remain at table.

XXXI

Tragiconervous scenes,

the fainting fits of maidens, tears,

long since Eugene could not abide:

4 enough of them he had endured.

Finding himself at a huge feast,

the odd chap was already cross. But noting

the languid maid’s tremulous impulse,

8 out of vexation lowering his gaze,

he went into a huff and, fuming,

swore he would madden Lenski,

and thoroughly, in fact, avenge himself.

12 Now, in advance exulting,

he inwardly began to sketch

caricatures of all the guests.

XXXII

Of course, not only Eugene might have seen

Tanya’s confusion; but the target

of looks and comments at the time

4 was a rich pie

(unfortunately, oversalted);

and here, in bottle sealed with pitch,

between the meat course and the blancmangér,

8 Tsimlyanski wine is brought already,

followed by an array of narrow, long

wineglasses, similar to your waist,

Zizí, crystal of my soul, object

12 of my innocent verse,

love’s luring vial, you, of whom

drunken I used to be!

XXXIII

Ridding itself of its damp cork,

the bottle pops; the wine

fizzes; and now with solemn mien,

4 long tortured by his stanza,

Triquet stands up; before him the assembly

maintains deep silence.

Tatiana’s scarce alive; Triquet,

8 addressing her, a slip of paper in his hand,

proceeds to sing, off key. Claps, acclamations,

salute him. She

must drop the bard a curtsy;

12 whereat the poet, modest although great,

is first to drink her health

and hands to her the stanza.

XXXIV

Now greetings come, congratulations;

Tatiana thanks them all.

Then, when the turn of Eugene

4 arrived, the maiden’s languid air,

her discomposure, lassitude,

engendered pity in his soul:

he bowed to her in silence,

8 but somehow the look of his eyes

was wondrous tender. Whether

because he verily was touched

or he, coquetting, jested,

12 whether unwillfully or by free will,

but tenderness this look expressed:

it revived Tanya’s heart.

XXXV

The chairs, as they are pushed back, clatter;

the crowd presses into the drawing room:

thus bees out of the luscious hive

4 fly meadward in a noisy swarm.

Pleased with the festive dinner,

neighbor in front of neighbor wheezes;

the ladies by the hearth have settled;

8 the maidens whisper in a corner;

the green-baized tables are unfolded:

to mettlesome cardplayers call

boston and omber of the old,

12 and whist, up to the present famous:

monotonous family,

all sons of avid boredom.

XXXVI

Eight rubbers have already played

whist’s heroes; eight times they

have changed their seats —

4 and tea is brought. I like defining

the hour by dinner, tea,

and supper. In the country

we know the time without great fuss:

8 the stomach is our accurate Bréguet;

and, apropos, I’ll parenthetically note

that in my strophes I discourse

as frequently on feasts, on various

12 dishes and corks,

as you, divine Homer, you, idol

of thirty centuries!

XXXIX

But tea is brought: scarce have the damsels

demurely of their saucers taken hold

when from behind the door of the long hall

4 bassoon and flute sound suddenly.

Elated by the thunder of the music,

leaving his cup of tea with rum, the Paris

of the surrounding townlets, Petushkóv,

8 goes up to Olga; Lenski, to Tatiana;

Miss Harlikov, a marriageable maid

of overripe years, is secured

by my Tambovan poet;

12 Buyánov has whirled off Dame Pustyakóv;

and all have spilled into the hall,

and in full glory shines the ball.

XL

At the beginning of my novel

(see the first fascicle)

I wanted in Albano’s manner

4 a Petersburg ball to describe;

but, by an empty reverie diverted,

I got engrossed in recollecting

the little feet of ladies known to me.

8 Upon your narrow tracks, O little feet,

enough roving astray!

With the betrayal of my youth

’tis time I grew more sensible,

12 improved in doings and in diction,

and this fifth fascicle

cleansed from digressions.

XLI

Monotonous and mad

like young life’s whirl, the noisy

whirl of the waltz revolves,

4 pair after pair flicks by.

Nearing the minute of revenge,

Onegin, chuckling secretly,

goes up to Olga, rapidly with her

8 spins near the guests,

then seats her on a chair,

proceeds to talk of this and that;

a minute or two having lapsed, he then

12 again with her the waltz continues;

all are amazed. Lenski himself

does not believe his proper eyes.

XLII

There the mazurka sounds. Time was,

when the mazurka’s thunder dinned,

in a huge ballroom everything vibrated,

4 the parquetry cracked under heel,

the window frames shook, rattled;

now ’tis not thus: we, too, like ladies,

glide o’er the lacquered boards.

8 But in [small] towns

and country places, the mazurka

has still retained its pristine charms:

saltos, heel-play, mustachios

12 remain the same; them has not altered

highhanded fashion,

our tyrant, sickness of the latest Russians.

XLIV

Buyánov, my mettlesome cousin,

toward our hero leads Tatiana

with Olga; deft

4 Onegin goes with Olga.

He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,

and, bending, whispers tenderly to her

some common madrigal, and squeezes

8 her hand — and brighter glows

on her conceited face

the rosy flush. My Lenski

has seen it all; flares up, beside himself;

12 in jealous indignation,

the poet waits for the end of the mazurka

and invites her for the cotillion.

XLV

But no, she cannot. Cannot? But what is it?

Why, Olga has given her word

already to Onegin. Ah, good God, good God!

4 What does he hear? She could…

How is it possible? Scarce out of swaddling clothes —

and a coquette, a giddy child!

Already she is versed in guile,

8 has learned already to betray!

