来自：Eugene Onegin
Chapter Seven
Moscow, Russia's beloved daughter, Where can your equal be found? Dmitriev
How can one not love native Moscow? Baratynsky
This persecution of Moscow! What does it mean to see the world! Where then is better? Where we are not. Griboyedov
I
Driven by vernal rays, From the surrounding hills already the snows Have run down in turbid streams Onto the flooded meadows. With a clear smile, nature Through sleep greets the morning of the year; The heavens gleam azure. The still transparent forests Seem to grow green with down. The bee for its field tribute Flies from its waxen cell. The valleys dry and grow motley; Herds make noise, and the nightingale Already sang in the silence of nights.
II
How sad to me is your appearance, Spring, spring! season of love! What languid agitation In my soul, in my blood! With what heavy tenderness Do I enjoy the breath Of spring wafting in my face In the bosom of rural quietude! Or is enjoyment alien to me, And all that gladdens, enlivens, All that rejoices and gleams, Brings ennui and languor To a soul long dead, And all seems dark to it?
III
Or, not rejoicing at the return Of leaves that perished in autumn, Do we remember the bitter loss, Heeding the new noise of the forests; Or with revived nature Do we bring together with troubled thought The withering of our years, For which there is no rebirth? Perhaps there comes to mind Amid poetic dream Another, older spring And brings our heart to trembling With a reverie of a distant land, Of a wondrous night, of the moon...
IV
Now is the time: good idlers, Epicurean sages, You indifferent fortunate ones, You fledglings of Levshin's school, You rural Priams, And you, sensitive ladies, Spring calls you to the country, The season of warmth, flowers, labors, The season of inspired walks And seductive nights. To the fields, friends! Quickly, quickly, In carriages heavily laden, On long coaches or post-horses Stretch out from the city gates.
V
And you, benevolent reader, In your custom-made carriage Leave the restless city, Where you made merry in winter; With my willful muse Let us go listen to the noise of the oak grove Above the nameless river In the village, where my Evgeny, An idle and melancholy hermit, Until recently lived in winter In the neighborhood of young Tanya, My dear dreamer, But where he is no longer now... Where sadly he left his trace.
VI
Between hills lying in a semicircle, Let us go there where a brook, Winding, runs through a green meadow To the river through a linden grove. There the nightingale, spring's lover, Sings all night; the wild rose blooms, And the murmur of the spring is heard— There is visible a gravestone In the shade of two aged pines. The inscription tells the visitor: "Vladimir Lensky lies here, Who perished early by a bold death, In such-and-such a year, of such-and-such years. Rest, poet-youth!"
VII
On the branch of the bowed pine, Formerly, an early breeze Above this humble urn Swayed a mysterious wreath. Formerly, in late leisure hours Two friends came here, And on the grave by moonlight, Embracing, they wept. But now... the melancholy monument Is forgotten. To it the habitual path Has become overgrown. There is no wreath on the branch; Alone beneath it, gray and frail, The shepherd as before sings And weaves his poor footwear.
VIII. IX. X
My poor Lensky! Languishing, She did not weep for long. Alas! the young bride Is unfaithful to her grief. Another attracted her attention, Another managed her suffering To lull with loving flattery, The uhlan knew how to captivate her, The uhlan is loved by her soul... And now already with him before the altar She stands shyly beneath the crown With bowed head, With fire in downcast eyes, With a light smile on her lips.
XI
My poor Lensky! beyond the grave In the bounds of deaf eternity Was the melancholy singer troubled By the news of fateful betrayal, Or above Lethe lulled to sleep Is the poet, blessed by insensibility, No longer troubled by anything, And is the world to him closed and mute?.. Yes! indifferent oblivion Beyond the grave awaits us. The voice of enemies, friends, lovers Suddenly falls silent. About the estate alone The angry chorus of heirs Starts an unseemly dispute.
XII
And soon Olya's ringing voice In the Larin family fell silent. The uhlan, prisoner of his fate, Had to go with her to the regiment. Bitterly shedding tears, The old woman, parting with her daughter, Seemed barely alive, But Tanya could not weep; Only with deathly pallor was covered Her sad face. When everyone came out onto the porch, And everything, saying farewell, bustled Around the carriage of the young couple, Tatyana saw them off.
