Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin

LIV

I’ve thought well o’er the general plan,

The hero’s name too in advance,

Meantime I’ll finish whilst I can

Canto the First of this romance.

I’ve scanned it with a jealous eye,

Discovered much absurdity,

But will not modify a tittle —

I owe the censorship a little.

For journalistic deglutition

I yield the fruit of work severe.

Go, on the Neva’s bank appear,

My very latest composition!

Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows —

Misunderstanding, words and blows.

Canto the Second

“O Rus!”

В В В В Horace

I

The village wherein yawned Eugene

Was a delightful little spot,

There friends of pure delight had been

Grateful to Heaven for their lot.

The lonely mansion-house to screen

From gales a hill behind was seen;

Before it ran a stream. Behold!

Afar, where clothed in green and gold

Meadows and cornfields are displayed,

Villages in the distance show

And herds of oxen wandering low;

Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade,

A thick immense neglected grove

Extended – haunt which Dryads love.

II

�Twas built, the venerable pile,

As lordly mansions ought to be,

In solid, unpretentious style,

The style of wise antiquity.

Lofty the chambers one and all,

Silk tapestry upon the wall,

Imperial portraits hang around

And stoves of various shapes abound.

All this I know is out of date,

I cannot tell the reason why,

But Eugene, incontestably,

The matter did not agitate,

Because he yawned at the bare view

Of drawing-rooms or old or new.

III

He took the room wherein the old

Man – forty years long in this wise —

His housekeeper was wont to scold,

Look through the window and kill flies.

�Twas plain – an oaken floor ye scan,

Two cupboards, table, soft divan,

And not a speck of dirt descried.

Onegin oped the cupboards wide.

In one he doth accounts behold,

Here bottles stand in close array,

There jars of cider block the way,

An almanac but eight years old.

His uncle, busy man indeed,

No other book had time to read.