Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

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

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

   But tea is brought: scarce have the damsels
   demurely of their saucers taken hold
   when from behind the door of the long hall
 4 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,
 8 goes up to Olga; Lenski, to Tatiana;
   Miss Harlikov, a marriageable maid
   of overripe years, is secured
   by my Tambovan poet;
12 Buyánov has whirled off Dame Pustyakóv;
   and all have spilled into the hall,
   and in full glory shines the ball.

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

   Monotonous and mad
   like young life's whirl, the noisy
   whirl of the waltz revolves,
 4 pair after pair flicks by.
   Nearing the minute of revenge,
   Onegin, chuckling secretly,
   goes up to Olga, rapidly with her
 8 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
12 again with her the waltz continues;
   all are amazed. Lenski himself
   does not believe his proper eyes.

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

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

   But no, she cannot. Cannot? But what is it?
   Why, Olga has given her word
   already to Onegin. Ah, good God, good God!
 4 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,
 8 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,
12 and gallops off. A brace of pistols,
   two bullets — nothing more —
   shall in a trice decide his fate.

   On noticing that Vladimir had vanished,
   Onegin, by ennui pursued again,
   by Olga's side sank into meditation,
 4 pleased with his vengeance.
   After him Ólinka yawned too,
   sought Lenski with her eyes,
   and the endless cotillion
 8 irked her like an oppressive dream.
   But it has ended. They go in to supper.
   The beds are made. Guests are assigned
   night lodgings — from the entrance hall
12 even to the maids' quarters. Restful sleep
   by all is needed. My Onegin
   alone has driven home to sleep.

   All has grown quiet. In the drawing room
   the heavy Pustyakov
   snores with his heavy better half.
 4 Gvozdin, Buyanov, Petushkov,
   and Flyanov (who is not quite well)
   have bedded in the dining room on chairs,
   with, on the floor, Monsieur Triquet
 8 in underwaistcoat and old nightcap.
   All the young ladies, in Tatiana's
   and Olga's rooms, are wrapped in sleep.
   Alone, sadly by Dian's beam
12 illumined at the window, poor Tatiana
   is not asleep
   and gazes out on the dark field.

   With his unlooked-for apparition,
   the momentary softness of his eyes,
   and odd conduct with Olga,
 4 to the depth of her soul
   she's penetrated. She is quite unable
   to understand him. Jealous
   anguish perturbs her,
 8 as if a cold hand pressed
   her heart; as if beneath her an abyss
   yawned black and dinned....
   “I shall perish,” says Tanya,
12 “but perishing from him is sweet.
   I murmur not: why murmur?
   He cannot give me happiness.”

   Forward, forward, my story!
   A new persona claims us.
   Five versts from Krasnogórie,
 4 Lenski's estate, there lives
   and thrives up to the present time
   in philosophical reclusion
   Zarétski, formerly a brawler,
 8 the hetman of a gaming gang,
   chieftain of rakehells, pothouse tribune,
   but now a kind and simple
   bachelor paterfamilias,
12 a steadfast friend, a peaceable landowner,
   and even an honorable man:
   thus does our age correct itself!

   Time was, the monde's obsequious voice
   used to extol his wicked pluck:
   he, it is true, could from a pistol
 4 at twelve yards hit an ace,
   and, furthermore, in battle too
   once, in real rapture, he distinguished
   himself by toppling from his Kalmuk steed
 8 boldly into the mud,
   swine drunk, and to the French
   fell prisoner (prized hostage!) —
   a modern Regulus, the god of honor,
12 ready to yield anew to bonds
   so as to drain on credit at Véry's37
   two or three bottles every morning.