Читать «Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина» онлайн - страница 517

I

   That year autumnal weather    was a long time abroad;    nature kept waiting and waiting for winter.   Snow only fell in January,    on the night of the second. Waking early,    Tatiana from the window saw    at morn the whitened yard,   flower beds, roofs, and fence;    delicate patterns on the panes;    the trees in winter silver,    gay magpies outside,  and the hills softly overspread    with winter's brilliant carpeting.    All's bright, all's white around.

II

   Winter! The peasant, celebrating,    in a flat sledge inaugurates the track;    his naggy, having sensed the snow,   shambles at something like a trot.    Plowing up fluffy furrows,    a bold kibitka flies:    the driver sits upon his box   in sheepskin coat, red-sashed.    Here runs about a household lad,    upon a hand sled having seated “blackie,”    having transformed himself into the steed;  the scamp already has frozen a finger.    He finds it both painful and funny — while    his mother, from the window, threatens him...

III

   But, maybe, pictures of this kind    will not attract you;    all this is lowly nature;   there is not much refinement here.    Warmed by the god of inspiration,    another poet in luxurious language    for us has painted the first snow   and all the shades of winter's delectations.    He'll captivate you, I am sure of it,    when he depicts in flaming verses    secret promenades in sleigh;  but I have no intention of contending    either with him at present or with you,    singer of the young Finnish Maid!

IV

   Tatiana (being Russian    at heart, herself not knowing why)    loved, in all its cold beauty,   a Russian winter:    rime in the sun upon a frosty day,    and sleighs, and, at late dawn,    the radiance of the rosy snows,   and gloam of Twelfthtide eves.    Those evenings in the ancient fashion    were celebrated in their house:    the servant girls from the whole stead  told their young ladies' fortunes    and every year made prophecies to them    of military husbands and the march.

V

   Tatiana credited the lore    of plain-folk ancientry,    dreams, cartomancy,   prognostications by the moon.    Portents disturbed her:    mysteriously all objects    foretold her something,   presentiments constrained her breast.    The mannered tomcat sitting on the stove,    purring, would wash his muzzlet with his paw:    to her 'twas an indubitable sign  that guests were coming. Seeing all at once    the young two-horned moon's visage    in the sky on her left,

VI

   she trembled and grew pale.    Or when a falling star    along the dark sky flew   and dissipated, then    in agitation Tanya hastened    to whisper, while the star still rolled,    her heart's desire to it.   When anywhere she happened    a black monk to encounter,    or a swift hare amid the fields    would run across her path,  so scared she knew not what to undertake,    full of grievous forebodings,    already she expected some mishap.

VII

   Yet — in her very terror    she found a secret charm:    thus has created us   nature, inclined to contradictions.    Yuletide is here. Now that is joy!    Volatile youth divines —    who nought has to regret,   in front of whom the faraway of life    extends luminous, boundless;    old age divines, through spectacles,    at its sepulchral slab,  all having irrecoverably lost;    nor does it matter: hope to them    lies with its childish lisp.

VIII

   Tatiana with a curious gaze    looks at the submerged wax:    with its wondrously cast design,   to her a wondrous something it proclaims.    From a dish full of water    rings come out in succession;    and when her ring turned up,   'twas to a ditty of the ancient days:    “There all the countrymen are rich;    they heap up silver by the spadeful!    To those we sing to will come Good  and Glory!” But portends bereavements    the pitiful tune of this dit:    to maidens' hearts sweeter is “Kit.”

IX

   The night is frosty; the whole sky is clear;    the splendid choir of heavenly luminaries    so gently, so unisonally flows....   Tatiana, in her low-cut frock,    into the wide courtyard comes out;    she trains a mirror on the moon;    but in the dark glass only   the sad moon trembles....    Hark!... the snow creaks... a passer-by; the maiden    flits up to him on tiptoe —    and her little voice sounds  more tender than a reed pipe's strain:    “What is your name?” He looks,    and answers: “Agafón.”

X

   On the nurse's advice, Tatiana,    planning that night to conjure,    has ordered in the bathhouse secretly   a table to be laid for two.    But suddenly Tatiana is afraid....    And I — at the thought of Svetlana —    I am afraid; so let it be...   we're not to conjure with Tatiana.    Tatiana has removed    her silken sash, undressed,    and gone to bed. Lel hovers over her,  while under her pillow of down    there lies a maiden's looking glass.    Now all is hushed. Tatiana sleeps.

XI

   And dreams a wondrous dream Tatiana.    She dreams that she    over a snowy lawn is walking,   surrounded by sad gloom.    In front of her, between the snowdrifts,    dins, swirls its wave    a churning, dark, and hoary torrent,   by the winter not chained; two thin poles, glued    together by a piece of ice    (a shaky, perilous small bridge),    are laid across the torrent; and before  the dinning deep,    full of perplexity,    she stopped.