XIII
And for a long time, as if through fog, She gazed after them... And now alone, alone is Tatyana! Alas! the companion of so many years, Her young dove, Her intimate confidante, By fate carried far away, From her forever separated. Like a shadow she wanders aimlessly, Now looks into the deserted garden... Nowhere, in nothing has she consolation, And finds no relief For her suppressed tears, And her heart is torn in two.
XIV
And in cruel solitude Her passion burns stronger, And of distant Onegin Her heart speaks to her louder. She will not see him; She must hate in him The murderer of her brother; The poet perished... but already No one remembers him, already to another His bride gave herself. The poet's memory swept by, Like smoke across the blue sky, For him two hearts, perhaps, Still grieve... Why grieve?..
XV
It was evening. The sky darkened. The waters Flowed quietly. A beetle buzzed. Already the round dances had dispersed; Already beyond the river, smoking, blazed A fisherman's fire. In the clear field, In the moon's silvery light Immersed in her reveries, Tatyana walked alone for a long time. She walked and walked. And suddenly before her From a hill she sees the manor house, The village, a grove beneath the hill And a garden above the bright river. She looks—and the heart in her Beat faster and stronger.
XVI
Doubts confuse her: "Shall I go forward, shall I go back?.. He is not here. They don't know me... I'll glance at the house, at this garden." And now from the hill Tatyana descends, Barely breathing; all around casts A gaze full of perplexity... And enters the deserted courtyard. At her, barking, the dogs rushed. At her frightened cry The household's family of children Ran noisily together. Not without a fight The boys drove off the dogs, Taking the young lady under their protection.
XVII
"Can one see the master's house?" Asked Tanya. At once To Anisya the children ran To get from her the keys to the entrance hall; Anisya immediately appeared to her, And the door before them opened, And Tanya enters the empty house Where recently our hero lived. She looks: forgotten in the hall A cue rested on the billiard table, On the rumpled sofa lay A riding crop. Tanya goes further; The old woman to her: "And here's the fireplace; Here the master used to sit alone.
XVIII
Here with him dined in winter The late Lensky, our neighbor. Come this way, follow me. Here is the master's study; Here he rested, drank coffee, Listened to the steward's reports And read a book in the morning... And the old master lived here; With me, it used to be, on Sundays, Here by the window, putting on spectacles, He would deign to play at fools. God grant salvation to his soul, And peace to his bones In the grave, in the damp mother earth!"
XIX
Tatyana with a tender gaze All around her at everything looks, And everything seems priceless to her, Everything enlivens her languid soul With half-tormenting joy: Both the table with the dimmed icon lamp, And the pile of books, and by the window The bed covered with a carpet, And the view through the window through the lunar dusk, And this pale half-light, And Lord Byron's portrait, And the column with a cast-iron figurine Under a hat with a gloomy brow, With arms crossed.
XX
Tatyana for a long time in the fashionable cell Stands as if enchanted. But it is late. A cold wind has risen. Dark in the valley. The grove sleeps Above the misted river; The moon has hidden behind the mountain, And for the young pilgrim It is time, long since time to go home. And Tanya, hiding her agitation, Not without sighing, Sets out on the return journey. But first she asks permission To visit the deserted castle, To read books here alone.
XXI
Tatyana said farewell to the housekeeper At the gates. After a day Already early in the morning she appeared again In the abandoned shelter, And in the silent study, Forgetting for a time everything in the world, Remained at last alone, And wept for a long time. Then she took to the books. At first she had no mind for them, But their selection seemed Strange to her. She gave herself to reading With an eager soul; And a different world opened to her.
XXII
Although we know that Evgeny Long ago fell out of love with reading, Nevertheless several works He excluded from disfavor: The singer of the Giaour and Don Juan And with him another two or three novels, In which was reflected the age And contemporary man Portrayed quite truly With his immoral soul, Selfish and dry, Given over boundlessly to dreaming, With his embittered mind, Seething in empty action.
XXIII
Many pages preserved The sharp mark of fingernails; The eyes of the attentive maiden Are fixed on them more keenly. Tatyana sees with trembling By what thought, what observation Onegin had been struck, In what he silently agreed. On their margins she encounters The marks of his pencil. Everywhere Onegin's soul Involuntarily expresses itself Now with a brief word, now with a cross, Now with a questioning hook.
