Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

Another time, so willed it Fate, 
Immersed in secret thought I stand 
And grasp a stirrup fortunate— 
Her foot was in my other hand.

Again imagination blazed, 

The contact of the foot I raised 
Rekindled in my withered heart 
The fires of passion and its smart— 
Away! and cease to ring their praise 
For ever with thy tattling lyre, 
The proud ones are not worth the fire 
Of passion they so often raise.

The words and looks of charmers sweet 

Are oft deceptive—like their feet.

XXXII

Where is Oneguine? Half asleep, 
Straight from the ball to bed he goes, 
Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep 
The drum already doth arouse.

The shopman and the pedlar rise 

And to the Bourse the cabman plies; 
The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,[16] 
Crunching the morning snow she treads;

Morning awakes with joyous sound; 

The shutters open; to the skies 
In column blue the smoke doth rise; 
The German baker looks around 
His shop, a night-cap on his head, 
And pauses oft to serve out bread.

XXXIII

But turning morning into night, 
Tired by the ball's incessant noise, 
The votary of vain delight 
Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys, 
Late in the afternoon to rise, 
When the same life before him lies 
Till morn—life uniform but gay, 
To-morrow just like yesterday.

But was our friend Eugene content, 

Free, in the blossom of his spring, 
Amidst successes flattering 
And pleasure's daily blandishment, 
Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare

Was he in health and void of care?—

XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated, 
Hateful the hollow world became, 
Nor long his mind was agitated 
By love's inevitable flame.

For treachery had done its worst; 

Friendship and friends he likewise curst, 
Because he could not gourmandise 
Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies 
And irrigate them with champagne; 
Nor slander viciously could spread 
Whene'er he had an aching head; 
And, though a plucky scatterbrain, 
He finally lost all delight 
In bullets, sabres, and in fight.

XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween 
It now to investigate is time, 
Was nothing but the British spleen 
Transported to our Russian clime.

It gradually possessed his mind; 

Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed 
To slay himself with blade or ball, 
Indifferent he became to all, 
And like Childe Harold gloomily 
He to the festival repairs, 
Nor boston nor the world's affairs 
Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh 
Impressed him in the least degree,— 
Callous to all he seemed to be.

XXXVI