XXIV
Visantine tubes with amber, treasures Of bronze and porcelain of the past;
For coddled sense the best of pleasures: Perfume in bottles of cut glass.
Some files of steel for nails, some combs, Some scissors, straight and wry: he owns
For teeth the brushes, and for nails, Some thirty kinds for all avails.
Rousseau (I’d say as if bypassing), Of how dared pompous Grim
To brush his nails in front of him, Eloquent madcap, wasn’t grasping.
The knight of freedom and of right, In case like this he wasn’t right.
XXV
You may become a man of business And think of beauty of the nails.
With age to argue is unfitness; The custom’s despot of the males.
Like great Chadayev, Eugene dear Of jealousy reproach feared,
Was pedant, judging of the cloth, We’ll call him dandy for the forth.
At least three hours he daily In front of mirrors gladly spent,
And from his dressing room he went Like giddy Venus, when quite gaily,
In man’s attire all arrayed, The goddess comes to masquerade.
XXVI
The modern taste of his attire, To keep your curious gaze,
To meet the scholar world’s desire I could describe, you’d be amazed.
Of course, it would be so bold, Describing is what I must hold.
B By pantalones, frac, gillette - In Russian they are absent yet.
I now see, of it confessing, That even my such poor style
Yet might be less fulfilled for while By foreign words without pressing,
Yet long ago did I look For words in Academic Book.
XXVII
To other things let’s make approach: For ballet we shall hurry up.
To it headlong in simple coach Onegin now has sped up
In front of darkened silent homes, Along the sleepy streets in rows;
All double lanterns in the sight Are stretching their joyful light,
And make some rainbows on snow. By lampions dotted from the sides
A splendid house now shines, In windows some shades can flow,
Appear profiles of heads Of ladies and of fashion cranks.
XXVIII
My Eugene is in front of home. Hall porter shadfly he bypassed,
Up marble footsteps he has flown, With hand has mended hair fast.
Came in.
The hall is full of crowd; The music’s weary of sound;
Mazurka is the crowd’s choice; All round are crush and noise;
The spurs of horse-guards-man are jingling, Each foot of pretty ladies flies,
At their fascinating signs The flaming looks of men are fleeting.
Through roar of fiddles never thrives The jealous whisper of styled wives.
XXIX
In days of gaiety and wishes I could at ballets lose my wit;
It’s better place for passing letters fit.
Oh, you, the husbands so honoured!
To you I’ll give my service; forward You keep on mind my speech to you;
I’d like anew to warn all you: You, mothers, should be more severe,
While looking after girls, and yet At them keep strictly your lornette!
If not... if not, let God deliver!
I write it, as for long my time I haven’t any sin of mine.