Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

   The roads at home are bad at present;42
   forgotten bridges rot;
   at stages the bedbugs and fleas
 4 do not give one a minute's sleep.
   No taverns. In a cold log hut
   there hangs for show a highfalutin
   but meager bill of fare, and teases
 8 one's futile appetite,
   while the rural Cyclopes
   in front of a slow fire
   treat with a Russian hammer
12 Europe's light article,
   blessing the ruts
   and ditches of the fatherland.

   Now, on the other hand, driving in winter's
   cold season is agreeable and easy.
   As in a modish song a verse devoid of thought,
 4 smooth is the winter track.
   Alert are our Automedons,
   our troikas never tire,
   and mileposts, humoring the idle gaze,
 8 before one's eyes flick like a fence.43
   Unluckily, Dame Larin dragged along,
   fearing expensive stages,
   with her own horses, not with posters,
12 and our maid tasted
   viatic tedium in full:
   they traveled seven days and nights.

   But now 'tis near. Before them
   the ancient tops of white-stone Moscow
   already glow
 4 with golden crosses, ember-bright.
   Ah, chums, how pleased I was
   when, all at once, the hemicircle
   of churches and of belfries,
 8 of gardens, domes, opened before me!
   How often during woeful separation,
   in my wandering fate,
   Moscow, I thought of you!
12 Moscow!... How much within that sound
   is blended for a Russian heart!
   How much is echoed there!

   Here is, surrounded by its park,
   Petrovskiy Castle. Somberly
   it prides itself on recent glory.
 4 In vain Napoleon, intoxicated
   with his last fortune, waited
   for kneeling Moscow with the keys
   of the old Kremlin: no,
 8 to him my Moscow did not go
   with craven brow;
   not revelry, not gifts of bienvenue —
   a conflagration she prepared
12 for the impatient hero.
   From here, in meditation sunk,
   he watched the formidable flame.

   Good-by, witness of fallen glory,
   Petrovskiy Castle. Hup! Don't stop,
   get on! The turnpike posts already
 4 show white. Along Tverskaya Street
   the coach now hies across the dips.
   There flicker by: watch boxes, peasant women,
   urchins, shops, street lamps,
 8 palaces, gardens, monasteries,
   Bokharans, sledges, kitchen gardens,
   merchants, small shacks, muzhiks,
   boulevards, towers, Cossacks,
12 pharmacies, fashion shops,
   balconies, lions on the gates,
   and flocks of jackdaws on the crosses.

   In this exhausting promenade
   an hour elapses, then another,
   and in a lane hard by St. Chariton's
 4 the sleigh-coach at a gate before a house
   now stops. To an old aunt,
   for the fourth year ill with consumption,
   at present they have come.
 8 The door is opened wide for them
   by a bespectacled gray Kalmuk,
   in torn caftan, a stocking in his hand.
   There meets them in the drawing room
12 the cry of the princess
   on a divan prostrated. The old ladies,
   weeping, embrace, and exclamations pour:

   “Princess, mon ange!” “Pachette!” “Aline!”
   “Who would have thought?” “How long it's been!”
   “For how much time?” “Dear! Cousin!”
 4 “Sit down — how queer it is!
   I'd swear the scene is from a novel!”
   “And this is my daughter Tatiana.”
   “Ah, Tanya! Come up here to me —
 8 I seem to be delirious in my sleep.
   Coz, you remember Grandison?”
   “What, Grandison? Oh, Grandison!
   Why, yes, I do, I do. Well, where is he?”
12 “In Moscow — dwelling by St. Simeon's;
   on Christmas Eve he called on me:
   got a son married recently.

   “As to the other... But we'll tell it all
   later, won't we? To all her kin
   straightway tomorrow we'll show Tanya.
 4 Pity that paying visits is for me
   too much — can hardly drag my feet.
   But you are worn out from the journey;
   let's go and have a rest together...
 8 Oh, I've no strength... my chest is tired...
   now even joy, not only woe,
   oppressive is to me. My dear,
   I am already good for nothing...
12 When one starts getting old, life is so horrid.”
   And here, exhausted utterly,
   in tears, she broke into a coughing fit.

   The invalid's kindness and gladness touch
   Tatiana; but in her
   new domicile she's ill at ease,
 4 used as she is to her own chamber.
   Beneath a silken curtain,
   in a new bed sleep does not come to her,
   and the early peal of church bells,
 8 forerunner of the morning tasks,
   arouses her from bed.
   Tanya sits down beside the window.
   The darkness thins; but she
12 does not discern her fields:
   there is before her a strange yard,
   a stable, kitchen house, and fence.

   And now, on rounds of family dinners
   Tanya they trundle daily to present
   to grandsires and to grandams
 4 her abstract indolence.
   For kin come from afar
   there's everywhere a kind reception,
   and exclamations, and good cheer.
 8 “How Tanya's grown! Such a short while
   it seems since I godmothered you!”
   “And since I bore you in my arms!”
   “And since I pulled you by the ears!”
12 “And since I fed you gingerbread!”
   And the grandmothers keep repeating
   in chorus: “How our years do fly!”

   But one can see no change in them;
   in them all follows the old pattern:
   the spinster princess, Aunt Eléna,
 4 has got the very same tulle mob;
   still cerused is Lukéria Lvóvna;
   the same lies tells Lyubóv Petróvna;
   Iván Petróvich is as stupid;
 8 Semyón Petróvich as tightfisted;
   and Palagéya Nikolávna
   has the same friend, Monsieur Finemouche,
   and the same spitz, and the same husband —
12 while he is still the sedulous clubman,
   is just as meek, is just as deaf,
   still eats and drinks enough for two.

   Their daughters embrace Tanya.
   Moscow's young graces
   at first in silence
 4 from head to foot survey Tatiana;
   find her somewhat bizarre,
   provincial, and affected,
   and somewhat pale and thin,
 8 but on the whole not bad at all;
   then, to nature submitting, they
   befriend her, lead her to their rooms,
   kiss her, squeeze tenderly her hands,
12 fluff up her curls after the fashion,
   and in their singsong tones impart
   the secrets of the heart, secrets of maidens,

   conquests of others and their own,
   hopes, pranks, daydreams.
   The innocent talks flow,
 4 embellished with slight calumny.
   Then, in requital for their patter,
   her heart's confession they
   sweetly request.
 8 But Tanya in a kind of daze
   their speeches hears without response,
   understands nothing,
   and her heart's secret,
12 fond treasure of both tears and bliss,
   she mutely guards meantime
   and shares with none.