them.

Have ever chanced larmoyant poets

to read their works before the eyes

of their beloved ones? It is said, no higher

8 rewards are in the world.

And, verily, blest is the modest lover

reading his daydreams to the object

of songs and love,

12 a pleasantly languorous belle!

Blest — though perhaps by something

quite different she is diverted.

XXXV

But I the products of my fancies

and of harmonious device

read but to an old nurse,

4 companion of my youth;

or after a dull dinner, when a neighbor

strays in to see me — having caught

him by a coat skirt unexpectedly —

8 I choke him in a corner with a tragedy,

or else (but that’s apart from jesting),

haunted by yearnings and by rhymes,

roaming along my lake,

12 I scare a flock of wild ducks; they, on heeding

the chant of sweet-toned strophes,

fly off the banks.

XXXVII

But what about Onegin? By the way,

brothers! I beg your patience:

his daily occupations in detail

4 I shall describe to you.

Onegin anchoretically lived;

he rose in summer between six and seven

and, lightly clad, proceeded to the river

8 that ran under the hillside. Imitating

the songster of Gulnare,

across this Hellespont he swam,

then drank his coffee, while he flipped

12 through some wretched review,

and dressed

XXXIX

Rambles, and reading, and sound sleep,

the sylvan shade, the purl of streams,

sometimes a white-skinned, dark-eyed girl’s

4 young and fresh kiss,

a horse of mettle, bridle-true,

a rather fancy dinner,

a bottle of bright wine,

8 seclusion, quiet —

this was Onegin’s saintly life;

and he insensibly to it

surrendered, the fair summer days

12 in carefree mollitude not counting,

oblivious of both town and friends

and of the boredom of festive devices.

XL

But our Northern summer is a caricature

of Southern winters;

it will glance by and vanish: this is known,

4 though to admit it we don’t wish.

The sky already breathed of autumn,

the sun already shone more seldom,

the day was growing shorter,

8 the woods’ mysterious canopy

with a sad murmur bared itself,

mist settled on the fields,

the caravan of clamorous geese

12 was tending southward; there drew near

a rather tedious period;

November stood already at the door.

XLI

Dawn rises in cold murk;

stilled in the grainfields is the noise of labors;

with his hungry female, the wolf

4 comes out upon the road;

the road horse, sensing him,

snorts, and the wary traveler

goes tearing uphill at top speed;

8 no longer does the herdsman drive at sunrise

the cows out of the shippon,

and at the hour of midday in a circle

his horn does not call them together;

12 in her small hut singing, the maiden23

spins and, the friend of winter nights,

in front of her the splintlight crackles.

XLII

And now the frosts already crackle

and silver ‘mid the fields

(the reader now expects the rhyme “froze-rose” —

4 here, take it quick!).

Neater than modish parquetry,

the ice-clad river shines.

The gladsome crew of boys24

8 cut with their skates resoundingly the ice;

a heavy goose with red feet, planning

to swim upon the bosom of the waters,

steps carefully upon the ice,

12 slidders, and falls. The gay

first snow flicks, whirls,

falling in stars upon the bank.

XLIII

What can one do at this time in the wilds?

Walk? But the country at that time

is an involuntary eyesore

4 in its unbroken nakedness.

Go galloping in the harsh prairie?

But, catching with a blunted shoe

the treacherous ice, one’s mount

8 is likely any moment to come down.

Stay under your desolate roof,

read; here is Pradt, here’s Walter Scott!

Don’t want to? Verify expenses,

12 grumble or drink, and the long evening

somehow will pass; and next day the same thing,

and famously you’ll spend the winter.

XLIV

Onegin like a regular Childe Harold

lapsed into pensive indolence:

right after sleep he takes a bath with ice,

4 and then, at home all day,

alone, absorbed in calculations, armed

with a blunt cue,

using two balls,

8 ever since morn plays billiards.

The country evening comes; abandoned

are billiards, the cue is forgot.

Before the fireplace the table is laid;

12 Eugene waits; here comes Lenski,

borne by a troika of roan horses;

quick, let’s have dinner!

XLV

Of Veuve Clicquot or of Moët

the blesséd wine

in a chilled bottle for the poet

4 is brought at once upon the table.

It sparkles Hippocrenelike;25

with its briskness and froth

(a simile of this and that)

8 it used to captivate me: for its sake

my last poor lepton I was wont

to give away — remember, friends?

Its magic stream engendered

12 no dearth of foolishness,

but also lots of jokes, and verses,

and arguments, and merry dreams!

XLVI

But with its noisy froth

it plays false to my stomach,

and nowadays sedate Bordeaux

4 already I’ve preferred to it.

For Ay I’m no longer fit,

Ay is like

a mistress, brilliant, volatile, vivacious,

8 and whimsical, and shallow.

But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend

who in grief and misfortune

is always, everywhere, a comrade,

12 ready to render us a service

or share our quiet leisure.

Long live Bordeaux, our friend!

XLVII

The fire is out; barely with ashes

is filmed the golden coal;

in a barely distinguishable stream

4 the vapor weaves, and the grate faintly

exhales some warmth. The smoke of pipes

goes up the chimney. The bright goblet

amid the table fizzes yet.

8 The evening gloam comes on

(I’m fond of friendly prate

and of a friendly bowl of wine

at that time which is called

12 time between wolf and dog —

though why, I do not see).

