Yevgeny Onegin

1
“Uncle, a man of purest probity,
Has fallen ill, beyond a joke.
Respected now, and scorned by nobody,
He has achieved his masterstroke
With this exemplary behaviour,
But it would try the Holy Saviour
To tend a sickbed night and day,
And never stir a step away,
Employing shameful histrionics
To bring a half-dead man some cheer,
Plump pillows and draw sadly near,
Indulging him with pills and tonics,
Heaving deep sighs, but thinking, ‘Ooh!
When will the devil come for you?’”

2
These were the thoughts of a young gállant,
Lodged in his dust-blown chaise, whom chance
(Or mighty Zeus) had willed the talent
Of family inheritance.
Friends of Ruslán, friends of Lyudmíla,
Allow me forthwith to reveal a
New hero, for this novel, who
Comes thus unintroduced to you:
Onégin (we were friends for ages)
Was born by the Nevá, where you,
Perhaps, dear reader, were born too,
Or maybe ran around rampageous.
I’ve also had some good times there—
But I can’t breathe that northern air.

3
With worthy service now behind him,
His father lived from debt to debt.
Three balls a year soon undermined him.
He was as poor as you can get.
Fate saved the boy, who was aware of
Madame, and being taken care of,
And her replacement, a Monsieur.
The child was frisky, though demure.
Monsieur l’Abbé, a Catholic father,
Not keen to weigh Yevgeny down,
Taught him by acting like a clown.
Morals seemed irksome; he would rather
Chide him for the odd naughty lark,
And walk him in the Summer Park.

4
Rebellious youth came in due season—
A season full of hopeful dreams
And gentle sadness—ample reason
To give Monsieur the sack, it seems.
Onegin now, devil-may-care-style,
Copied the very latest hairstyle
And came out like a London fop
To see society. Tip-top
In spoken French (no less proficient
In speech and writing), he could dance,
And with the utmost nonchalance
Perform a bow, which was sufficient
To show him in a pleasing light
As a nice lad, and very bright.

5
We’ve all of us been taught in smatters
Of this and that, done bit by bit.
Not that our education matters:
We shine despite the lack of it.
Onegin was esteemed by many (Judges as hard and strict as any)
As an enlightened clever dick.
He had evolved the happy trick
Of butting in on French or Russian
With flippant comments here and there
Delivered with an expert air,
While dodging any deep discussion.
He could bring smiles to ladies’ lips
With epigrams and fiery quips.

6
Although we’ve lost the taste for Latin,
He knew enough of it to read
An epitaph and render that in
Some Russian form, we must concede,
To mention Juvenal, and, better,
Write Vale, signing off a letter.
He knew by heart—or sort of did—
The odd line from the Aeneid.
He didn’t know—having no patience
To learn in any deep degree—
The world’s historiography,
Yet he remembered, from the Ancients,
A fund of jokes and tales for us
From our times back to Romulus.

7
Lacking high passion, too prosaic
To deem sounds more than life, he read
What was iambic as trochaic—
I couldn’t get it through his head.
Homer, Theocritus he slated,
But Adam Smith was highly rated
By this self-styled economist,
Who knew it all: how states exist,
How to transform them, make them wealthy,
And why they have no need of gold
If they have things that can be sold—
The product is what keeps them healthy.
His father couldn’t understand,
And went on mortgaging his land.

8
I cannot run through this man’s learning
In full, but there’s one field in which
He had a genius so discerning
It was incomparably rich.
This, since his youth, had proved so serious
It brought him toil and joys delirious,
Intruding with daylong distress
Into his anguished idleness:
Yes, tender passion, that same science
Which Ovid sang and suffered for,
Languishing sadly more and more,
After such bright days of defiance,
On a Moldavian plain, where he
Pined for his long-lost Italy.

[9] 10
Early he learnt to sow confusion,
To hide his hopes, show jealous spite,
To build trust, then to disillusion,
To brood and droop with all his might,
To spurn with pride, or turn obedient,
Cold or attentive, as expedient.
He could be silent, malcontent
Or passionately eloquent;
In missives of the heart, off-handed.
While yearning with a single dream,
How self-dismissive he could seem!
His glances could be fond or candid,
Reserved or forthright—or appear
To gleam with an obedient tear!

11
Changing at will, today, tomorrow,
He could fool innocence by jest,
Alarm with artificial sorrow,
Flatter the easily impressed,
Pick up the early signs of ardour,
Press pure young creatures ever harder
With passion, and use all his wit
To foil reluctant girls with it.
Urging commitment by entreaty,
Catching at heartbeats, he would thrill
And harass them with love until
He winkled out a secret meeting,
And when he got the girl alone
What silent lessons was she shown!

12
Early he taught himself to ravage
The feelings of accomplished flirts, '
And when he felt the need to savage
His rivals in pursuit of skirts
His vicious language was appalling.
What traps he set for them to fall in!
But you, good husbands, did not tend
To spurn him. He was your close friend,
As was the foxy spouse, whose story
Had had its Casanova days,
And codgers with their snooping ways,
And the fine cuckold in his glory,
So smug, so satisfied with life,
leased with his table and his wife.