XII

   As at a vexing separation,    Tatiana murmurs at the brook;    sees nobody who from the other side   might offer her a hand.    But suddenly a snowdrift stirred,    and who appeared from under it?    A large bear with a ruffled coat;   Tatiana uttered “Ach!” and he went roaring    and a paw with sharp claws    stretched out to her. Nerving herself,    she leaned on it with trembling hand  and worked her way with apprehensive steps    across the brook; walked on —    and what then? The bear followed her.

XIII

   She, to look back not daring,    accelerates her hasty step;    but from the shaggy footman   can in no way escape;    grunting, the odious bear keeps lumbering on.    Before them is a wood; the pines    are stirless in their frowning beauty;   all their boughs are weighed down    by snow flocks; through the summits    of aspens, birches, lindens bare    the beam of the night luminaries shines;  there is no path; shrubs, precipices, all    are drifted over by the blizzard,    plunged deep in snow.

XIV

   Into the forest goes Tatiana; the bear follows;    up to her knee comes yielding snow;    now by the neck a long branch suddenly   catches her, or by force it tears    out of her ears their golden pendants;    now in the crumbly snow sticks fast    a small wet shoe come off her charming foot;   now she lets fall her handkerchief —    she has no time to pick it up,    is frightened, hears the bear behind her,    and even is too shy to raise  with tremulous hand the hem of her dress;    she runs; he keeps behind her;    and then she has no force to run.

XV

   Into the snow she's fallen; the bear deftly    snatches her up and carries her;    she is insensibly submissive;   stirs not, breathes not;    he rushes her along a forest road;    sudden, 'mongst trees, there is a humble hut;    dense wildwood all around; from every side   'tis drifted over with desolate snow,    and brightly glows a window;    and in the hut are cries and noise;    the bear quoth: “Here's my gossip,  do warm yourself a little in his home!”    and straight he goes into the hallway    and on the threshold lays her down.

XVI

   Tatiana comes to, looks:    no bear; she's in a hallway;    behind the door there's shouting and the jingle   of glasses as at some big funeral.    Perceiving not a drop of sense in this,    she furtively looks through the chink    —  and what then? She sees... at a table   monsters are seated in a circle:    one horned and dog-faced;    another with a rooster's head;    here is a witch with a goat's beard;  here, prim and proud, a skeleton;    yonder, a dwarf with a small tail; and there,    something half crane, half cat.

XVII

   More frightful still, and still more wondrous:    there is a crab astride a spider;    there on a goose's neck   twirls a red-calpacked skull;    there a windmill the squat-jig dances    and rasps and waves its vanes.    Barks, laughter, singing, whistling, claps,   the parle of man, the stamp of steed!    But what were the thoughts of Tatiana    when 'mongst the guests she recognized    him who was dear to her and awesome —  the hero of our novel!    Onegin at the table sits    and through the door stealthily gazes.

XVIII

   He gives the signal — and all bustle;    he drinks — all drink and all cry out;    he laughs — all burst out laughing;   knits his brows — all are silent;    he is the master there, 'tis plain;    and Tanya is already not so awestruck,    and being curious now she opens   the door a little....    Sudden the wind blows, putting out    the light of the nocturnal flambeaux;    the gang of goblins flinches;  Onegin, his eyes flashing,    making a clatter rises from the table;    all rise; he marches to the door.

XIX

   And fear assails her; hastily    Tatiana strains to flee:    not possible; impatiently   tossing about, she wants to scream —    cannot; Eugene has pushed the door,    and to the gaze of the infernal specters    the girl appears; ferocious laughter   wildly resounds; the eyes of all,    hooves, curved proboscises,    tufted tails, tusks,    mustaches, bloody tongues,  horns, and fingers of bone —    all point as one at her,    and everybody cries: “Mine! Mine!”

XX

   “Mine!” Eugene fiercely said,    and in a trice the whole gang vanished;    the youthful maid remained with him   twain in the frosty dark;    Onegin gently draws Tatiana    into a corner and deposits her    upon a shaky bench   and lets his head sink on her shoulder;    all of a sudden Olga enters,    followed by Lenski; light gleams forth;    Onegin brings back his raised arm  and wildly his eyes roam,    and he berates the unbidden guests;    Tatiana lies barely alive.

XXI

   The argument grows louder, louder: Eugene    suddenly snatches a long knife, and Lenski    forthwith is felled; the shadows awesomely   have thickened; an excruciating cry    resounds... the cabin lurches...    and Tanya wakes in terror....    She looks — 'tis light already in the room;   dawn's crimson ray    plays in the window through the frozen pane;    the door opens. Olga flits in to her    rosier than Northern Aurora  and lighter than a swallow. “Well,”    she says, “do tell me,    whom did you see in dream?”

