Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина - [297]

   in chorus these send him to spas.

XXXII

   Yet he's not going. He beforehand

   is ready to his forefathers to write

   of an impending meeting; yet Tatiana

 ⁴ cares not one bit (such is their sex).

   But he is stubborn, won't desist,

   still hopes, bestirs himself;

   a sick man bolder than one hale,

 ⁸ he with a weak hand to the princess

   writes an impassioned missive.

   Though generally little sense in letters

   he saw, not without reason;

¹² but evidently torment of the heart

   had now passed his endurance.

   Here you have his letter word for word.

Onegin'S Letter To Tatiana

   I foresee everything: the explanation

   of a sad secret will offend you.

   What bitter scorn

 ⁴ your proud glance will express!

   What do I want? What is my object

   in opening my soul to you?

   What wicked merriment

 ⁸ perhaps I give occasion to!

   Chancing to meet you once,

   noting in you a spark of tenderness,

   I did not venture to believe in it:

¹² did not give way to a sweet habit;

   my tedious freedom

   I did not wish to lose. Another thing

   yet separated us:

¹⁶ a hapless victim Lenski fell.

   From all that to the heart is dear

   then did I tear my heart away;

   alien to everybody, tied by nothing,

²⁰ I thought: liberty and peace are

   a substitute for happiness. Good God!

   How wrong I was, how I am punished!

   No — every minute to see you; to follow

²⁴ you everywhere;

   the smile of your lips, movement of your eyes,

   to try to capture with enamored eyes;

   to listen long to you, to comprehend

²⁸ all your perfection with one's soul;

   to melt in agonies before you,

   grow pale and waste away... that's rapture!

   And I'm deprived of that; for you

³² I drag myself at random everywhere;

   to me each day is dear, each hour is dear,

   while I in futile dullness squander

   the days told off by fate — they are

³⁶ sufficiently oppressive anyway.

   I know: my span is well-nigh measured;

   but that my life may be prolonged

   I must be certain in the morning

⁴⁰ of seeing you during the day.

   I fear: in my meek plea

   your severe gaze will see

   the schemes of despicable cunning —

⁴⁴ and I can hear your wrathful censure.

   If you hut knew how terrible it is

   to languish with the thirst of love,

   burn — and by means of reason hourly

⁴⁸ subdue the tumult in one's blood;

   wish to embrace your knees

   and, in a burst of sobbing, at your feet

   pour out appeals, avowals, plaints,

⁵² all, all I could express,

   and in the meantime with feigned coldness

   arm speech and gaze,

   maintain a placid conversation,

⁵⁶ glance at you with a cheerful glance!...

   But let it be: against myself

   I've not the force to struggle any more;

   all is decided: I am in your power,

⁶⁰ and I surrender to my fate.

XXXIII

   There is no answer. He sends a new missive.

   To the second, to the third letter —

   there is no answer. He drives out to some

 ⁴ reception. Hardly has he entered — there she is

   coming in his direction. How severe!

   He is not seen, to him no word is said.

   Ugh! How surrounded she is now

 ⁸ with Twelfthtide cold!

   How anxious are to hold back indignation

   her stubborn lips!

   Onegin peers with a keen eye:

¹² where, where are discomposure, sympathy,

   where the tearstains? None, none!

   There's on that face but the imprint of wrath...

XXXIV

   plus, possibly, a secret fear

   lest husband or monde guess

   the escapade, the casual foible,

 ⁴ all my Onegin knows....

   There is no hope! He drives away,

   curses his folly —

   and, deeply plunged in it,

 ⁸ the monde he once again renounces

   and in his silent study comes to him

   the recollection of the time

   when cruel chondria

¹² pursued him in the noisy monde,

   captured him, took him by the collar,

   and shut him up in a dark hole.

XXXV

   Again, without discrimination,

   he started reading. He read Gibbon,

   Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder,

 ⁴ Chamfort, Mme de Staël, Bichat, Tissot.

   He read the skeptic Bayle,

   he read the works of Fontenelle,

   he read some [authors] of our own,

 ⁸ without rejecting anything —

   the “almanacs” and the reviews

   where sermons into us are drummed,

   where I'm today abused so much

¹² but where such madrigals addressed tome

   I used to meet with now and then:

   e sempre bene, gentlemen.

XXXVI

   And lo — his eyes were reading, but his thoughts

   were far away;

   chimeras, desires, sorrows

 ⁴ kept crowding deep into his soul.

   Between the printed lines

   he with spiritual eyes

   read other lines. It was in them

 ⁸ that he was utterly absorbed.

   These were the secret legends of the heart's

   dark ancientry;

   dreams unconnected

¹² with anything; threats, rumors, presages;

   or the live tosh of a long tale,

   or a young maiden's letters.

XXXVII

   And by degrees into a lethargy

   of feelings and of thoughts he falls,

   while before him Imagination

 ⁴ deals out her motley faro deck.

   Now he sees: on the melted snow,

   as at a night's encampment sleeping,

   stirless, a youth lies; and he hears

 ⁸ a voice: “Well, what — he's dead!”

   Now he sees foes forgotten,

   calumniators, and malicious cowards,

   and a swarm of young traitresses,