically note
that in my strophes I discourse
as frequently on feasts, on various
12 dishes and corks,
as you, divine Homer, you, idol
of thirty centuries!
But tea is brought: scarce have the damsels
demurely of their saucers taken hold
when from behind the door of the long hall
4 bassoon and flute sound suddenly.
Elated by the thunder of the music,
leaving his cup of tea with rum, the Paris
of the surrounding townlets, Petushkóv,
8 goes up to Olga; Lenski, to Tatiana;
Miss Harlikov, a marriageable maid
of overripe years, is secured
by my Tambovan poet;
12 Buyánov has whirled off Dame Pustyakóv;
and all have spilled into the hall,
and in full glory shines the ball.
At the beginning of my novel
(see the first fascicle)
I wanted in Albano's manner
4 a Petersburg ball to describe;
but, by an empty reverie diverted,
I got engrossed in recollecting
the little feet of ladies known to me.
8 Upon your narrow tracks, O little feet,
enough roving astray!
With the betrayal of my youth
'tis time I grew more sensible,
12 improved in doings and in diction,
and this fifth fascicle
cleansed from digressions.
Monotonous and mad
like young life's whirl, the noisy
whirl of the waltz revolves,
4 pair after pair flicks by.
Nearing the minute of revenge,
Onegin, chuckling secretly,
goes up to Olga, rapidly with her
8 spins near the guests,
then seats her on a chair,
proceeds to talk of this and that;
a minute or two having lapsed, he then
12 again with her the waltz continues;
all are amazed. Lenski himself
does not believe his proper eyes.
There the mazurka sounds. Time was,
when the mazurka's thunder dinned,
in a huge ballroom everything vibrated,
4 the parquetry cracked under heel,
the window frames shook, rattled;
now 'tis not thus: we, too, like ladies,
glide o'er the lacquered boards.
8 But in [small] towns
and country places, the mazurka
has still retained its pristine charms:
saltos, heel-play, mustachios
12 remain the same; them has not altered
highhanded fashion,
our tyrant, sickness of the latest Russians.
Buyánov, my mettlesome cousin,
toward our hero leads Tatiana
with Olga; deft
4 Onegin goes with Olga.
He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,
and, bending, whispers tenderly to her
some common madrigal, and squeezes
8 her hand — and brighter glows
on her conceited face
the rosy flush. My Lenski
has seen it all; flares up, beside himself;
12 in jealous indignation,
the poet waits for the end of the mazurka
and invites her for the cotillion.
But no, she cannot. Cannot? But what is it?
Why, Olga has given her word
already to Onegin. Ah, good God, good God!
4 What does he hear? She could...
How is it possible? Scarce out of swaddling clothes —
and a coquette, a giddy child!
Already she is versed in guile,
8 has learned already to betray!
Lenski has not the strength to bear the blow;
cursing the tricks of women,
he leaves, calls for a horse,
12 and gallops off. A brace of pistols,
two bullets — nothing more —
shall in a trice decide his fate.
Là, sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,
Nasce una gente a cui '1 morir non dole.
Petr.
On noticing that Vladimir had vanished,
Onegin, by ennui pursued again,
by Olga's side sank into meditation,
4 pleased with his vengeance.
After him Ólinka yawned too,
sought Lenski with her eyes,
and the endless cotillion
8 irked her like an oppressive dream.
But it has ended. They go in to supper.
The beds are made. Guests are assigned
night lodgings — from the entrance hall
12 even to the maids' quarters. Restful sleep
by all is needed. My Onegin
alone has driven home to sleep.
All has grown quiet. In the drawing room
the heavy Pustyakov
snores with his heavy better half.
4 Gvozdin, Buyanov, Petushkov,
and Flyanov (who is not quite well)
have bedded in the dining room on chairs,
with, on the floor, Monsieur Triquet
8 in underwaistcoat and old nightcap.
All the young ladies, in Tatiana's
and Olga's rooms, are wrapped in sleep.
Alone, sadly by Dian's beam
12 illumined at the window, poor Tatiana
is not asleep
and gazes out on the dark field.
With his unlooked-for apparition,
the momentary softness of his eyes,
and odd conduct with Olga,
4 to the depth of her soul
she's penetrated. She is quite unable
to understand him. Jealous
anguish perturbs her,
8 as if a cold hand pressed
her heart; as if beneath her an abyss
yawned black and dinned....
“I shall perish,” says Tanya,
12 “but perishing from him is sweet.
I murmur not: why murmur?
He cannot give me happiness.”
Forward, forward, my story!
A new persona claims us.
Five versts from Krasnogórie,
4 Lenski's estate, there lives
and thrives up to the present time
in philosophical reclusion
Zarétski, formerly a brawler,
8 the hetman of a gaming gang,
chieftain of rakehells, pothouse tribune,
but now a kind and simple
bachelor paterfamilias,
12 a steadfast friend, a peaceable landowner,
and even an honorable man:
thus does our age correct itself!
Time was, the
monde's obsequious voice
used to extol his wicked pluck:
he, it is true, could from a pistol
4 at twelve yards hit an ace,
and, furthermore, in battle too
once, in real rapture, he distinguished
himself by toppling from his Kalmuk steed
8 boldly into the mud,
swine drunk, and to the French
fell prisoner (prized hostage!) —
a modern Regulus, the god of honor,
12 ready to yield anew to bonds
so as to drain on credit at Véry's37
two or three bottles every morning.