XXIV
And little by little begins My Tatyana to understand Now more clearly—thank God— Him for whom she is condemned By imperious fate to sigh: A sad and dangerous eccentric, Creation of hell or heaven, This angel, this haughty demon, What is he? Can it be an imitation, An insignificant phantom, or else A Muscovite in Harold's cloak, An interpretation of others' whims, A lexicon full of fashionable words?.. Is he not a parody?
XXV
Has she really solved the riddle? Has the word really been found? The hours run: she has forgotten That at home they have long been waiting for her, Where two neighbors have gathered And where about her there is conversation. "What to do? Tatyana is not a child," The old woman said with a groan. "Why, Olenka is younger than her. To settle the girl, honestly, It is time; but what am I to do with her? To everyone point-blank the same thing: I won't go. And she keeps grieving And wanders through the forests alone."
XXVI
"Is she not in love?" "In whom then? Buyanov came courting: refusal. To Ivan Petushkov—the same. Hussar Pykhtin was visiting us; How he was charmed by Tanya, How he scattered himself like a minor demon! I thought: perhaps it will work out; No way! and again the matter fell apart." "Well, mother dear! What's the holdup then? To Moscow, to the bride market! There, I hear, many vacant places." "Oh, my dear! Income is small." "Enough for one winter, If not, I'll lend it myself."
XXVII
The old woman very much liked The sensible and good advice; She calculated—and right then decided To set off for Moscow in winter. And Tanya hears this news. To the judgment of the exacting world To present the clear features Of provincial simplicity, And belated attire, And belated turn of speech; Of Moscow dandies and Circes To attract mocking glances!.. Oh terror! No, better and surer For her to remain in the forest depths.
XXVIII
Rising with the first rays, Now she hastens to the fields And with tender eyes Surveying them, says: "Farewell, peaceful valleys, And you, peaks of familiar hills, And you, familiar forests; Farewell, heavenly beauty, Farewell, cheerful nature; I exchange the dear, quiet world For the noise of brilliant vanities... Farewell too, my freedom! Where, why do I strive? What does my fate promise me?"
XXIX
Her walks last longer. Now a hillock, now a brook Involuntarily stops Tatyana with its charm. She, as with old friends, With her groves, her meadows Still hastens to converse. But swift summer flies. Golden autumn has arrived. Nature trembles, pale, Like a victim, magnificently adorned... Now the north, driving clouds, Breathed, howled—and now herself Winter the enchantress comes.
XXX
She came, scattered; in clumps She hung on the boughs of oaks; Lay in wavy carpets Amid the fields, around the hills; The banks with the motionless river She leveled with a fluffy shroud; The frost gleamed. And we are glad At the pranks of mother winter. Only Tanya's heart is not glad. She does not go to meet the winter, To breathe the frosty dust And with the first snow from the bathhouse roof To wash her face, shoulders and breast: Tatyana dreads the winter journey.
XXXI
The day of departure long overdue, The final deadline also passes. Inspected, newly upholstered, secured The carriage thrown into oblivion. The usual train, three covered wagons Carry household belongings, Pots, chairs, trunks, Preserves in jars, mattresses, Featherbeds, cages with roosters, Pots, basins et cetera, Well, much of all kinds of goods. And now in the hut among the servants Arose noise, farewell weeping: They lead into the yard eighteen nags,
XXXII
Into the boyar's carriage they harness them, The cooks prepare breakfast, In a mountain the wagons are loaded, The women, the coachmen quarrel. On a scrawny and shaggy nag Sits a bearded outrider, The servants have gathered at the gates To bid farewell to the masters. And now They are seated, and the venerable carriage, Sliding, crawls out the gates. "Farewell, peaceful places! Farewell, secluded refuge! Shall I see you?..." And a stream of tears From Tanya pours from her eyes.
XXXIII
When to beneficent enlightenment We push back the borders further, In time (by the calculation Of philosophical tables, In about five hundred years) the roads, surely, Will change immensely with us: Highways Russia here and there, Connecting, will intersect. Cast-iron bridges across waters Will step in a wide arc, We'll move apart mountains, under water We'll dig daring vaults, And the Christianized world will establish At every station a tavern.
