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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
A brand new translation of this classic Russian work. Bored and aloof, tired of St Petersburg high society, Yevgeny Onegin goes to live on the country estate he has just inherited from his uncle. There he encounters Tatyana, who becomes hopelessly infatuated with him. From this story Pushkin creates his sublime masterpiece of love, death, duelling, rivalry, identity and the search for happiness; the lodestar for all of Russian literature. By turns playful, philosophical, sardonic and mournful, brimming with rich descriptions of Russian life, from drinking and dancing to crisp wintry landscapes, Yevgeny Onegin is a work of thrilling energy. Anthony Briggs's deft and vibrant new translation brilliantly conveys this vitality, capturing all the supple lightness and humour, as well as the depth, of Pushkin's luminous verse novel. Alexander Pushkin was born in 1799. He published his first poem when he was a teenager, and in 1820 his first long poem —Ruslan and Lyudmila—made him famous. His work, including the novel-in-verse Yevgeny Onegin, the poem The Bronze Horseman, the play Boris Godunov and the short story 'The Queen of Spades', has secured his place as one of the greatest writers, in any language, ever to have lived. He died aged just 37, having been wounded in a duel—Pushkin's 29th—by his brother-in-law.
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ALEXANDER PUSHKIN
YEVGENY ONEGIN
—A Novel in Verse—
Translated from the Russian with an introduction and a note on the translation by
ANTHONY BRIGGS
PUSHKIN PRESS LONDON
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
ALEXANDER PUSHKIN is, by universal assent, the most important figure in the history of Russian culture, and his finest work is Yevgeny Onegin (1823–31). He is to Russia what Dante is to Italy, Shakespeare to England and Cervantes to Spain, and for the Russians his novel in verse is a rough equivalent to those other nations’ greatest achievefments, The Divine Comedy, King Lear and Don Quixote. Without Pushkin the literature of his country could not have developed in the way that it did, and the Russian language itself would have been different. So, why is Yevgeny Onegin less well-known than all the other world-class masterpieces? The answer has to do with the peculiar properties of this work, which underwrite its quality but also make it very difficult to translate. English translations there have been, a dozen or so since the first one in 1881, and if we are to understand this matter we shall have to look into them in order to define the special difficulties and consider the ways in which they have been dealt with by the various translators in England and America.
This is not to say that a new formula has been discovered, and we can now magically produce a definitive or proper version to outshine all that have gone before. For one thing, each of the previous translations of this novel is an enormous achievement in itself, accomplished through hundreds of hours of devoted application and no little talent for the job in hand. English translators of Russian prose are also, in general, good linguists and gifted writers, but in their ranks lurk a good number of rather poor amateur optimists who have not been quite up to the task. There are no such mediocrities in the small field of Onegin translators; all have served Pushkin well. To equal their efforts would be no small achievement, to surpass them may be impossible, but to be different from them (in a carefully considered way) is worth attempting. But first we must look briefly at the man himself, his life and the general run of his work.
Russia’s Best-Loved Writer
Alexander Pushkin, poet, dramatist, novelist and short-story writer, lived a life that was short, intense and largely unhappy. His ancestry is unusual: on his father’s side he came from an ancient noble family, and, on his mother’s, his great-grandfather had been brought as a black slave boy from Abyssinia, eventually to become a long-living favourite of Peter the Great. The poet was always proud of his African origins.
Born in Moscow in 1799, he attended the lycée at Tsarskoye Selo, where his talent for poetry first emerged. In 1817 he entered government service, but because of his liberal views he was exiled to the south in 1820. In 1824 he was dismissed from the service and sent into house arrest near Pskov, from where he did not return to Moscow until after the accession of Nicholas I the following year. Nicholas, aware of the dangerous attitudes displayed by this popular young writer, became his personal censor. Pushkin escaped involvement in the Decembrist revolt of 1825, not least because the serious subversives regarded him as unreliable, but his life in the capital was uncomfortable and fraught with political danger. In 1832 he married a society beauty, Natalya Goncharova, but penurious married life brought him little happiness. He died after a duel defending his wife’s honour in 1837. His had been an unsettled and recurrently troubled life, partly uplifted by his acceptance as an important writer, though even that began to fade as the age of prose stole over the landscape of poetry in which he had thriven. As with Mozart, who died at a similar age, rather than regretting what he might have written had he lived on, the world must be grateful that he wrote so prolifically during his short life. Pushkin was the author of eight hundred lyrics, a dozen narrative poems culminating in The Bronze Horseman, several dramatic works including Boris Godunov and Mozart and Salieri, a number of stories in prose, the finest of which is The Queen of Spades, and a large body of critical articles, historical studies and letters. His works are deeply loved, and many of them have been consigned to memory by educated Russians.
