来自：Eugene Onegin
Chapter Four
La morale est dans la nature des choses. Necker
I. II. III. IV. V. VI
VII
The less we love a woman truly, The easier we please her heart, And thus the more surely we destroy her Amid the snares of seduction's art. Debauchery, once cold and callous, Was famed for science amorous, Trumpeting itself everywhere, Taking pleasure without love or care. But this important diversion Is worthy of old monkeys indeed, Of praised grandfatherly times' breed: Lovelace's glory met subversion Along with the glory of red heels tall And the majestic wigs of the ball.
VIII
Who is not bored with dissembling, Repeating the same thing with variation, Trying importantly to convince them Of what's long been known through the nation, Hearing always the same objections, Destroying false preconceptions Which never existed, nor do they yet In a girl of thirteen you've just met! Who isn't wearied by the threats and pleading, The oaths, the feigned fright and alarm, Letters on six pages doing harm, Deceptions, gossip, rings, tears bleeding, The watchful eyes of aunts and mothers, And the burdensome friendship of husbands and others!
IX
Just so thought my Eugene. He in his earliest youth Was victim of turbulent follies keen And unbridled passions, in truth. Spoiled by life's habit and indulgence, Enchanted by one for a time's effulgence, Disillusioned by another one, By desire slowly undone, Wearied by fickle success as well, Hearing in noise and in silence too His soul's eternal murmuring through, Suppressing yawns with laughter's spell: Thus he killed eight years away, Losing life's best bloom and day.
X
In beauties he no longer fell in love, But courted them somehow or other; Refused—he'd instantly recover; Betrayed—was glad to rest and smother. He sought them without intoxication, And left them without lamentation, Barely remembering their love and spite. Just so an indifferent guest one night Arrives for an evening game of whist, Sits down; the game is done and through: He leaves the yard without ado, Goes home and sleeps, peacefully dismissed, And doesn't know himself next morn Where evening will see him borne.
XI
But having received Tanya's letter, Onegin was deeply touched and moved: The language of girlish dreams, no fetter, Stirred up his thoughts in swarms that proved; And he remembered Tatyana dear, Her pallid color, her aspect drear; And in a sweet, sinless dream His soul was plunged as in a stream. Perhaps the ardor of feelings old Seized him for a moment's space; But he did not want to disgrace The trust of an innocent soul so bold. Now to the garden we shall fly, Where Tatyana met him eye to eye.
XII
For two minutes they stood in silence, But to her Onegin stepped near And spoke: "You wrote to me, in compliance, Don't deny it. I have read here The confession of a trusting soul, The outpouring of innocent love's role; Your sincerity is dear to me; It stirred within me, moved me free, Long-silenced feelings from their slumber; But I don't wish to praise you so; For it I'll repay you, though, With confession too, without encumber; Accept my own confession true: I submit myself to judgment by you.
XIII
If I had wished to limit My life to the domestic sphere; If to be father, husband in it Had been my lot decreed and clear; If by a family picture tender I'd been captivated for a moment's splendor— Then surely, except for you alone, I'd seek no other bride to own. I'll speak without madrigal's glitter: Having found my former ideal, I surely would have chosen you to seal As companion of my days so bitter, As pledge of all that's beautiful and bright, And would be happy... as far as I might!
XIV
But I'm not made for bliss and gladness; My soul is alien to its touch; Your perfections are met with sadness: I'm wholly unworthy of them, as such. Believe me (conscience is my warrant), Marriage for us would be abhorrent. However much I'd love you now, Once used to you, I'd cool somehow; You'll start to weep: your tears and sorrow Won't touch this heart of mine at all, But only madden it and gall. Judge then what roses on the morrow Hymen prepares for us to share, And perhaps for many days to bear.
XV
What can be worse in all the world Than a family where the poor wife grieves Over an unworthy husband, unfurled, Day and evening she never leaves; Where the tedious husband, knowing her worth (Cursing fate, however, for what it's worth), Is always frowning, silent, cross, Angry and coldly jealous—what a loss! Such am I. And is this what you sought With your pure, passionate soul so bright, When with such simplicity and insight, With such intelligence you wrote? Can it be that such a lot Is what stern fate for you has wrought?
