The sadness, gladness, love inflaming They all were ready to reveal.
Onegin no love could hook in, But listened with a pompous look-in
To Lensky speaking of himself, Revealing all his heart itself,
His conscience Lensky was revealing, His own soul criticized.
Onegin quickly recognized The talk of love, which was fulfilling
With many senses all this fuss, Which is antique for all of us.
XX
Ah, he could love; they don’t now Have anything like real love
Of poet, who’s anyhow Convicted to the truthful love:
One vision always, everywhere, The rime desire comes to dare
To comfort sorrow and grief.
And nothing cooled his strong belief:
Nor longest years of the partings, Nor all to muses given time,
Nor foreign beauties so fine, Nor sciences, nor evening parties
Could change his soul little bit: Some virgin fire flamed in it,
XXI
Yet child, by Olga fascinated, Ignorant yet of hearty pains,
He, touching witness, captivated By childish prettiness of games
In shade of old trees protective, He was in games her mate effective.
And parents foresaw the fate: Were calculating wedding date;
In stillness of the humble grove Of innocence some charming loom,
She near parents could bloom, Like lilies in the valley grow,
Unknown in the thick of grass To bees, to moths at no paths.
XXII
To her was due first dream unquiet Of poet: at love the drive,
And thought of her in him inspired First moan of his conscious life.
But you forgive him, games in stillness!
He liked the grove’s timid thickness,
He liked the stillness, lone mood, The night, the stars, the round moon.
The moon, this miracle in heavens, To which we dedicated nights
At meetings but without lights, And tears, secret torment’s gladness...
But now dear moon for us Is mere lantern in the skies.
XXIII
She’s dutiful and always modest, As fresh as morning, always gay,
Like life of bard, such simple, honest, Like kiss of love at dawn of day;
The eyes are blue as depth of heavens, The smile, the flaxen curls of hairs,
The movings, voice, the figure fine, All Olga has... but you can find
At any novel those features, Her own portrait, very nice;
I was in love with it sometimes, But soon was bored by pretty creatures.
Allow me, the readers mine, To show you her elder line.
XXIV
Tatyana was the name of sister... Such name we use to gratify
The novel’s pages of my either, At will that name well sanctify.
Why not? It’s pleasant and sonorous; With it, I know, always goes
Reminiscence of old time, Of maiden’s room!
We must meanwhile
Confess; we have the taste quite mere In life, as well as in the names,
(Not speaking of the verses frames). The education can’t adhere
To us: from it we have not more Than mincing manners to adore.
XXV