This writer’s greatest achievement, apart from the literary quality of his work as a whole, in which the disciplines of classicism mesh with new freedoms released in the age of Romanticism, is nothing less than to have reformed his national language. This bold claim is no exaggeration. As he grew up, the young Pushkin was presented with at least three different linguistic forces existing as separate entities in his large country. Posh people spoke French, ignoring or despising ordinary Russian, though Pushkin heard a good deal of this tongue from the local lads and also from his dear old nanny, Arina Rodionovna (who makes an endearing guest appearance as Tatyana’s nurse in the third chapter of Yevgeny Onegin). In addition, he was continually subjected in church and at school to the rich sonorities of Old Church Slavonic. By some miracle, almost without thinking about it, he created modern Russian simply by using it, choosing at will between elegant Gallicisms, vernacular Russian and his nation’s equivalent of our King James Bible and Book of Common Prayer, with a sensitivity to sound, style and meaning that gives him an elevated place in the annals of linguistic reform. The newly expressive modern language was snapped up immediately by writers such as Lermontov and Gogol, and gratefully assimilated by all the (now legendary) Russian authors who followed on so soon. Every writer since Pushkin has acknowledged the latter’s significant contribution to his rapidly developing culture, and they all look back with special affection to Yevgeny Onegin.
The Story
(New readers may prefer to leave this section until later)
This strange work is both a poem and a novel, with the advantages of both—a good, modern story of frustrated love and death, with many fascinating incidents, a group of interesting characters who raise still unresolved questions of human psychology, and a literary manner that combines an acute sense of construction and form with a remarkable feeling for language at its most effective, all of this seasoned with a strong sense of humour. It has no equal or parallel in the great pantheon of world literature.
First the story. A young man, Yevgény Onégin (twenty-four years old when the novel starts in 1820), inherits his uncle’s estate, but when he goes to live there he finds the place no less boring than the city (Chapter One). He befriends a bright seventeen-year-old neighbour, Vladímir Lénsky, who is in love with a local girl, Ólga Lárina (Chapter Two). Her elder sister, Tatyána, falls in love with Onegin, and naively offers herself to him in a long letter (Chapter Three). Uninterested, Onegin rejects her approach and lives on in the country like a recluse. Months later he is invited to Tatyana’s name-day celebrations. By this time Olga and Vladimir are planning their wedding (Chapter Four). Tatyana endures a lurid nightmare, in which she is rescued by Onegin, who then stabs Lensky. The evening dance is too provincial and rustic to merit being called a ball; nevertheless, Onegin is furious with Lensky for drawing him into a grander occasion than he had anticipated, and he monopolizes Olga to an insulting degree. Lensky has no option but to challenge his “friend” to a duel (Chapter Five). He is shot dead (Chapter Six). Onegin departs. Tatyana visits his manor, browses through his books and discovers what a shallow character he is. Her family moves to Moscow (Chapter Seven). Three years later Onegin arrives in Moscow to find her married to a rich, prominent figure. In a letter echoing hers, he declares his love for her. She rejects him, saying she will not betray her husband. The story concludes in the spring of 1825 (Chapter Eight).