XVI
Dreams and years have no returning; I cannot renew my soul's estate... I love you with a brother's yearning, And perhaps with tenderness still more great. Listen to me without vexation: A young maiden's infatuation Will change light dreams for dreams anew; So a young tree its leaves will strew And change them with each spring's arriving. Thus, it seems, heaven has decreed. You'll love again: but... take heed... Learn to master yourself in striving: Not everyone will understand like me; Inexperience leads to misery."
XVII
Thus preached Eugene with careful measure. Seeing nothing through her tears, Barely breathing, without displeasure, Tatyana listened to his words and fears. He offered her his hand. In sadness (As they say, in mechanical madness) Tatyana silently leaned upon it, Her weary head bowing down on it; They walked home around the garden's edge; Appeared together, and no one Thought to reproach them for what they'd done: Rural freedom has its privilege, Its own happy rights to claim, As does haughty Moscow's name.
XVIII
You'll agree, my reader friend, That very nicely did our hero treat Poor Tanya, bringing to an end; Not the first time he showed complete Nobility of soul direct and true, Though people's ill will toward him grew And spared nothing in their attack: His enemies and friends (alack, What may perhaps be one and the same) Vilified him this way and that. Enemies every man has, that's a fact, But from friends save us, God, from blame! These friends of mine, these friends, I say! I remembered them not for nothing today.
XIX
But what? Just so. I'm putting to sleep Empty, dark dreams in my mind; I only note in parentheses deep, That there's no contemptible slander you'll find, Born by a liar in an attic dwelling And encouraged by worldly rabble's yelling, There's no absurdity so crude, No epigram from streets so rude, Which your friend wouldn't with a smile, In a circle of decent people met, Without malice and without threat, Repeat a hundred times in error's style; But still, he stands up for you firm: He loves you so... on his own term!
XX
Hm! hm! Noble reader mine, Is all your family well and sound? Allow me: perhaps you'd be inclined Now to learn from me what I've found, What exactly relatives mean to know. Relatives are people who go as so: We're obliged to caress them with care, Love them, respect them with soul to share, And, following the people's tradition, At Christmas pay them a visit dear Or send greetings through the post each year, So that the rest of time's edition They won't think of us at all... So, may God grant them life long and tall!
XXI
But the love of tender beauties bright Is more reliable than friendship or kin: Over it, even in storms of might, You preserve your rights to win. Of course. But fashion's whirlwind motion, And nature's whimsy and commotion, And the current of worldly opinion's stream... And the gentle sex is light as a dream. Besides, the opinions of a husband For a virtuous wife, as we're told, Must always be esteemed and hold; Thus your faithful beloved woman Is in an instant swept away: With love Satan plays his play.
XXII
Whom then to love? In whom to trust and believe? Who alone won't betray us here? Who measures all deeds and words we conceive Obligingly by our measure dear? Who doesn't sow slander about us wide? Who cherishes us with care as guide? For whom is our vice not a trouble or test? Who'll never bore us or be a pest? Seeker of a phantom vain and hollow, Not wasting labors uselessly done, Love yourself, the only one, Most esteemed reader of mine to follow! A worthy object: nothing is More lovely, surely, none than this.
XXIII
What was the consequence of their meeting? Alas, it's not hard to surmise! Love's insane sufferings, repeating, Did not cease to trouble and agonize Her young soul, eager for sorrow's feast; No, with hopeless passion increased Poor Tatyana burns even more; Sleep flees her bed as before; Health, life's color and sweetness bright, Her smile, her maiden peace of mind, All's lost, an empty sound you'll find, And dear Tanya's youth fades from sight: So a storm's shadow comes to dress The day that's barely born, no less.
XXIV
Alas, Tatyana withers away; She pales, fades, and falls silent; Nothing occupies her through the day, Nothing stirs her soul or is vibrant. Shaking their heads with importance grand, The neighbors whisper, understand: It's time, high time for her to wed!... But enough. I must instead Cheer up my imagination's scope With a picture of happy love to see. Involuntarily, my dears, you'll agree, I'm constrained by sorrow's rope; Forgive me: I so dearly love My dear Tatyana, sent from above!