Now the two friends converse.

XLVIII

“Well, how are the fair neighbors? How’s Tatiana?

How is your sprightly Olga?”

“Pour me half a glass more….

4 That’ll do, dear chap…. The entire family

is well; they send you salutations….

Ah, my dear chap, how beautiful the shoulders

of Olga have become!

8 Ah, what a bosom! What a soul!… Someday

let’s visit them; they will appreciate it;

or else, my friend, judge for yourself —

you dropped in twice, and after that

12 you never even showed your nose.

In fact — well, what a dolt I am!

You are invited there next week.”

XLIX

“I?” “Yes, Tatiana’s name day

is Saturday. Ólinka and the mother

bade me ask you, and there’s no reason

4 you should not come in answer to their call.”

“But there will be a mass of people

and all kinds of such scum.”

“Oh, nobody, I am quite certain.

8 Who might be there? The family only.

Let’s go, do me the favor.

Well?” “I consent.” “How nice you are!”

And with these words he drained

12 his glass, a toast to the fair neighbor —

and then waxed voluble again,

talking of Olga. Such is love!

L

Merry he was. A fortnight hence

the blissful date was set,

and the nuptial bed’s mystery

4 and love’s sweet crown awaited

his transports.

Hymen’s cares, woes,

yawnings’ chill train,

8 he never visioned.

Whereas we, enemies of Hymen,

perceive in home life but a series

of tedious images,

12 a novel in the genre of Lafontaine.26

O my poor Lenski! For the said

life he at heart was born.

LI

He was loved — or at least

he thought so — and was happy.

Blest hundredfold is he who is devoted

4 to faith; who, having curbed cold intellect,

in the heart’s mollitude reposes

as, bedded for the night, a drunken traveler,

or (more tenderly) as a butterfly

8 absorbed in a spring flower;

but pitiful is he who foresees all,

whose head is never in a whirl,

who hates all movements and all words

12 in their interpretation,

whose heart is by experience

chilled and forbidden to get lost in dreams.

CHAPTER FIVE

Never know these frightful dreams,

You, O my Svetlana!

Zhukovski

I

That year autumnal weather

was a long time abroad;

nature kept waiting and waiting for winter.

4 Snow only fell in January,

on the night of the second. Waking early,

Tatiana from the window saw

at morn the whitened yard,

8 flower beds, roofs, and fence;

delicate patterns on the panes;

the trees in winter silver,

gay magpies outside,

12 and the hills softly overspread

with winter’s brilliant carpeting.

All’s bright, all’s white around.

II

Winter! The peasant, celebrating,

in a flat sledge inaugurates the track;

his naggy, having sensed the snow,

4 shambles at something like a trot.

Plowing up fluffy furrows,

a bold kibitka flies:

the driver sits upon his box

8 in sheepskin coat, red-sashed.

Here runs about a household lad,

upon a hand sled having seated “blackie,”

having transformed himself into the steed;

12 the scamp already has frozen a finger.

He finds it both painful and funny — while

his mother, from the window, threatens him…

III

But, maybe, pictures of this kind

will not attract you;

all this is lowly nature;

4 there is not much refinement here.

Warmed by the god of inspiration,

another poet in luxurious language

for us has painted the first snow

8 and all the shades of winter’s delectations.27

He’ll captivate you, I am sure of it,

when he depicts in flaming verses

secret promenades in sleigh;

12 but I have no intention of contending

either with him at present or with you,

singer of the young Finnish Maid!28

IV

Tatiana (being Russian

at heart, herself not knowing why)

loved, in all its cold beauty,

4 a Russian winter:

rime in the sun upon a frosty day,

and sleighs, and, at late dawn,

the radiance of the rosy snows,

8 and gloam of Twelfthtide eves.

Those evenings in the ancient fashion

were celebrated in their house:

the servant girls from the whole stead

12 told their young ladies’ fortunes

and every year made prophecies to them

of military husbands and the march.

V

Tatiana credited the lore

of plain-folk ancientry,

dreams, cartomancy,

4 prognostications by the moon.

Portents disturbed her:

mysteriously all objects

foretold her something,

8 presentiments constrained her breast.

The mannered tomcat sitting on the stove,

purring, would wash his muzzlet with his paw:

to her ’twas an indubitable sign

12 that guests were coming. Seeing all at once

the young two-horned moon’s visage

in the sky on her left,

VI

she trembled and grew pale.

Or when a falling star

along the dark sky flew

4 and dissipated, then

in agitation Tanya hastened

to whisper, while the star still rolled,

her heart’s desire to it.

8 When anywhere she happened

a black monk to encounter,

or a swift hare amid the fields

would run across her path,

12 so scared she knew not what to undertake,

full of grievous forebodings,

already she expected some mishap.

VII

Yet — in her very terror

she found a secret charm:

thus has created us

4 nature, inclined to contradictions.

Yuletide is here. Now that is joy!

Volatile youth divines —

who nought has to regret,

8 in front of whom the faraway of life

extends luminous, boundless;

old age divines, through spectacles,

at its sepulchral slab,

12 all having irrecoverably lost;

nor does it matter: hope to them

lies with its childish lisp.

VIII

Tatiana with a curious gaze

looks at the submerged wax:

with its wondrously cast design,

4 to her a wondrous something it proclaims.

From a dish full of water

rings come out in succession;

and when her ring turned up,

8 ’twas to a