Many people who do not yet know the original work will recognize this as substantially the same story that is told in Tchaikovsky’s famous opera of the same name. This work has enjoyed a massive rise in popularity over the years (as has the overall public estimation of the composer’s genius) and it has now become a special favourite among opera-lovers. Tchaikovsky not only wrote the music but also penned nearly all of the libretto, which is a work of the highest literary-musical achievement—anything but the desecration of a sacred text, as it has so often been described by the Russians themselves. But that is another story…
Critics have been rather too kind to Onegin. The cold facts could scarcely be clearer: an experienced man about town with several duels behind him ruthlessly dispatches an ingénu poet for no obvious reason, though one suspects he is motivated by envy of the young man’s happiness. We have no space to develop this argument in detail, but readers should be warned against the diversity of false excuses paraded to exculpate the eponymous “hero”. He has been seen as a helpless child of his age, someone constrained by the stifling political atmosphere of the day in Russia, a victim of Fate, a sufferer from the mysterious (non-existent) European malaise called mal du siècle, a slave to contemporary convention and codes of behaviour, and a prey to all sorts of other unseen forces conditioning his conduct—all of this in a (largely unsuccessful) attempt to mitigate his guilt as the murderer of young Lensky. The most famous of Onegin critics and translators, Vladimir Nabokov, tried to persuade himself (and us) that Yevgeny is much younger than he really is, so that the two men might seem more evenly matched and the killer less culpable. Some critics acknowledge his unprincipled behaviour but claim that in his worst moments he is “acting out of character”. But the truth remains clear: Onegin had many opportunities and methods for avoiding first the duel and then the death of his opponent—and he spurned them all. Moreover, everything he does, sad to say, is consistently in character. Mind you, this is only one opinion; its very opposite was asserted by an American critic who believes that “Onegin is actually determined [by Russian society] in all his actions.” A great deal of alternative critical material is available to those interested in looking further into the characterization of Yevgeny Onegin.
Much the same applies to other characters in the novel, who are also open to a wide range of interpretation. The heroine, Tatyana, for instance—lovely young girl that she is—may have been glorified somewhat beyond her deserts. For one thing, her rapid development over a couple of years from bumpkin status to the top echelons of St Petersburg society is a challenge to probability, as indeed is the conversion (over a similar period) of the amoral, hard-hearted Onegin into a lovelorn worshipper near to madness. And, by the way, the famous rejection scene in Chapter Eight is rather a sham—there could surely be no serious prospect of Tatyana’s throwing away the advantages of her new position for the corpse-like apparition who has suddenly re-emerged to stalk her. As to Lensky and Olga, they have been treated rather too ponderously by a number of critics. The young couple are still teenagers and surely cannot be expected to bear scrutiny as if they were fully developed adults with a lot of life experience.
These issues, and numerous others like them, need to be argued through in detail—as they often have been in many dozens of books. We mention them briefly to demonstrate the psychological complexity of this novel, as well as the life-and-death issues that are at stake in it. These factors alone put this novel into an important place; despite the flippant tone adopted by the ostensibly casual narrator, his story plumbs greater depths of significance than you will find in contemporary stories and novels in Europe, from Austen to Chateaubriand, and from Richardson to Rousseau and Goethe. The Onegin narrative, with its interest in psychology, morality and (obliquely) politics, its musings on happiness and death, and its remarkable progress from the boisterous, youthful high spirits of Chapter One to “the resigned and muffled tragedy” (Prince Mirsky) that ensues, reads like a true and immediate precursor of the profound Russian writing that will outclass the literary achievement of all other nations in the nineteenth century. Even without the poetry, it makes the husband-hunt of Pride and Prejudice, written only a decade earlier, seem old-fashioned and superficial.