XXXIV
Now with us the roads are poor, Forgotten bridges rot, At stations bedbugs and fleas Won't let you sleep a minute; There are no taverns. In a cold hut A high-flown but hungry Menu for show hangs And vainly teases the appetite, Meanwhile as rural cyclopes Before a slow fire With a Russian hammer treat The light product of Europe, Blessing the ruts And ditches of the fatherland.
XXXV
But in winter's cold season Travel is pleasant and easy. Like verse without thought in a fashionable song The winter road is smooth. Our automedons are spirited, Our troikas untiring, And the versts, pleasing the idle eye, Flicker in the eyes like a fence. Unfortunately, the Larins dragged along, Fearing expensive post-horses, Not on postal horses but on their own, And our maiden enjoyed Road tedium fully: Seven days they traveled.
XXXVI
But now it's near. Before them Already of white-stoned Moscow, Like fire, with golden crosses Burn the ancient domes. Ah, brothers! How pleased I was When of churches and bell towers, Gardens, palaces in a semicircle Suddenly opened before me! How often in sorrowful separation, In my wandering fate, Moscow, I thought of you! Moscow... how much in this sound For the Russian heart has merged! How much has responded in it!
XXXVII
Here, surrounded by its oak grove, Petrovsky Castle. Gloomily it Boasts of recent glory. In vain did Napoleon wait, Intoxicated with final happiness, For Moscow on bended knee With the keys of the old Kremlin; No, my Moscow did not go To him with a guilty head. Not a feast, not a ceremonial gift, She prepared a conflagration For the impatient hero. From here, plunged in thought, He gazed upon the menacing flame.
XXXVIII
Farewell, witness of fallen glory, Petrovsky Castle. Well! Don't stand still, Go! Already the pillars of the barrier Turn white; now already along Tverskaya The carriage rushes through the potholes. Flashing past are sentry boxes, peasant women, Boys, shops, streetlamps, Palaces, gardens, monasteries, Bukharans, sleighs, vegetable gardens, Merchants, hovels, peasants, Boulevards, towers, Cossacks, Pharmacies, fashion stores, Balconies, lions on gates And flocks of jackdaws on crosses.
XXXIX. XL
In this tiring journey An hour or two passes, and now At Kharitonya in the lane The carriage before the house at the gates Stopped. To an old aunt, For the fourth year ill with consumption, They have arrived now. Wide open the door opens to them, In spectacles, in a torn caftan, With a stocking in hand, a gray-haired Kalmyk. A cry meets them in the drawing room Of the princess, prostrate on the divan. The old women embraced with weeping, And exclamations poured out.
XLI
"Princess, mon ange!" "Pachette!" "Alina!" "Who could have thought? How long! For long? My dear! Cousin! Sit down—how marvelous this is! By God, a scene from a novel..." "And this is my daughter, Tatyana." "Ah, Tanya! Come to me— As if I'm delirious in a dream... Cousin, do you remember Grandison?" "What, Grandison?.. ah, Grandison! Yes, I remember, I remember. Where is he?" "In Moscow, lives at Simeon's; He visited me on Christmas Eve; Recently he married off his son.
XLII
And he... but later I'll tell all, Won't I? To all her relatives We'll show Tanya tomorrow. It's a pity, I have no strength to travel: Barely, barely do I drag my feet. But you are worn out from the road; Let's go rest together... Oh, no strength... my chest is tired... Joy is hard for me now, Not just sorrow... my soul, I'm good for nothing anymore... In old age life is such vileness..." And here, completely exhausted, In tears she coughed.
XLIII
The patient's affections and gaiety Touch Tatyana; but she Feels unwell in the new dwelling, Accustomed to her own room. Under the silken curtain She cannot sleep in the new bed, And the early ringing of bells, Forerunner of morning labors, Raises her from bed. Tanya sits by the window. The darkness thins; but she Cannot make out her fields: Before her an unfamiliar courtyard, Stable, kitchen and fence.
XLIV
And now to family dinners They drive Tanya every day To present to grandmothers and grandfathers Her distracted languor. To relatives who arrived from afar, Everywhere an affectionate welcome, And exclamations, and bread and salt. "How Tanya has grown! Was it long ago I christened you, it seems? And I held you in my arms! And I pulled you by the ears! And I fed you gingerbread!" And in chorus the grandmothers repeat: "How our years fly!"
