Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

   The reason she loved Richardson
   was not that she had read him,
   and not that Grandison
 4 to Lovelace she preferred;14
   but anciently, Princess Alina,
   her Moscow maiden cousin,
   would often talk to her about them.
 8 Her husband at that time still was
   her fiancé, but against her will.
   She sighed after another
   whose heart and mind
12 were much more to her liking;
   that Grandison was a great dandy,
   a gamester, and an Ensign in the Guards.

   Like him, she always
   dressed in the fashion and becomingly;
   but without asking her advice
 4 they took the maiden to the altar;
   and to dispel her grief
   the sensible husband repaired
   soon to his countryseat, where she,
 8 God knows by whom surrounded, tossed
   and wept at first,
   almost divorced her husband, then
   got occupied with household matters, grew
12 habituated, and became content.
   Habit to us is given from above:
   it is a substitute for happiness.15

   Habit allayed the grief
   that nothing else could ward;
   a big discovery soon came
 4 to comfort her completely.
   Between the dally and the do
   a secret she discovered: how to govern
   her husband monocratically,
 8 and forthwith everything went right.
   She would drive out to supervise the farming,
   she pickled mushrooms for the winter,
   she kept the books, “shaved foreheads,”
12 to the bathhouse would go on Saturdays,
   walloped her maids when cross —
   all this without asking her husband's leave.

   Time was, she wrote in blood
   in tender maidens' albums,
   would call Praskóvia “Polína,”
 4 and speak in singsong tones;
   very tight stays she wore,
   and knew how to pronounce a Russian n
   as if it were a French one, through the nose;
 8 but soon all this ceased to exist; stays, album,
   Princess [Alina],
   cahier of sentimental verselets, she
   forgot, began to call
12 “Akúl'ka” the one-time “Selína,”
   and finally inaugurated
   the quilted chamber robe and mobcap.

   But dearly did her husband love her,
   he did not enter in her schemes,
   on every score lightheartedly believed her
 4 whilst in his dressing gown he ate and drank
   His life rolled comfortably on;
   at evenfall sometimes assembled
   a kindly group of neighbors,
 8 unceremonious friends,
   to rue, to tattle,
   to chuckle over this or that.
   Time passed; meanwhile
12 Olga was told to prepare tea;
   then supper came, and then 'twas bedtime,
   and off the guests would drive.

   They in their peaceful life preserved
   the customs of dear ancientry:
   with them, during fat Butterweek
 4 Russian pancakes were wont to be.
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 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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12 kvas was as requisite to them as air,
   and at their table dishes were presented
   to guests in order of their rank.

   And thus they both grew old,
   and the grave's portals
   opened at last before the husband,
 4 and a new crown upon him was bestowed.
   He died at the hour before the midday meal,
   bewailed by neighbor,
   children, and faithful wife,
 8 more candidly than some.
   He was a simple and kind squire,
   and there where lies his dust
   the monument above the grave proclaims:
12 “The humble sinner Dmitri Larin,
   slave of our Lord, and Brigadier,
   enjoyeth peace beneath this stone.”

   Restored to his penates,
   Vladimir Lenski visited
   his neighbor's humble monument,
 4 and to the ashes consecrated
   a sigh, and long his heart was melancholy.
   “Poor Yorick!”16 mournfully he uttered, “he
   hath borne me in his arms.
 8 How oft I played in childhood
   with his Ochákov medal!
   He destined Olga to wed me;
   he used to say: ‘Shall I be there
12 to see the day?’ ” and full of sincere sadness,
   Vladimir there and then set down for him
   a gravestone madrigal.

   And with a sad inscription,
   in tears, he also honored there his father's
   and mother's patriarchal dust.
 4 Alas! Upon life's furrows,
   in a brief harvest, generations
   by Providence's secret will
   rise, ripen, and must fall;
 8 others in their tracks follow.... Thus
   our giddy race
   waxes, stirs, seethes,
   and tombward crowds its ancestors.
12 Our time likewise will come, will come,
   and one fine day our grandsons
   out of the world will crowd us too.

   Meanwhile enjoy your fill of it
   —  of this lightsome life, friends!
   Its insignificance I realize
 4 and little am attached to it;
   to phantoms I have closed my eyelids;
   but distant hopes
   sometimes disturb my heart:
 8 without an imperceptible trace, I'd be sorry
   to leave the world.
   I live, I write not for the sake of praise;
   but my sad lot, meseems,
12 I would desire to glorify,
   so that a single sound at least
   might, like a faithful friend, remind one about me.

   And it will touch
   the heart of someone; and preserved by fate,
   perhaps in Lethe will not drown
 4 the strophe made by me;
   perhaps — flattering hope! —
   a future dunce will point
   at my famed portrait
 8 and utter: “That now was a poet!”
   So do accept my thanks, admirer
   of the peaceful Aonian maids,
   0 you whose memory will preserve
12 my volatile creations,
   you whose benevolent hand will pat
   the old man's laurels!

   “Whither? Ah me, those poets!”
   “Good-by, Onegin. Time for me to leave.”
   “I do not hold you, but where do
 4 you spend your evenings?” “At the Larins'.”
   “Now, that's a fine thing. Mercy, man —
   and you don't find it difficult
   thus every evening to kill time?”
 8 “Not in the least.” “I cannot understand.
   From here I see what it is like:
   first — listen, am I right? —
   a simple Russian family,
12 a great solicitude for guests,
   jam, never-ending talk
   of rain, of flax, of cattle yard.”

   “So far I do not see what's bad about it.”
   “Ah, but the boredom — that is bad, my friend.”
   “Your fashionable world I hate;
 4 dearer to me is the domestic circle
   in which I can…” “Again an eclogue!
   Ah, that will do, old boy, for goodness' sake.
   Well, so you're off; I'm very sorry.
 8 Oh, Lenski, listen — is there any way
   for me to see this Phyllis,
   subject of thoughts, and pen,
   and tears, and rhymes, et cetera?
12 Present me.” “You are joking.” “No.”
   “I'd gladly.” “When?” “Now, if you like.
   They will be eager to receive us.”