But you cannot begin to assess Yevgeny Onegin without the poetry, because this is its greatest strength. It flows and bubbles “like champagne in sunshine” (Mirsky again), with all the fluency and irony of Byron at his best but under stricter control. As in Don Juan, for instance, there are many digressions, but Pushkin keeps them shorter, timing their flow and return with immaculate precision and nice apologies for having strayed from the path of narrative duty. These little cadenzas are among the loveliest delights of the novel, especially in the first chapter, when Pushkin amusingly presents ideas on education, society values, food and drink, seduction techniques, the theatre, the ballet and the ballroom, the loveliness of a winter morning in the city and the contrasting countryside—while all the time sketching a subtle portrait of his “hero”, not sparing the faults of his character, which will determine the tragedy about to unfold. The carefully modulated developments and interruptions are so exquisitely written, and the details of Russian life are so lovingly set down (with undiscriminating twenty-twenty vision), that all lovers of Russian literature come together in nominating the opening section of Yevgeny Onegin as the best Russian ever written, and they all know large tracts of it by heart. (This admirer once learnt the first sixty stanzas by heart and went about like William Wordsworth, declaiming them in the country air.) Would that an earnest translator could capture even a glimmer of this unusual quality in a poor English version. Further details about the quality of the novel, and some technical material explaining the translator’s strategy and tactics may be pursued in the Translator’s Note.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
The Cultural Road Not Taken
PUSHKIN’S spontaneous incorporation of vernacular speech into ancient and modern Russian was matched by a similar, but more carefully considered, development in his themes, subjects, stories and style. With access to a large library when very young he read voraciously, especially the classics, French Neoclassical works (particularly the stylized seventeenth-century theatre) and not a little English literature. To his eternal credit he chose not to follow the French models. French professors have always controlled their language carefully, guarding it against “corruption” from abroad by scrutinizing every new word or phrase, and voting on whether to accept it into the French lexicon or refuse its admission. (Incidentally, I have just checked on Google and discovered to my astonishment that, even in our digital age, the Académie française still operates as the “official moderator of the French language”, insisting that definite rules always be obeyed in the interests of “purity and eloquence”. It is an unpleasant thing to say, but the collapse of the French language from its position as as the main language of international communication a couple of centuries ago may owe much to unhealthy overprotection of this kind.)
Pushkin would bring Russian into line with the English language. Here was an impure tongue that had flourished and expanded through promiscuity—she was anybody’s. It was the same story in literature. Take, for instance, the famous and favourite line of French poetry, the Alexandrine, long before Pushkin so tied-down, symmetrical and unbending that it had become tedious. Every line (of twelve or thirteen syllables) must be end-stopped, and at the halfway point it must pause noticeably to create a “caesura”. Rhyming couplets were de rigueur, and they must alternate one-syllable rhymes with two-syllable rhymes (hence the twelve or thirteen). What mattered was not the actual ending alone—in the interests of “rich rhyming” you were even required to supply a “supporting consonant” (before the last stressed syllable), which would mean in an English equivalent that bloom/gloom was a legitimate rhyme, but tomb/gloom was not; likewise, belated/related yes, related/created no.
Pushkin’s response to all this was to throw the rule book away and elope with Shakespeare, having fallen in love with the Englishman’s unrhymed iambic lines with their asymmetry, free-flowing enjambment, linguistic inventiveness and capacity for springing surprises (such as lapsing occasionally into prose). This libertarian attitude was also applied to subject matter. Voltaire had raised an acidulated protest against Shakespeare’s use in serious drama of the vulgar phrase “not a mouse stirring” on the Elsinore battlements; Pushkin thought the mouse had as much right to be there and to enjoy being mentioned as anyone else in the play. Like his master, the Russian poet wanted every sort of disregarded creature to emerge onto the published page. Commoners would sit down with kings, bawdiness would live alongside beauty, and people of every description would be brought forward.
Take, for instance, an inconspicuous stanza halfway through the first chapter of Yevgeny Onegin (35), in which the jaundiced young Onegin comes back home in the early morning after partying. Interesting and beautiful things are happening all around him, but he is too disaffected and hungover to notice anything. Pushkin rubs this idea in by treating us readers to a little pantomime of morning-fresh activity totally lost on his hero. The morning drum has sounded, telling people to get up and start the day. They have responded as they always do. Out they all come, a dealer, a hawker with his tray, a cabman, a delightful girl from the Okhta district with her milkmaid’s jug, and a fussy German baker busy at his little window, while blue smoke rises in a fine line, showing the stillness of the early day. This a delicious little scene, relevant to the story because its charm is lost on the main character, which tells us much about him, and consisting only of the sights and sounds (and smells from the bakery?) of everyday life. Nothing could be more typical of Pushkin’s manner. You will find another such example in the second stanza of Chapter Five, where another winter morning is brought to life first by a peasant sledging cheerfully through fresh snow, then by a gaudily dressed driver deriving even greater pleasure from hurtling past in a covered sleigh. But happiest of all is a little boy who has made his own form of transport by sitting his little dog up on his sledge while he acts as the driver and mum scolds him through the window. All three are revelling in the natural winter scene, and the little boy would fit straight into Pieter Bruegel’s realistic painting of children’s games that dates back to 1560, were it the right time of year. These modest, anonymous representatives of our species have no obvious claim to intrude upon the pages of a cultural masterpiece, but they add realism and atmosphere, and once you think of them there is no good reason to exclude them. Nothing could be nearer to Shakespeare or more remote from French classicism; none of these people comes near to passing Voltaire’s test of nobility and weighty relevance. Alexander Pushkin’s spontaneous introduction of the common touch into his country’s language and literature is the best thing about him, a stamp of instinctive genius and his greatest claim to fame.
