1.I
"My uncle, man of true conviction...
By falling genuinely sick
He's won respect in his affliction
And could have planned no better trick.
His model is worth replicating;
But Christ is it excruciating
To attend a patient night and day
And never move a step away!
And oh, what shameful machination
To humor one so nearly dead,
Fluff out the pillows for his head,
Morosely bring his medication
And think, with every practiced sigh,
'Get on with it already. Die!'"
1.II
Thus mused a rakehell in reflection
Riding by post through dust and din.
He was, through natural selection
By Jove, sole heir to all his kin.
Friends of Ruslan from my last story,
Let me spare you all prefatory
Delay, and introduce this new
Protagonist of mine to you:
Onegin, my good friend and brother,
Was born beside the Neva's swell,
Where maybe, reader, you as well
Were born, or shone some way or other.
There I myself once played and strolled
Until I caught that northern cold.
1.III
A noble man who'd served sincerely,
His father lived by borrowing,
He entertained with three balls yearly
And finally squandered everything.
Fate handled my Onegin gently
Madame first cared for him intently
Till someone else took on from her
The nice, if boisterous, boy: Monsieur
L'Abbée, a feckless wretch from Paris
Taught the boy everything in jest,
Kept moral strictures slight at best
Lest he should bother or embarra**.
He'd punish pranks with one remark
And then a stroll in Summer Park
1.IV
But when our young man reached the morrow
Of adolescence and ado,
The time of hope and tender sorrow,
Monsieur was made to say Adieu.
Eugene's at large now. Taking care to
Display the latest voguish hairdo,
And dressed like a London Dandy, he
At last saw high society.
In French which he had quite perfected
He could express himself and write,
And when he danced, his step was light
His bow completely unaffected.
What's more to want? The verdict ran:
A witty, charming, gentle man.
1. V
We've all received some education
In something, somehow, have we not?
So thank the Lord that in our nation
Playing the thinker takes no thought.
Eugene was in the view of many
(Judges as strict and fair as any)
Learnèd, if prone to pedantry.
He had the happy ability
For free and easy conversation,
For handling any grave dispute
With an air of learning and astute
Silence in lieu of confrontation,
And lighting up a lady's gaze
With sudden fiery turns of phrase.
1. VI
Latin's gone out of fashion for us.
But he had learned, be in no doubt,
Enough of the great tongue of Horace
To figure Latin phrases out,
Cite Juvenal from French translations,
Add "vale" in his salutations.
There was a line (on good days, two)
By Virgil that he nearly knew.
He had no scholar's predilection
To delve through diachronic dust
Of the world's histories caked with must.
There was, though, quite a large collection
Of anecdotes he could recite
From Troy's destruction to last night.
.........
1.XLVI
He who has lived and thought can never
Look on mankind without disgust,
He who has felt is plagued forever
By ghosts of days forever lost.
Gone are enchantment and affection.
In him the snake of recollection
And sick repentance eats the heart.
All this will oftentimes impart
A savory charm to conversations.
Though first unsettled and confused
By Eugene's tongue, I did get used
To his abrasive disputations,
His blend of bile and comedy,
His somber, vicious repartee.
..........
8.I
In those days when I bloomed serenely
In Lycée gardens, long ago,
I'd read my Apuleius keenly
But ne'er a word of Cicero -
In those spring days, in secret dales
Where swans called out along the trails
By lakes in stilly air agleam,
The Muse first came to bid me dream.
My student cell filled with enchanted
And sudden light. The Muse spread there
A feast of youthful fancies fair.
She sang of childhood cheers, and chanted
The glory of our lays of old,
The tremulous reveries hearts can hold.
8.II
And with a smile my Muse was greeted.
What wings our first successes gave!
By Old Derzhávin we were heeded
And blessed before he reached the grave.....
...........
8.XXIX
To love all ages must surrender.
But to young hearts its tumults bring
A gale as plentiful and tender
As tempests to the fields of spring
They freshen under pa**ion's shower
Renew themselves, and come to flower,
As potent life takes fertile root
To bring rich blooms and yield sweet fruit.
But when our age has left us older,
That barren turning of our years,
Dead pa**ion's traces just bear tears-
So autumn stormwinds just blow colder,
Make swamps of meadows everywhere
And leave the forests stripped and bare.