XXV
Hour by hour more captivated, enthralled By young Olga's beauty and grace, Vladimir to sweet bondage called Surrendered with his soul's embrace. He's with her always. In her room they're sitting In darkness, the two of them befitting; They're in the garden, hand in hand, Walking in morning hours grand; And what? With love intoxicated, In confusion of tender shame's distress, He only dares sometimes, no less, By Olga's smile encouraged and elated, To play with a loose curl of hair Or kiss the edge of her garment fair.
XXVI
Sometimes he reads to Olga dear A moral novel's lengthy tale, In which the author makes it clear He knows nature better than Chateaubriand's scale, And meanwhile two or three pages (Empty nonsense, fictional stages, Dangerous for maidens' hearts to know) He skips, blushing with cheeks aglow. Secluded far from everyone around, They sit over a chessboard's game, Leaning on the table frame, Deep in thought, in silence profound, And Lensky, distracted in his play, Takes his own rook with a pawn's array.
XXVII
Does he go home: even at home He's occupied with his Olga still. The flying pages of her album's tome He diligently decorates with skill: Now in them he draws rural views and scenes, A tombstone, Cypris's temple's sheen, Or on a lyre a dove takes flight, With pen and paints delicate and light; Or on the pages of remembrance there, Below the signatures of others penned, He leaves a tender verse to send, A silent monument to dreams we share, A momentary thought's long trace displayed, The same even after years have strayed.
XXVIII
Of course, you've seen more than one time A provincial young lady's album true, Which all her girlfriends filled with grime From end to end and all the way through. Here, despite all spelling's regulation, Verses without measure, by tradition, As a sign of faithful friendship's call, Are written short and stretched out tall. On the first page you'll meet the question: Qu'écrirez-vous sur ces tablettes; And the signature: t. à. v. Annette; And on the last you'll read this suggestion: "Whoever loves you more than I, Let them write further down," they cry.
XXIX
Here you'll certainly find and trace Two hearts, a torch, and flowers arranged; Here, surely, you'll read vows that embrace Love until the grave, unchanged; Some army poet, without fail, Has scribbled here a villainous tale. In such an album, friends of mine, I confess, I'm glad to write a line, Being assured within my soul That all my diligent nonsense there Will earn a kindly glance and care, And that later with a smile's cruel role They won't importantly dissect Whether sharply or not I couldject.
XXX
But you, scattered volumes that appear From the library of devils' own, Magnificent albums we hold dear, Torture of fashionable rhymesters known, You, adorned so deftly and so quick By Tolstoy's brush of magic trick Or by Baratynsky's pen so fine, May God's thunder burn you in a line! When a brilliant lady, gleaming bright, Hands me her in-quarto to fill, Both trembling and anger give me a chill, And an epigram stirs from its height In the depths of my soul's domain, But madrigals to them—write them again!
XXXI
Not madrigals does Lensky write to share In young Olga's album's page; His pen breathes love with fervent care, Not coldly gleaming with wit's sage; Whatever he notices, whatever he hears About Olga, of that he writes, it appears: And full of living truth they flow, His elegies like a river's flow. So you, inspired Yazykov's art, In the outbursts of your heart so true, Sing of God knows who to pursue, And the precious collection, every part Of elegies will present one day to you The whole story of your fate's review.
XXXII
But hush! Do you hear? The critic stern and staid Commands us to cast away The elegy's poor wreath we've made, And to our brother rhymesters to say, Cries: "Stop your weeping and your wailing, And croaking always, ever failing, Lamenting what was, what used to be: Enough, sing of something else, be free!" — You're right, and surely you'll indicate to us The trumpet, the mask, and the dagger's blade, And thoughts' dead capital you've made You'll order to resurrect throughout us: Isn't that so, friend? — Not at all. Not so! "Write odes, gentlemen, you know,
XXXIII
As they were written in mighty years, As was the custom long ago..." — Only solemn odes for all ears! Well, come now, friend; isn't it all the same, though? Remember what the satirist proclaimed! A cunning lyricist "of foreign creed" named— Is he really more bearable to you Than our mournful rhymesters' crew? — "But everything in elegy is hollow; Its empty aim is pitiful to see; Meanwhile the ode's aim is lofty and free And noble..." Here we could well follow A dispute, but I keep silent, I'm done: Two centuries I don't wish to make one.