The Translator’s Burden
The new interpreter starts out with a strong admiration for Pushkin and his finest achievement, mixed with deep respect for all the amateur versifiers who have already toiled lovingly to transmit some inkling of it into another language. This is the double burden to be borne by any new translator, together with the certain knowledge that the task is literally impossible.
One can only hope that the thrilling energy of a Pushkin poem can be released in sufficient quantities for some of it to carry across to the non-Russian mind. This is not quite as hopelessly optimistic as it may seem. Russian and English are closer to each other (with their shared strong word stress, huge vocabulary and wide range of acoustic expressiveness) than, for example, French and English. More specifically, Shakespeare, as we have seen, was ten times dearer to Pushkin than any confection of Racine, Corneille and Molière, and Byron’s irreverent appeal was massively greater than that of Lamartine. Thus there is a small chance of making an English translation sound something rather like the original, whereas a French version of Pushkin is unimaginable. (Is there such a thing? Even the transliteration of the poet’s name tells us something: the English “Púshkin”, stressed on the first syllable, looks and sounds quite close to the original whereas the (stressless) French “Pouchkine” has an alien quality, nothing like the Russian.) Armed with this small advantage, we can advance.
When translating a long prose work (as I well know from long experience with War and Peace) it is best to keep well away from earlier translations until you are well into the project. This will avoid all possibility of borrowing or imitation, conscious or otherwise. With Yevgeny Onegin, however, the opposite applies. It is essential to know and judge how previous attempts have tackled the various technical difficulties, such as the English spelling of Russian names, the sonnet-like stanza with its original and slightly complicated rhyme scheme involving many two-syllable rhymes, the variations in language register, the decision to modernize the English or attempt to keep it sounding slightly archaic and self-consciously poetic, and so on. There is a surprisingly wide range of solutions to these problems, and they all need careful consideration.
This is not the place to comb through the existing translations one by one, making close comparisons. That exercise is best left to postgraduate students with time to spare. Besides, it would be invidious to dwell on supposed examples of bad practice or mistaken judgements; the purpose of examining earlier versions is not to revel in triumphalist “improvements” but rather to avoid any dangerous pitfalls and improve the general quality of decision-making. Still, we must report briefly on what we have found in looking at all of the translations listed below.
What’s in a Russian Name?
First, the titular Russian name: Yevgény Onégin, which has not been rendered in this way by any other translator in English. The general preference is for “Eugene Onegin”, though you will also find the forename written as Evgeny. We are going for a straight transliteration of the original rather than the obvious and popular translation into a near English equivalent. One problem with “Eugene” is that, while the name has been widely used in Ireland and has transferred itself to America by emigration, the rest of the anglophone world is less comfortable with it. It does not sound like something central to English culture, as the Russian name is in Pushkin’s world. The first-syllable stress (Eugene) is also hard to manage, and it will sound odd if it is used to rhyme with “seen” or “spleen”. But the most important consideration is simply that the transliterated form preserves a delightful acoustic effect of the original: the fact that these two words (six syllables employing thirteen letters in either language) form a little lyric on their own:
Yevgény
Onégin.
