Impressions of adulthood start with a cascade of masquerade. To look mature, adolescents put on make-ups, wear high heels and suits, and pick up jargons indecipherable to teenagers. Time was, they could still experience throbs and pangs, but time is, these traits are lost to the giant masquerade. And it will be decades before they can sense the irreparable loss. When time was and time is clash head-on, tragedies happen. Such kind of tragedy is hardly specific to any individual, but propagates. Scarcely can anyone escape.

Branded as the Russian epic love poem, Eugene Onegin elaborates on the evolvement of a tragedy. What makes this story a tragedy? Our two heroes repeatedly losing hold of one another, and finally, though both acknowledging their love, choosing to bide farewell because of maturity. Heart wrenching—a good old “they could have made it.” Partly, this tragedy stems from the irreversible maneuver to outgrow puberty’s phase to put on masquerade.

Tattiana Larina, innocent maiden of the countryside, admirer of Onegin, sufferer of her unrequited love. Deserted after witnessing the duel between Onegin and Lenski, she managed to ponder on the exact characteristic of Onegin. Then she moved to Moscow, married. Years passed when she re-encountered Onegin, this time self-asserted, mature. Though acknowledging her still-present love for Onegin, she left him.

Now, who exactly is Tattiana? Her first presence in canto the second gives us a lively metaphor:

Shy, silent did the maid appear / As in the timid forest deer.

(Canto the second, XXV)

Just like the deer in forest, Tattiana is timid enough to shy away from every sumptuous occasions and resort to her books, sensitive enough to have her mind occupied by Onegin for every single moment after she met him, fragile enough to be stirred by the excitement of first love. Pushkin lent almost all credits of scenery descriptions to Tattiana, which alone reinforced her sensitivity to the subtleties in nature and human emotions. This is demonstrated in the one follows:

She loved upon the balcony / To anticipate the break of day, / When on the pallid eastern sky / The starry beacons fade away, / The horizon luminous doth grow, / Morning’s forerunners, breezes blow / And gradually day unfolds.

(Canto the second, XXVIII)

And not at all different from the deer, Tattiana loved small. Possessing Onegin never has been, or will be her motivation. Unlike Olga, Tattiana is more than satisfied by the mere presence of Onegin, which act itself makes Tattiana’s heart flutter. By loving small, she puts herself to a subservient foothold as opposed to Onegin’s idolized statue. But one trait sets her apart from other village girls: her love is sincere and “limitless” among the playfulness surrounding her. Her anticipation of love is shown in an eclipse of her letter to Onegin:

If the fond hope I could have fanned / At times, if only once a week, / To see you by our fireside stand, / To listen to the words you speak, / Address to you one single phrase / And then to meditate for days / Of one thing till again we met.

(Canto the third, XXXIII)

One quote gave me throbs particularly; I’ll paste it down below:

Tania doth by the casement linger / And breathes upon the chilly glass, / Dreaming of what not, pretty lass, / And traces with a slender finger / Upon its damp opacity, / The mystic monogram, O. E.

(Canto the third, XXXIX)

With all that has been said, the Tattiana in countryside is a love-torn darling. Real emotions feed her, be them pure joy, gnawing anticipation, forlorn desertion, or sensitive observations. Even after she is kindly rejected/protected by Onegin, her being agonized by the poison of love still resembles genuine emotions. It is the collection of such emotion that shapes the trait special to Tatiana (when doing without, Tattiana will possibly be Olga).

But in the end, everything changes. If Tattiana were the same, she wouldn’t reject Onegin. She would jump right in to his arms with tears tumbling down, leave her sumptuous albeit empty life instantly, and never look back. But these imaginations won’t happen. Tattiana, in other words, has “grown.” True, she is still stirred by the passionate notes of Onegin, and the shadow of the old Tattiana lingers still:

Alone the princess sitteth there, / Pallid and with dishevelled hair, / Gazing upon a note below. / Her tears flow plentifully and / Her cheek reclines upon her hand.”

(Canto the eighth, XXXIX)

But her words to Onegin, the very idea she is straining to instill in her mind, are as such:

But now—what brings you to my feet?— / How mean, how pusillanimous! / A prudent man like you and brave / To shallow sentiment a slave!

(Canto the eighth, XLV)

......

Your heart possesses, I know well, / Honor and pride inflexible. / I love you—to what end deceive?— / But I am now another’s bride— / For ever faithful will abide.

(Canto the eighth, XLVI)

No one knows if she has faith in her words. But clearly, she is convincing every cell in her own self to believe in them. What Tattiana brands Onegin’s love to be is “pusillanimous.” This brings us back to the admonition given by Onegin when Tattiana first wrote her love letter, in which Onegin, with a gentleman’s attitude, advised Tattiana away from falling in love with him. The psychological battle for Tattiana is no doubt consuming. But sustaining the loss and heartaches, Tattiana is now free—free from entangled love and desires. This state, as viewed by Tattiana, is bravery. The opposite action—seeking love once more when both of them have matured—is considered to be coward-like. What we have prided in her—excitements, fragility, sensitivity—are all condemned by herself to be “shallow sentiment.” So she is willing to demonstrate: though I’m still feeling the pangs of love, please stay away; farewell. Right now, Tattiana is sensible in a heart wrenching fashion: through the course of “maturing,” she has renounced all the traits that have once signified her apart from the crowd.

How did this happen? The transition is only subtly hinted in canto the seventh. Partially sensing the truth character of Onegin is one factor, and another be her moving from the countryside to Moscow. The two physical locations yield connotations contributive to Tattiana’s transition: the countryside is meditative, mystique, and charming, while Moscow is pretending with fake smiles and connections, menacing under a polite cover, and tiresome. To survive, Tattiana has no other choice but to conform to the different standards the two locations confer. Past is in the past. Therefore, she has to put on the masquerade:

But Tania just as in a dream / Without participation hears, / Their voices nought to her impart / And the lone secret of her heart, / Her sacred hoard of joy and tears, / She buries deep within her breast / Nor aught confides unto the rest.

(Canto the seventh, XLIV)

......

The languid mind could smile at nought, / Heart would not throb albeit in jest— / Even amusing fools we miss / In thee, thou world of empty bliss.”

(Canto the seventh, XLV)

Why is this a tragedy? Because Tattiana has renounced herself. She could have chosen Onegin and live as an outlaw, but the education of her mother and nanny, too stubbornly instilled in her, prompts her to choose the “right way:” the way of moral restrain, of twisting her own character, of bidding farewell to the real love of her life.

It’d be scandalous to say that Tattiana is wrong. Her choice is sensible, probably even beneficial in the long run, but still—it is tragic to see the old Tattiana, the "real" Tattiana, dead and gone. What makes this pain resonate is that such choice is hardly foreign to our lives. Most of the times, people grow mature to put on masquerades: convincing ourselves that the “right way” is the best option, forcing ourselves into the approved doctrines, growing up to lost the initial yearnings to obligations of adulthood. Too often, we become Tattiana.

Credit goes to: 霁溪