To plead her elder sister's cause.
24
Her sister bore the name Tatyana.
And we now press our wilful claim
To be the first who thus shall honour
A tender novel with that name.*
Why not? I like its intonation;
It has, I know, association
With olden days beyond recall,
With humble roots and servants' hall;
But we must grant, though it offend us:
Our taste in names is less than weak
(Of verses I won't even speak);
Enlightenment has failed to mend us,
And all we've learned from its great store
Is affectationnothing more.
25
So she was called Tatyana, reader.
She lacked that fresh and rosy tone
That made her sister's beauty sweeter
A
nd drew all eyes to her alone.
A wild creature, sad and pensive,
Shy as a doe and apprehensive,
Tatyana seemed among her kin
A stranger who had wandered in.
She never learned to show affection,
To hug her parentseither one;
A child herself, for children's fun
She lacked the slightest predilection,
And oftentimes she'd sit all day
In silence at the window bay.
26
But pensiveness, her friend and treasure
Through all her years since cradle days,
Adorned the course of rural leisure
By bringing dreams before her gaze.
She never touched a fragile finger
To thread a needle, wouldn't linger
Above a tambour to enrich
A linen cloth with silken stitch.
Mark how the world compels submission:
The little girl with docile doll
Prepares in play for protocol,
For every social admonition;
And to her doll, without demur,
Repeats what mama taught to her.
27
But dolls were never Tanya's passion,