XXXIV
Worshipper of glory and of freedom bright, In the turmoil of his stormy thoughts, Vladimir would have written odes outright, But Olga didn't read what he wrought. Has it happened that tearful poets try To read before their beloveds' eye Their creations? They say and tell That there's no higher reward to dwell. And truly, blessed is the modest lover who's reading His dreams and visions from the page To the object of songs and love's engage, A beauty pleasantly languishing, conceding! Blessed... though perhaps she may Be quite distracted another way.
XXXV
But I the fruits of my dreams and scheming And harmonious conceits I've planned Read only to my old nurse, deeming Her the companion of my youth's young land, Or after a tedious dinner's ending To a neighbor who came, unbending, Catching him unexpectedly by the coat, I torture him with tragedy's note, Or (but this is no joke or jest), Tormented by melancholy and rhyme, Wandering by my lake's shoreline, I frighten the flock of wild ducks at rest: Hearing the singing of sweet-sounding lines, They fly away from the shore's confines.
XXXVI. XXXVII
And what of Onegin? By the way, brothers dear! I ask for your patience now: His daily occupations here I'll describe in detail and show how. Onegin lived like an anchorite in seclusion; In the seventh hour in summer's profusion He'd rise and lightly would go To the river running below the hill's flow; Imitating the singer of Gulnara's story, This Hellespont he would swim across, Then drink his coffee without loss, Leafing through a poor journal's glory, And dressed himself...
XXXVIII. XXXIX
Walks, reading, sleep profound and deep, Forest shade, the murmur of streams that wind, Sometimes a black-eyed beauty's keep, A young and fresh kiss of gentle kind, A spirited horse obedient to the rein, A dinner quite capricious in its train, A bottle of bright wine to pour, Solitude, and quietness at the core: This is Onegin's saintly life proceeding; And imperceptibly to it he gave Himself, not counting the red summer days brave In careless bliss, not heeding, Forgetting the city, friends, and all, And the tedium of festive occasions' call.
XL
But our northern summer's fleeting breath, A caricature of southern winter's face, Flashes and is gone: we know it, yes, Though we don't want to admit the case. Already autumn breathed from the sky, The sun shone less frequently on high, The day was growing shorter still, The mysterious canopy of forests' fill Was shedding leaves with mournful sound, Mist was settling on the fields below, The caravan of geese in noisy flow Stretched southward with their honking sound: A rather tedious season was drawing near; November already stood at the door here.
XLI
Dawn rises in the cold mist's veil; In the fields the sound of work has ceased; With his hungry she-wolf without fail The wolf comes out to the road released; Sensing him, the carriage horse in fright Snorts—and the cautious traveler in flight Rushes up the hill at full speed's height; At the morning dawn no longer quite Does the shepherd drive the cows from the shed, And at the noon hour in a circle round His horn no longer calls them with its sound; In the cottage singing, a maiden instead Spins yarn, and, friend of winter nights so long, A splinter crackles before her all night long.
XLII
And now the frosts already crack and gleam And silver themselves amid the fields... (The reader expects the rhyme of "dream"; Here, take it quickly, see what it yields!) Neater than a fashionable parquet floor bright The river gleams, dressed in ice's white. The joyful crowd of boys in play Cuts the ice with skates' sharp sway; On red feet a heavy goose takes measure, Intending to swim upon the water's breast, Steps carefully on the ice's test, Slips and falls; with merry pleasure The first snow flickers, whirls in flight, Falling in stars upon the shore so bright.
XLIII
In the wilderness what's there to do at this season? Go walking? The village at that time of year Unavoidably wearies the eye for a reason With its monotonous nakedness so drear. Ride horseback on the stern steppe's ground? But the horse, with blunted horseshoe bound, Uncertainly catching the ice below, Any moment may fall, you know. Sit under the empty roof's cover inside, Read: here's Pradt, here's Walter Scott. Don't want to? — check your accounts' lot, Get angry or drink, and the evening long and wide Will somehow pass, and tomorrow the same, And you'll spend winter gloriously in this game.