XLV
But in them no change is visible; All in them in the old fashion: At Auntie Princess Elena's Still the same tulle cap; Lukerya Lvovna still powders herself, Lyubov Petrovna still lies the same, Ivan Petrovich is just as stupid, Semyon Petrovich just as stingy, At Pelageya Nikolavna's Still the same friend Monsieur Finemouche, And the same spitz, and the same husband; And he, still a regular club member, Still as meek, still as deaf And still eats and drinks for two.
XLVI
Their daughters embrace Tanya. The young graces of Moscow At first silently survey Tatyana from head to toe; They find her something strange, Provincial and affected, And somewhat pale and thin, But otherwise, very not bad; Then, submitting to nature, They make friends with her, lead her to themselves, Kiss her, tenderly squeeze her hands, Fluff her curls in fashion And confide in singsong Heart secrets, secrets of maidens.
XLVII
Others' and their own conquests, Hopes, mischief, dreams. Flow innocent conversations With a light embellishment of slander. Then, in return for the prattle, Her heartfelt confession They tenderly demand. But Tanya, exactly as in a dream, Hears their speeches without participation, Understands nothing, And the secret of her heart, The treasured hoard of tears and happiness, Keeps silently meanwhile And shares it with no one.
XLVIII
Tatyana wishes to listen To conversations, to general talk; But everyone in the drawing room is occupied with Such incoherent, vulgar nonsense; Everything in them is so pale, indifferent; They slander even tediously; In the barren dryness of speeches, Questions, gossip and news Not a thought will flash in whole days, Even by chance, even at random; The languid mind will not smile, The heart will not tremble, even for a joke. And even funny stupidity You won't meet in you, empty world.
XLIX
Archive youths in a crowd Look primly at Tanya And about her among themselves Speak unfavorably. Some kind of sad buffoon Finds her ideal And, leaning by the doors, Prepares an elegy for her. Meeting Tanya at a boring aunt's, Vyazemsky somehow sat down beside her And managed to engage her soul. And, noticing her near him, About her, adjusting his wig, An old man inquires.
L
But there where of stormy Melpomene The prolonged howl resounds, Where she waves her tinsel mantle Before the cold crowd, Where Thalia quietly dozes And does not heed friendly applause, Where to Terpsichore alone The young spectator marvels (Which was also in former years, In your time and mine), Neither ladies' jealous lorgnettes turned toward her, Nor the tubes of fashionable connoisseurs From boxes and rows of armchairs.
LI
They bring her also to the Assembly. There crowding, excitement, heat, Music's roar, candles' brilliance, Flashing, whirlwind of swift couples, Beauties' light attire, Choruses variegated with people, The vast semicircle of brides, All strikes the senses at once. Here noted dandies display Their impudence, their waistcoat And inattentive lorgnette. Here hussars on leave Hasten to appear, thunder, Flash, captivate and fly away.
LII
The night has many lovely stars, There are many beauties in Moscow. But brighter than all heavenly companions Is the moon in the airy azure. But she whom I dare not Trouble with my lyre, Like the majestic moon, Amid wives and maidens shines alone. With what heavenly pride Does she touch the earth! How full of bliss is her breast! How languid is her wondrous gaze!.. But enough, enough; stop: You have paid tribute to madness.
LIII
Noise, laughter, running about, bows, Galop, mazurka, waltz... Meanwhile Between two aunts, by a column, Noticed by no one, Tatyana looks and does not see, Hates the world's commotion; She is stifled here... She in reverie Aspires to field life, To the village, to poor peasants, To a secluded corner, Where flows a bright brook, To her flowers, to her novels And into the dusk of linden alleys, There where he appeared to her.
LIV
Thus her thought wanders far: Forgotten are both the world and the noisy ball, And meanwhile an eye does not leave her Some important general. The aunts winked at each other, And with an elbow at once nudged Tanya, And each whispered to her: "Look to the left quickly." "To the left? Where? What's there?" "Well, whatever it is, look... In that group, see? in front, There where still two in uniforms... There he moved away... there he stood sideways..." "Who? That fat general?"
LV
But here with victory let us congratulate My dear Tatyana And to the side direct our path, So as not to forget whom I sing... And by the way, here about that two words: I sing of a young friend And the multitude of his oddities. Bless my long labor, O you, epic muse! And having handed me a faithful staff, Do not let me wander crookedly. Enough. Off the shoulders the burden! I have paid honor to classicism: Though late, there is an introduction.