Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

   Could it be that the same Tatiana
   to whom, alone with her,
   at the beginning of our novel
 4 back in a stagnant, distant region,
   in the fine fervor of moralization
   precepts he once had preached;
   the one from whom a letter he preserves
 8 where the heart speaks,
   where all is out, all unrestrained;
   that little girl — or is he dreaming? —
   that little girl whom in her humble state
12 he had passed over — could it be that now
   she had been so indifferent,
   so bold with him?

   He leaves the close-packed rout,
   he drives home, pensive; by a fancy  —
   now sad, now charming,
 4 his first sleep is disturbed.
   He wakes; is brought
   a letter: Prince N. begs the honor of his presence
   at a soiree. Good God — to her?
 8 I will, I will! And rapidly a courteous
   reply he scrawls. What is the matter
   with him? In what strange daze is he?
   What has stirred at the bottom of that cold
12 and sluggish soul?
   Vexation? Vanity? Or once again
   youth's worry — love?

   Once more Onegin counts the hours,
   once more he can't wait for the day to end.
   But ten strikes: he drives off,
 4 he has flown forth, he's at the porch;
   with tremor he goes in to the princess:
   he finds Tatiana
   alone, and for some minutes
 8 they sit together. From Onegin's lips
   the words come not. Ill-humored,
   awkward, he barely, barely
   replies to her. His head
12 is full of a persistent thought.
   Persistently he looks: she sits
   easy and free.

   The husband comes. He interrupts
   this painful tête-à-tête;
   he with Onegin recollects
 4 the pranks, the jests of former years.
   They laugh. Guests enter.
   Now with the large-grained salt of high-life malice
   the conversation starts to be enlivened.
 8 Before the lady of the house, light nonsense
   flashed without stupid affectation,
   and meantime interrupted it
   sensible talk, without trite topics,
12 eternal truths, or pedantry,
   nor did its free vivacity
   shock anybody's ears.

   Yet here was the flower of the capital,
   both high nobility and paragons of fashion;
   the faces one meets everywhere,
 4 the fools one cannot go without;
   here were, in mobcaps and in roses,
   elderly ladies, wicked-looking;
   here were several maidens —
 8 unsmiling faces;
   here was an envoy, speaking
   of state affairs;
   here was, with fragrant hoary hair,
12 an old man in the old way joking —
   with eminent subtility and wit,
   which is somewhat absurd today!

   Here was, to epigrams addicted
   a gentleman cross with everything:
   with the too-sweet tea of the hostess,
 4 the ladies' platitudes, the ton of men,
   the comments on a foggy novel,
   the badge two sisters had been granted,
   the falsehoods in reviews, the war,
 8 the snow, and his own wife.
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12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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   Here was […], who had gained
   distinction by the baseness of his soul
   and blunted in all albums,
 4 Saint-P[riest], your pencils;
   in the doorway another ball dictator
   stood like a fashion plate,
   as rosy as a Palm Week cherub,
 8 tight-coated, mute and motionless;
   and a far-flung traveler,
   an overstarched jackanapes,
   provoked a smile among the guests
12 by his studied deportment,
   and an exchange of silent glances was
   his universal condemnation.

   But my Onegin the whole evening heeds
   only Tatiana:
   not the shy little maiden,
 4 enamored, poor and simple —
   but the indifferent princess,
   the inaccessible
   goddess of the luxurious, queenly Neva.
 8 O humans! All of you resemble
   ancestress Eve:
   what's given to you does not lure,
   incessantly the serpent calls you
12 to him, to the mysterious tree:
   you must have the forbidden fruit supplied to you,
   for paradise without that is no paradise to you.

   How changed Tatiana is!
   Into her role how firmly she has entered!
   The ways of a constricting rank
 4 how fast she has adopted!
   Who'd dare to seek the tender little lass
   in this majestic,
   this careless legislatrix of salons?
 8 And he had stirred her heart!
   About him in the dark of night,
   as long as Morpheus had not come flying,
   time was, she virginally brooded,
12 raised to the moon a dying eye,
   dreaming that someday she might make
   with him life's humble journey!

   All ages are to love submissive;
   but to young virgin hearts
   its impulses are beneficial
 4 as are spring storms to fields.
   They freshen in the rain of passions,
   and renovate themselves, and ripen,
   and vigorous life gives
 8 both rich bloom and sweet fruit.
   But at a late and barren age,
   at the turn of our years,
   sad is the trace of a dead passion....
12 Thus storms of the cold autumn
   into a marsh transform the meadow
   and strip the woods around.

   There is no doubt: alas! Eugene
   in love is with Tatiana like a child.
   In throes of amorous designs
 4 he spends both day and night.
   Not harking to the mind's stern protests,
   up to her porch, glass vestibule,
   daily he drives.
 8 He chases like a shadow after her;
   he's happy if he casts
   the fluffy boa on her shoulders,
   or touches torridly
12 her hand, or if he parts in front of her
   the motley host of liveries, or picks up
   her handkerchief.

   She does not notice him,
   no matter how he strives — even to death;
   receives him freely at her house; at those
 4 of others says two or three words to him;
   sometimes welcomes with a mere bow,
   sometimes does not take any notice:
   there's not a drop of coquetry in her,
 8 the high world does not tolerate it.
   Onegin is beginning to grow pale;
   she does not see or does not care;
   Onegin wastes away:
12 he's practically phthisical.
   All send Onegin to physicians;
   in chorus these send him to spas.

   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.