But well, she’s named Tatyana; gladless, Nor by her sister’s pretty grace,
Nor by her pleasant ruddy freshness She’d catch one’s eyes by simple face.
She’s wild and sad, is daily silent. Like forest calf, she’s often frightened,
In own family she was Like strange a girl in thoughts quite lost;
She never could caress inspire For parents; it all seemed wrong.
Yet being child, in children’s throng To play and jump had none desire,
But at the window, not gay, Was mutely sitting all the day.
XXVI
To pensiveness she got accustomed From cradle to the present day,
And drifting of the country’s pastime In all her dreams looked better, gay.
Her tender fingers didn’t dare To take a needle; she could never
Some frame and lace for working fit, In silk embroider never did.
As sign of lust for future being The master of her home, child
In games with doll can train for mild Decorum of the loyal living:
Importantly repeats for doll The mother’s lessons, though small.
XXVII
Yet being child, at any year Tatyana didn’t play with doll;
About news and fashions dear With dolls she didn’t talk at all,
For all the childish tricks felt sorry, To them was stranger; dreadful story
In winter darkness of the night Was captivating heart and mind.
But when the nurse in summer gathered To Olga all her little friends,
Tatyana hadn’t any trends To play with them in any weather:
She’s always bored by loud laughs By noise of their playful muffs.
XXVIII
On balcony at morning sitting She liked to meet the break of day,
When clouds in the sky are drifting And stars in turn all get away,
And calmly edge of earth is lighting, And, sign of day, the wind is rising,
And gradually rises day.
In winter, when the night’s weak shade
Possesses half of world existing Much longer, in the softened loom
Of pale and foggy, sleepy moon The lazy East is yet asleeping, -
At usual hour stirred up, In candle’s light she’s getting up.
XXIX
The novels were for many years Her inner life, were liked by her;
She loved the fraud about fears Of Richardson and by Rousseau.
Her father was good-humoured being, From age retarted. Scornful feeling
He had of books, as no harm In them he saw, but no charm
Could grasp in idle, futile reading, Was not concerned a little bit
Of what the secret book, she hid, In daughter’s bed till day was dreaming
His wife herself such feeling had: From Richardson to be quite mad.
XXX
She liked the books of Richardson Yet no because them all she read.
And not because the Grandison To Lovelace was by her prefered;
It was because of cousin dear: In Moscow princess Alina
Was talking much of them with pride.
For husband then she was yet bride.
But, being wife, she willy-nilly Yet sighed for man of other kind,
Who pleased her soul and the mind, Much more was touching all her feeling:
Good guy and sergeant of the guards, This Grandison could play the cards.
XXXI