The pleasant euphony of this small phrase is not a thing to be lost. The name makes up a tiny poem in two parts, each consisting of three syllables. (Say it out loud: Yevgény rhymes with “rainy”; Onégin is pronounced “An-yé-gin”, the “o” being unstressed. Yev-gé-ny An-yé-gin.) It does not matter whether you read each word, technically, as a one-foot iambic line with a feminine ending (i.e. having two-syllables, as in habit/rabbit) or treat the two words as perfect amphibrachs (two times te-túm-te); either way you have a couple of perfectly balanced lines in a combination that has an appealing ring. But there is more to it than that. The interplay of consonants and vowels is typical of Pushkin, who is famous for hitting on successful acoustic arrangements apparently through serendipity. Look what happens here. Not only do the two little lines form a strong (if approximate) feminine rhyme (-ény/-égin), but the main letters in the two phrases go like this: e… gén… nég… i, with the first “e” and the last “i” sounding the same (both in Russian like an “i” because the “e” is unstressed). So we suddenly realize that this is a modest example of chiasmus, a device in which parallel forms are presented in one order and then re-presented in reverse (as in, “Nice to see you. To see you nice!”). Thus the name given to the hero sings with its own sweet harmony every time it is used, and since it is possible to fully retain this property in transliteration, we should certainly do so. However, there is irony even in this positive decision: the poetic beauty of this miniature creation is not merited by the hero on whom it has been bestowed: his character and behaviour are not in tune with it, being unbalanced and unbeautiful in the extreme, as we shall see.
Anyone who thinks all of this sounds fanciful could be challenged to change the name to something else, and see if it makes a difference. What if the poet had hit upon Yevgeny Bazarov, Yevgeny Oleshin or Dmitry Onegin? The story and the characters would remain the same, but some spangle of acoustic refinement would have departed from an important work of poetry; on the finest scale of ideal values this hidden property of a novel in verse would have been thinned down, driving it one nuance away from perfection. The importance of such values to this poet was made clear in a poem of 1829 (‘Winter…’), in which he describes what it is like when inspiration deserts a poet: “The sounds won’t come together…”
The ease with which Pushkin achieves intricate effects like this one reminds me of younger days. At the age of eleven I watched a famous batsman (Len Hutton) compile a score of 104 at Bramall Lane; at sixteen I heard my first Mozart, the clarinet concerto. I remember being struck by the simplicity of the skills used on both occasions. You could obviously rush home and perform this kind of high art yourself, because it was so effortless, except that you couldn’t get remotely near the models when you tried. Pushkin’s poetry is consistently of that order: nearly every line of his seems like a happy fluke that could have happened to anyone, until you try to do it yourself and the lucky chances don’t materialize.
We have dwelt long on the two words at the head of this poem, and we shall have to linger over other examples of Pushkin’s poetic effectiveness. (The small number of enthusiasts who want more of this could consult my short book on the novel in the Cambridge University Press series: Landmarks in World Literature, 1992). The point is this: don’t be fooled by the seductive idea of serendipity. Complex organization by a master intelligence is the name of the game. If you are prepared to think like a modern physicist, treating the word like an atom, you will find in the subatomic realm a full range of interrelated particles of sound sharing magical relationships. But it isn’t magic, it isn’t luck; it is creative genius in a holiday mood. And Pushkin’s translator must be intimately aware of the imperceptible tricks and forces that drive and decorate his work, not in order to replicate them in some mechanical way, but at least to guide the English language in some appropriate direction, in the hope that now and then a modest turn of phrase will produce the occasional flash of wit, aptness or originality strong enough to bring out a memory of the original.
The Onegin Stanza
The stanza used in this novel is a tried and tested poetic form: the sonnet. It contains the standard fourteen lines and a fixed rhyme scheme. However, Pushkin’s version is unusual in at least two ways. First, the line has been shortened from the traditional five feet to four (from iambic pentameter to tetrameter). Second, the rhyme scheme has an unusual property. In order to understand what this is, it is necessary to be familiar with the two main family branches into which the sonnet has been traditionally divided. The “Italian” sonnet breaks into two unequal halves. Its first eight lines (the octave) introduce the main idea; a strong break appears at the end of line eight, and the last six lines (the sestet) are then left to provide some kind of response to the first idea—a counter-proposal, re-affirmation or some new departure. Wordsworth’s sonnet composed on Westminster Bridge in 1802, “Earth has not anything to show more fair…”, and Christina Rossetti’s famous poem “Remember me when I am gone away…” are good examples of the form in English literature.