XXII

   But she, not noticing her sister,    lies with a book in bed,    page after page   keeps turning over, and says nothing.    Although that book displayed    neither the sweet inventions of a poet,    nor sapient truths, nor pictures,   yet neither Virgil, nor Racine, nor Scott, nor Byron,    nor Seneca, nor even    the Magazine of Ladies' Fashions    ever engrossed anybody so much:  it was, friends, Martin Zadeck,    head of Chaldean sages,    divinistre, interpreter of dreams.

XXIII

   This profound work    a roving trader had one day    peddled into their solitude,   and for Tatiana finally    with a broken set of Malvina    had ceded for three rubles fifty,    moreover taking for them a collection   of vulgar fables,    a grammar,    two “Petriads,” plus Marmontel, tome three.    Later with Tanya Martin Zadeck  became a favorite. He gives her joyance    in all her sorrows and beside her,    never absenting himself, sleeps.

XXIV

   The dream disturbs her.    Not knowing what to make of it,    the import of the dread chimera   Tatiana wishes to discover.    Tatiana finds in the brief index,    in alphabetic order,    the words: bear, blizzard, bridge,   dark, fir, fir forest, hedgehog, raven, storm,    and so forth. Martin Zadeck    will not resolve her doubts,    but the ominous dream portends  to her a lot of sad adventures.    For several days thereafter she    kept worrying about it.

XXV

   But lo, with crimson hand    Aurora from the morning dales    leads forth, with the sun, after her   the merry name-day festival.    Since morn Dame Larin's house is full    of guests; in entire families    the neighbors have converged, in sledded coaches,   kibitkas, britskas, sleighs.    There's in the vestibule jostling, commotion;    there's in the drawing room the meeting of new people,    the bark of pugs, girls' smacking kisses,  noise, laughter, a crush at the threshold,    the bows, the scraping of the guests,    wet nurses' shouts, and children's cry.

XXVI

   With his well-nourished spouse    there came fat Pustyakóv;    Gvozdín, an admirable landlord,   owner of destitute muzhiks;    a gray-haired couple, the Skotínins,    with children of all ages, counting    from thirty years to two;   the district fopling, Petushkóv;    Buyánov, my first cousin,    covered with fluff, in a peaked cap    (as he, of course, is known to you);  and the retired counselor Flyánov,    a heavy scandalmonger, an old rogue,    glutton, bribetaker, and buffoon.

XXVII

   With the family of Panfíl Harlikóv    there also came Monsieur Triquét,    a wit, late from Tambóv,   bespectacled and russet-wigged.    As a true Frenchman, in his pocket    Triquet has brought a stanza for Tatiana    fitting an air to children known:   “Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.”    Among an almanac's decrepit songs    this stanza had been printed;    Triquet — resourceful poet —  out of the dust brought it to light    and boldly in the place of “belle Niná”    put “belle Tatianá.”

XXVIII

   And now from the near borough,    the idol of ripe misses,    the joy of district mothers,   a Company Commander has arrived;    he enters.... Ah, news — and what news!    there will be regimental music:    “the Colonel's sending it himself.”   What fun! There is to be a ball!    The young things skip beforehand.    But dinner's served. In pairs,    they go to table, arm in arm.  The misses cluster near Tatiana,    the men are opposite; and the crowd buzzes    as all, crossing themselves, sit down to table.

XXIX

   Talks for a moment have subsided;    mouths chew. On all sides plates    and covers clatter, and the jingle   of rummers sounds.    But soon the guests raise by degrees    a general hullabaloo.    None listens; they shout, laugh,   dispute, and squeal. All of a sudden —    the door leaves are flung open: Lenski    comes in, and with him [comes] Onegin. “Oh, my Maker!”    cries out the lady of the house. “At last!”  The guests make room, each moves aside    covers, chairs quick;    they call, they seat the pair of friends

XXX

   —  seat them directly facing Tanya,    and paler than the morning moon,    and more tremulous than the hunted doe,   her darkening eyes    she does not raise. In her stormily pulses    a passionate glow; she suffocates, feels faint;    the two friends' greetings   she hears not; the tears from her eyes    are on the point of trickling; the poor thing    is on the point of swooning;    but will and reason's power  prevailed. A word or two    she uttered through her teeth in a low voice    and managed to remain at table.

XXXI

   Tragiconervous scenes,    the fainting fits of maidens, tears,    long since Eugene could not abide:   enough of them he had endured.    Finding himself at a huge feast,    the odd chap was already cross. But noting    the languid maid's tremulous impulse,   out of vexation lowering his gaze,    he went into a huff and, fuming,    swore he would madden Lenski,    and thoroughly, in fact, avenge himself.  Now, in advance exulting,    he inwardly began to sketch    caricatures of all the guests.

