Most like what is spleen to Englishmen, Or more simply 'the blues' in Russian, Had gradually sunk and overwhelmed him; At least to shoot himself, thank God, He had no wish to make an attempt But yet his life grew cold and unkempt. Like Byron's Childe Harold, gloomy, mournful, He often appeared in dining rooms. But neither gossip, nor sighs, nor Boston, Nor tender looks moved him; for all was lost on Him, nothing could touch his feeling, He noticed nothing that was appealing. XXXIX, XL, XLI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XLII You fashionable freaks of high society, He first neglected and abandoned you, And to tell the truth, today we know The crushing boredom of being U. Although it is true some women may Talk both of Bentham and of Sey, But generally their conversation Though innocent, is awful tripe; Besides they are so pure, so sinless, So haughty and so intellectual, So full of good deeds and so effectual, So delicately circumspect, so blameless, So unapproachable for men That their sight alone awakes our spleen. XLIII And you, sweet beauties, darling young ones, Whom, late at night when all's at rest Across St. Petersburg's cobblestones The dashing drozhkies carry with zest, Even you Yevgeny at last abandoned. A recluse from tempestuous delights Onegin shut himself indoors Then taking his pen in hand and yawning He tried to write - but the stubborn toil Was nauseous to him. No spawning Words came rushing from his quill, And he did not enter the perky guild Of writers, of whom I cannot be critical, For the reason that I am of their circle
The flame does not flare up from the ashes, And, though I am sad, yet my eyes are dry, And soon, the trace of the storm flown by In my deepest soul will be totally quenched. Then definitely I shall start to compose An epic poem of twenty five cantos. LX I have already thought of an underlying plan, And what the hero's name will be; Meanwhile of this present novel in verse The first chapter I've finished and set to rest. I have looked at the lot of it through and through And in it there are many contradictions, But to put them right is not my aim, For censorship must have work to do, And to the journalists for their devouring The fruits of my labour I will consign. Go then, little book, to the banks of the Neva, My new born babe, my own creation, And earn there for me renown's main gift: Intemperate criticism and short shrift! Chapter Two O rus! Horace O country! I The estate in which our bored Yevgeny Now lived, was in fact a fine retreat: There a lover of the simpler pleasures Would thank the heavens for his fate. His mansion house was solitary, Sheltered by hills in windy weather, And stood by a river. Stretching away Far off the meadows were bright and gay With flowers, and the cornfields golden. And here was a hamlet, there another, And cattle wandered the meadows at random, While shade was cast both deep and wide By a huge garden all overgrown, For the pensive Dryads a secret home. II The stately mansion was built and planned As all good mansions should really be:
Delighted with the sound of music And leaving the tea cup and the rum, Petushkov (the district's main Adonis) Goes up to Olga for the waltz. Lensky asks Tanya; and Kharlikova, A maiden somewhat past her best, Our poet from Tambov leads solemnly. Buyanov hastens with Pustyakova. The crowd spills out into the wide hall, And all is sparkling for the ball. XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX. Tea is brought in, the girls all decorously Have scarcely picked their saucers up, When from the doorway suddenly Bassoons and flutes are striking up. Delighted with the sound of music And leaving the tea cup and the rum, Petushkov (the district's main Adonis) Goes up to Olga for the waltz. Lensky asks Tanya; and Kharlikova, A maiden somewhat past her best, Our poet from Tambov leads solemnly. Buyanov hastens with Pustyakova. The crowd spills out into the wide hall, And all is sparkling for the ball. XL. At the beginning of this lofty story (See Chapter One, which will do for all), In the style of the mighty Albany, I had hoped to describe a Petersburgh ball. But by empty dreams often entranced I wandered off down memory's lanes, Thinking of feet, and charming dames. But I follow after your slender trace No more, dear feet! I will not be distracted! Since my youth has changed its shining face It is time for me to become more sane, To reform in theory and in practice, And, for this Chapter's final curtain, To free it from all cheap diversion. XLI. Monotonous, mad, and totally mindless, As is the life of whirlwind youth, The boisterous waltz whirls round so fast, As couple after couple flashes past. The minute of revenge approaches, And Onegin, smiling secretly,
Where Yevgeny in his rural home, That idle hermit, strange and gloomy Had spent the winter recently, A neighbour to my lovely Tanya, The young and always gentle dreamer, But where he is no longer found, Although sad memories of him abound. VI. Near hills, which lie in half a circle, We'll make our way to where a stream Around a meadow runs and gurgles, To a river, through a wood of limes. There the nightingale, the Spring's lover, Sings all night long; the wild thyme blows, And sounds of waters sweetly hover ― There is the poet's memorial stone, In the shade of two old crooked pines, And to the traveller the inscription shows: "Valdimir Lensky the poet lies here, Who early found the grave's release At such and such age, in such and such year, Rest, youthful poet, rest in peace". VII. On a sloping pine branch, downward bending Often an early morning breeze Over the peaceful gravestone wending Rocked to and fro a silent wreath. And often, when the sky was darkened, Arm in arm two friends came here, And in the moonlight sat and hearkened, Embraced each other, and shed a tear. But now... forgotten lies the stone; The pathway there is overgrown, And the branch of its old wreath is bare. Alone in its shade, wrinkled with care, The same old shepherd sings, and sits Plaiting his shoes with wooden strips. VIII, IX, X. My poor Lensky. Not long did Olga Grieving for you, weep for your fate. Alas! Young girls keep faith no longer, Their sorrow has an uncertain date. Another came and took her fancy, Another who swamped her very soul With love's sweet lore and flattery. A Cossack who bewitched her utterly; A Cossack she loves with love unending. And now beneath the altar standing, With modest grace under the wedding crown, She stands and blushes, her eyes cast down,