XLIV
A true Childe Harold, Onegin fell Into pensive indolence's sway: From sleep he sits in an ice bath's spell, And after, at home the whole long day, Alone, in calculations sunk, Armed with a blunt cue's trunk, He at billiards with two balls plays From the very morning's early rays. Evening in the country arrives at last: Billiards abandoned, cue forgotten quite, Before the fireplace the table's set right, Eugene waits: here comes Lensky fast In a troika of light bay horses three; Let's have dinner quickly, you and me!
XLV
Widow Clicquot's or Moët's wine blessed In a frozen bottle for the poet's hand Is brought to the table without rest. It sparkles like Hippocrene's brand; It with its play and foam delights (A semblance of this and that in sights) Captivated me: for it I'd give My last poor mite, I'd freely live. Remember, friends? Its magical stream flowing Would give birth to foolishness galore, And how many jokes and verses it bore, And arguments, and merry dreams growing!
XLVI
But it betrays with noisy foam's display My stomach now, I must confess, And I to sensible Bordeaux today Already prefer it, I must express. To Aï I'm no longer suited right; Aï is like a mistress bright, Brilliant, flighty, lively in her way, And willful, and empty in her play... But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend true, Who, in grief and in misfortune's hour, A comrade always, everywhere has power, Ready to render us service due Or share quiet leisure's peaceful dome. Long live Bordeaux, our friend back home!
XLVII
The fire has died; barely with ash's trace Is the golden coal covered light; With barely perceptible stream's grace Steam winds, and with warmth so slight The fireplace barely breathes its heat. Smoke from pipes tall Goes up the chimney's call. The bright cup still hisses mid the table's space. Evening gloom finds its place... (I love friendly idle chatter's face And a friendly glass of wine to share At that time which is known everywhere As the time between wolf and dog's race, But why, I don't see the connection.) Now the friends talk in their section:
XLVIII
"Well, what of the neighbors? What of Tatyana dear? What of your lively Olga's case?" — Pour me another half glass here... Enough, my friend... The whole family's grace Is healthy; they asked me to send their greeting. Ah, my friend, how improved at our meeting Are Olga's shoulders, what a breast so fine! What a soul!... Sometime down the line We'll visit them; you'll oblige them with presence; Otherwise, my friend, judge for yourself true: I stopped by twice, and then withdrew, And don't show my nose there since then in absence. But here... what a fool I've been to forget! You're invited there next week, you're set. —
XLIX
"I?" — "Yes, Tatyana's name day falls bright On Saturday. Olga and mother dear Asked me to invite you, and there's no reason quite For you not to come when called here." — "But there'll be a crowd of people there amassed And all sorts of such rabble and riff-raff..." — "Oh, no one, I assure you, none! Who'll be there? Just family, that's all that's done. Let's go, do me this favor, I'm pleading! Well, what say you?" — "Agreed." — "How kind you are to me!" At these words he drained completely The glass, to the neighbor's toast conceding, Then talked again with love's devotion About Olga: such is love's emotion!
L
He was cheerful. In two weeks' time ahead The happy term was set to arrive. And the mystery of the marriage bed And sweet love's wreath and garland's drive Awaited his raptures to unfold. Hymen's troubles and cares untold, The cold succession of yawns in a row— These he had never dreamed would show. Meanwhile we, enemies of Hymen's tie, In domestic life see just one thing: A series of wearisome pictures in a string, A novel in Lafontaine's style reply... My poor Lensky, in his heart he was meant For that life with full intent.
LI
He was loved... at least so it seemed To him, and he was happy in his state. A hundred times blessed is he who's deemed A believer in faith, who can abate His cold mind and find his rest In heartfelt bliss, as a drunken guest At a night's lodging, without care to roam, Or, more tenderly, like a butterfly at home Who's nestled in a spring flower's hold; But pitiable is he who foresees all ahead, Whose head doesn't spin in giddy tread, Who hates all movements, all words that are told In their translation, whose heart has grown Cold from experience and can't atone!