XXXII

   Of course, not only Eugene might have seen    Tanya's confusion; but the target    of looks and comments at the time   was a rich pie    (unfortunately, oversalted);    and here, in bottle sealed with pitch,    between the meat course and the blancmangér,   Tsimlyanski wine is brought already,    followed by an array of narrow, long    wineglasses, similar to your waist,    Zizí, crystal of my soul, object  of my innocent verse,    love's luring vial, you, of whom    drunken I used to be!

XXXIII

   Ridding itself of its damp cork,    the bottle pops; the wine    fizzes; and now with solemn mien,   long tortured by his stanza,    Triquet stands up; before him the assembly    maintains deep silence.    Tatiana's scarce alive; Triquet,   addressing her, a slip of paper in his hand,    proceeds to sing, off key. Claps, acclamations,    salute him. She    must drop the bard a curtsy;  whereat the poet, modest although great,    is first to drink her health    and hands to her the stanza.

XXXIV

   Now greetings come, congratulations;    Tatiana thanks them all.    Then, when the turn of Eugene   arrived, the maiden's languid air,    her discomposure, lassitude,    engendered pity in his soul:    he bowed to her in silence,   but somehow the look of his eyes    was wondrous tender. Whether    because he verily was touched    or he, coquetting, jested,  whether unwillfully or by free will,    but tenderness this look expressed:    it revived Tanya's heart.

XXXV

   The chairs, as they are pushed back, clatter;    the crowd presses into the drawing room:    thus bees out of the luscious hive   fly meadward in a noisy swarm.    Pleased with the festive dinner,    neighbor in front of neighbor wheezes;    the ladies by the hearth have settled;   the maidens whisper in a corner;    the green-baized tables are unfolded:    to mettlesome cardplayers call    boston and omber of the old,  and whist, up to the present famous:    monotonous family,    all sons of avid boredom.

XXXVI

   Eight rubbers have already played    whist's heroes; eight times they    have changed their seats —   and tea is brought. I like defining    the hour by dinner, tea,    and supper. In the country    we know the time without great fuss:   the stomach is our accurate Bréguet;    and, apropos, I'll parenthetically note    that in my strophes I discourse    as frequently on feasts, on various  dishes and corks,    as you, divine Homer, you, idol    of thirty centuries!

XXXIX

   But tea is brought: scarce have the damsels    demurely of their saucers taken hold    when from behind the door of the long hall   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,   goes up to Olga; Lenski, to Tatiana;    Miss Harlikov, a marriageable maid    of overripe years, is secured    by my Tambovan poet;  Buyánov has whirled off Dame Pustyakóv;    and all have spilled into the hall,    and in full glory shines the ball.

XL

   At the beginning of my novel    (see the first fascicle)    I wanted in Albano's manner   a Petersburg ball to describe;    but, by an empty reverie diverted,    I got engrossed in recollecting    the little feet of ladies known to me.   Upon your narrow tracks, O little feet,    enough roving astray!    With the betrayal of my youth    'tis time I grew more sensible,  improved in doings and in diction,    and this fifth fascicle    cleansed from digressions.

XLI

   Monotonous and mad    like young life's whirl, the noisy    whirl of the waltz revolves,   pair after pair flicks by.    Nearing the minute of revenge,    Onegin, chuckling secretly,    goes up to Olga, rapidly with her   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  again with her the waltz continues;    all are amazed. Lenski himself    does not believe his proper eyes.

XLII

   There the mazurka sounds. Time was,    when the mazurka's thunder dinned,    in a huge ballroom everything vibrated,   the parquetry cracked under heel,    the window frames shook, rattled;    now 'tis not thus: we, too, like ladies,    glide o'er the lacquered boards.   But in [small] towns    and country places, the mazurka    has still retained its pristine charms:    saltos, heel-play, mustachios  remain the same; them has not altered    highhanded fashion,    our tyrant, sickness of the latest Russians.

XLIV

   Buyánov, my mettlesome cousin,    toward our hero leads Tatiana    with Olga; deft   Onegin goes with Olga.    He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,    and, bending, whispers tenderly to her    some common madrigal, and squeezes   her hand — and brighter glows    on her conceited face    the rosy flush. My Lenski    has seen it all; flares up, beside himself;  in jealous indignation,    the poet waits for the end of the mazurka    and invites her for the cotillion.

XLV

   But no, she cannot. Cannot? But what is it?    Why, Olga has given her word    already to Onegin. Ah, good God, good God!   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,   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,  and gallops off. A brace of pistols,    two bullets — nothing more —    shall in a trice decide his fate.