By contrast, the “English” sonnet works the fourteen lines into a different pattern. It begins with three four-line groups (quatrains), each with its own idea, though the three ideas usually amount to an ongoing argument of increasing intensity. These are followed by a terminal couplet containing a good deal of explosive power, enough to complete the preceding argument or dramatically subvert it. Another name for this form is the Shakespearean sonnet since our finest poet was its greatest exponent. (Curiously, Shakespeare appears to have written one sonnet—No. 145 of 154—in eight-syllable lines, the iambic tetrameter used by Pushkin in this novel, though it is not highly regarded in our poetry and it didn’t catch on.)
Within these two basic sonnet shapes there is some room for varying the rhymes, but not much. Typical rhyme schemes might be:
With a stroke of genius (more suited to Russian than English) Pushkin has hit upon a “sonnet” form that can go either way. It can become Italian or English at the flick of a switch in mid-stanza. Here is the basic pattern:
This group of rhymes has no inbuilt preference for one sonnet form over another. Everything depends on the sense and where you place the punctuation. If, according to his whim, the poet chooses to end a proposition at line eight and develop it over the next six lines, he can do so and will produce the following grouping:
[ababccdd] + [effegg]
As a matter of interest, the sestet may be construed as [eff ] + [egg] or [effe] + [gg], again according to where the sense provides a strong line-ending. In either case, there will be an Italian feel to the sonnet as long as the sense comes to strong conclusion—with a full-stop, question mark, exclamation mark or at least a semi-colon—at the end of line eight.
On another occasion he may want the sense to run on down the stanza and come to a resonant conclusion in a powerful final couplet. The way to do this is to take the emphasis away from line eight and supply a strong ending for line twelve. His stanza will then assume the English shape, as follows:
[abab ccdd effe] + [gg]
Pushkin makes full use of this inbuilt flexibility. Almost all of his stanzas begin with a clearly defined first quatrain—there is usually strong punctuation at the end of line four—and a majority of them seem to favour the English mode, because of the limitless possibilities in the terminal couplet for all sorts of striking effects (humour is common among them). But beyond these general observations nothing is predictable. The Onegin stanza is a mettlesome creature; when it starts out you can never tell where it may take you, or by what route. Similarly, when you look back on a stanza it will not remind you of its predecessor, nor of any other stanza; each one will seem to be what it is, a unique little lyric in its own right. Variety of this kind is a true friend, a strong defence against tedium.
Apart from its flexibility, this stanza has one further property underwriting its richness. Two-thirds of the way through it, the reader is almost certain to lose all sense of direction in formal terms. However well you know Pushkin, and this novel in particular, you are not likely to escape the feeling of disorientation in the region of lines eight, nine, ten and eleven. The rhymes fall out in such a way that it is difficult to see immediately in any of these lines whether you are completing a rhyme set up earlier (and precisely where this might have been) or starting a new one. It is surprising to note that in a stanza so carefully regulated by rhyme there are three occasions when three successive lines do not rhyme with each other: [abc], [def ] and [feg]. Two of these three occasions occur at this point in the stanza. All of this creates an impression of greater complexity than really exists, promotes subtlety and suggests mystery. One famous critic has likened this poetic performance to that of a painted ball set spinning: you see its pattern clearly at the beginning and end of its movement, but in mid-spin all you get is a colourful blur.
To sum up: the Onegin stanza is an imaginative version of the sonnet, consisting of three four-line groups, each with a different pattern of rhymes—an easy “alternating” quatrain [abab], a quatrain made up of two couplets [ccdd] and an “envelope” quatrain [effe]—all of this topped off with a strong couplet [gg]. A rhyming formula that looks rigid turns out to be the last word in flexibility. But there is one further complication, which gives rise to the biggest single difficulty for the translator of this magical work—the feminine rhyme. This is not just a problem; it is an intractable bugbear, for the treatment of which you need a bold strategy.