Lenski has not the strength to bear the blow;

cursing the tricks of women,

he leaves, calls for a horse,

12 and gallops off. A brace of pistols,

two bullets — nothing more —

shall in a trice decide his fate.

CHAPTER SIX

Là, sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,

Nasce una gente a cui ‘1 morir non dole.

Petr.

I

On noticing that Vladimir had vanished,

Onegin, by ennui pursued again,

by Olga’s side sank into meditation,

4 pleased with his vengeance.

After him Ólinka yawned too,

sought Lenski with her eyes,

and the endless cotillion

8 irked her like an oppressive dream.

But it has ended. They go in to supper.

The beds are made. Guests are assigned

night lodgings — from the entrance hall

12 even to the maids’ quarters. Restful sleep

by all is needed. My Onegin

alone has driven home to sleep.

II

All has grown quiet. In the drawing room

the heavy Pustyakov

snores with his heavy better half.

4 Gvozdin, Buyanov, Petushkov,

and Flyanov (who is not quite well)

have bedded in the dining room on chairs,

with, on the floor, Monsieur Triquet

8 in underwaistcoat and old nightcap.

All the young ladies, in Tatiana’s

and Olga’s rooms, are wrapped in sleep.

Alone, sadly by Dian’s beam

12 illumined at the window, poor Tatiana

is not asleep

and gazes out on the dark field.

III

With his unlooked-for apparition,

the momentary softness of his eyes,

and odd conduct with Olga,

4 to the depth of her soul

she’s penetrated. She is quite unable

to understand him. Jealous

anguish perturbs her,

8 as if a cold hand pressed

her heart; as if beneath her an abyss

yawned black and dinned….

“I shall perish,” says Tanya,

12 “but perishing from him is sweet.

I murmur not: why murmur?

He cannot give me happiness.”

IV

Forward, forward, my story!

A new persona claims us.

Five versts from Krasnogórie,

4 Lenski’s estate, there lives

and thrives up to the present time

in philosophical reclusion

Zarétski, formerly a brawler,

8 the hetman of a gaming gang,

chieftain of rakehells, pothouse tribune,

but now a kind and simple

bachelor paterfamilias,

12 a steadfast friend, a peaceable landowner,

and even an honorable man:

thus does our age correct itself!

V

Time was, the monde’s obsequious voice

used to extol his wicked pluck:

he, it is true, could from a pistol

4 at twelve yards hit an ace,

and, furthermore, in battle too

once, in real rapture, he distinguished

himself by toppling from his Kalmuk steed

8 boldly into the mud,

swine drunk, and to the French

fell prisoner (prized hostage!) —

a modern Regulus, the god of honor,

12 ready to yield anew to bonds

so as to drain on credit at Véry’s37

two or three bottles every morning.

VI

Time was, he bantered drolly,

knew how to gull a fool

and capitally fool a clever man,

4 for all to see or on the sly;

though some tricks of his, too,

did not remain unchastised;

though sometimes he himself, too, got

8 trapped like a simpleton.

He knew how to conduct a gay dispute,

make a reply keen or obtuse,

now craftily to hold his tongue,

12 now craftily to raise a rumpus,

how to get two young friends to quarrel

and place them on the marked-out ground,

VII

or have them make it up

so as to lunch all three,

and later secretly defame them

4 with a gay quip, with prate….

Sed alia tempora! Daredevilry

(like love’s dream, yet another caper)

passes with lively youth.

8 As I’ve said, my Zarétski,

beneath the racemosas and the pea trees

having at last found shelter

from tempests, lives like a true sage,

12 plants cabbages like Horace,

breeds ducks and geese,

and teaches [his] children the A B C.

VIII

He was not stupid; and my Eugene,

while rating low the heart in him,

liked both the spirit of his judgments

4 and his sane talk of this and that.

He would frequent him

with pleasure, and therefore was not at all

surprised at morn

8 when he saw him;

the latter, after the first greeting, interrupting

the started conversation,

with eyes atwinkle, to Onegin

12 handed a billet from the poet.

Onegin went up to the window

and read it to himself.

IX

It was a pleasant, gentlemanly,

brief challenge or cartel:

politely, with cold clearness, to a duel

4 Lenski called out his friend.

Onegin, on a first impulsion

to the envoy of such an errand

turning, without superfluous words

8 said he was “always ready.”

Zaretski got up without explanations —

did not want to stay longer,

having at home a lot of things to do —

12 and forthwith left; but Eugene,

alone remaining with his soul,

felt ill-contented with himself.

X

And serve him right: on strict examination,

he, having called his own self to a secret court,

accused himself of much:

4 first, it had been already wrong of him

to make fun of a timid, tender love

so casually yesternight;

and secondly: why, let a poet

8 indulge in nonsense! At eighteen

’tis pardonable. Eugene,

loving the youth with all his heart,

ought to have shown himself to be

12 no bandyball of prejudices,

no fiery boy, no scrapper, but a man

of honor and of sense.

XI

He might have manifested feelings

instead of bristling like a beast;

he ought to have disarmed

4 the youthful heart. “But now

too late; the time has flown away….

Moreover,” he reflects, “in this affair

an old duelist has intervened;

8 he’s wicked, he’s a gossip, he talks glibly….

Of course, contempt should be the price

of his droll sallies; but the whisper,

the snickering of fools…”

12 And here it is — public opinion!38

Honor’s mainspring, our idol!

And here is what the world turns on!

XII

The poet, with impatient enmity

boiling, awaits at home the answer.

And here the answer solemnly

4 by the grandiloquent