And wayward, willful is her head? Or heart is flaming, tender, healthy?
But can’t you really absolve Her passions, if you them revolve?
XXV
Coquette is judging always coolly; Tatyana loves without jest,
For love she’s dedicated truly Like loyal child for mother’s nest,
She doesn’t say: ‘Let us postpone For multiplying price of own
Attractiveness; to catch in nets By first expressing some regret
For hopes; then misunderstanding Well use to break the heart; again
Return him life by jealous flame Or otherwise the male offended,
Like prisoner from any chain Is ready to escape again,
XXVI
But l forsee some more of bounds: The honour of my land to save,
I have without any doubts Tatyana’s letter to translate.
Uneasily she was expressing Her thoughts in mother tongue expressive;
Her Russian was yet very bad As Russian books she never read.
That’s why in French she’s always writing.
Alas! I must repeat again:
A lady’s love until to-day To speak her Russian isn’t trying,
And proud language’s now lit For prose postal a bit.
XXYII
To-day they wish to make each lady To read in Russian.
What’s the end?
You’ll hardly meet to-day a maiden With Russian magazine in hand.
My poets! I’d like to hear If I am right; the ladies dear
To whom in secret you did write Some verse, your sins to justify,
To whom your hearts were dedicating,- In written Russian they were bad
As no knowledge they had had, And dearly were deformating
The grammar; language from abroad For mother tongue they all had got.
XXVIII
And God forbid at evening party Or after ball, at porch, on step
To meet a student while departing, Or scholar wearing night cap.
I don’t like the Russian speeches Without grammar incompleteness, As well as lips without smile.
Perhaps I’ll grieve if in a while
Of younger beauties generation Will follow the journal’s call:
To grammar will subdue us all, To verse will pay too much attention:
But I… it doesn’t bother me: To old times I’ll loyal be.
XXIX
Some wrong and wry neglectful babble Of mispronouncing of words
Like long before make heart my tremble And all my soul always flirts.
To have remorse I haven’t forces; Like Bogdanovich’s all verses I’d like all dear gallicisrns, As well as previous youthful sins.
But well, its time I should be busy: The beauty’s letter I should use.
But I am ready to refuse As its translation isn’t easy.
I know: Parny’s tender rhymes Make no hit at present times.
XXX
The bard of feasts, of languid sadness, you had chance to stay with me,
With my request immodest, gladless I’d trouble you for helping me:
To make your dear magic tuning Of beauty’s passion mood, resuming
Some foreign words, she often writes.
But where are you? Come! My rights
To you give with my endeavours And bows.