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

To consanguineous dinners they 
Conduct Tattiana constantly, 
That grandmothers and grandsires may 
Contemplate her sad reverie.

We Russians, friends from distant parts 

Ever receive with kindly hearts 
And exclamations and good cheer. 
"How Tania grows! Doth it appear" 
"Long since I held thee at the font— 
Since in these arms I thee did bear— 
And since I pulled thee by the ear— 
And I to give thee cakes was wont?"— 
Then the old dames in chorus sing, 
"Oh! how our years are vanishing!"

XLII

But nothing changed in them is seen, 
All in the good old style appears, 
Our dear old aunt, Princess Helene, 
Her cap of tulle still ever wears:

Luceria Lvovna paint applies, 

Amy Petrovna utters lies, 
Ivan Petrovitch still a gaby, 
Simeon Petrovitch just as shabby;

Pelagie Nikolavna has 

Her friend Monsieur Finemouche the same, 
Her wolf-dog and her husband tame; 
Still of his club he member was—

As deaf and silly doth remain, 

Still eats and drinks enough for twain.

XLIII

Their daughters kiss Tattiana fair. 
In the beginning, cold and mute, 
Moscow's young Graces at her stare, 
Examine her from head to foot.

They deem her somewhat finical, 

Outlandish and provincial, 
A trifle pale, a trifle lean, 
But plainer girls they oft had seen.

Obedient then to Nature's law, 

With her they did associate, 
Squeeze tiny hands and osculate; 
Her tresses curled in fashion saw, 
And oft in whispers would impart 
A maiden's secrets—of the heart.

XLIV

Triumphs—their own or those of friends— 
Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentiment 
Their harmless conversation blends 
With scandal's trivial ornament.

Then to reward such confidence 

Her amorous experience 
With mute appeal to ask they seem— 
But Tania just as in a dream 
Without participation hears, 
Their voices nought to her impart 
And the lone secret of her heart, 
Her sacred hoard of joy and tears, 
She buries deep within her breast 
Nor aught confides unto the rest.

XLV

Tattiana would have gladly heard 
The converse of the world polite, 
But in the drawing-room all appeared 
To find in gossip such delight, 
Speech was so tame and colourless 
Their slander e'en was weariness;

In their sterility of prattle, 

Questions and news and tittle-tattle, 
No sense was ever manifest 
Though by an error and unsought— 
The languid mind could smile at nought, 
Heart would not throb albeit in jest— 
Even amusing fools we miss 
In thee, thou world of empty bliss.

XLVI