By this half-tormenting a ramble, By table with a faded candle,
At window by books in heap, By bed with carpet, chairs, whip,
By sight through panes at moonlight diminish, By this quite pallid feeble light,
By lordly Byron portrait bright, By doll cast-iron and diminished
With gloomy brow under hat, Who arms cross-folded has had. {25}
XX
For long Tatyana here goes At stylish fascinating cell.
It’s late.
Some cold wind just blows.
It’s dark in valleys.
Rather well The grove sleeps.
At foggy rivers And hills the moon just dasappears.
The pilgrim young, you know why, Should long ago home fly.
And Tanya hides her agitation, But yet she’s sighing once again
And then departures for the way, But asks before for invitation
To conic again to have a look And there lone read some book.
XXI
She parts with woman, house keeping, Behind the gates.
And in a day
At early morning comes for meeting With lone canopy again.
For silent room alone getting At once the whole world forgetting With nobody nearby
For long is weeping she this time.
But then with books she could be dealing.
At first of them she didn’t think, But their choice seemed queer thing, And she was lost in their reading,
With thirst of soul all them held; And she discovered other world.
XXII
And though Eugene, as we know, For long from reading turned his face,
But several books of common row Himself excluded from disgrace:
Of Giaour, Juan famous singer, With him some more two-three might linger:
In them reflects the whole age And modem man of nowadays
Is pictured rather well correctly With his immoral soul wry,
Quite egoistic, selfish, dry, To dreaming dedicated greatly
With his malicious evil wit, Who boils in action for a bit.
XXIII
And many pages yet are keeping Some sharpened markings by the nail;
On them attentive eyes are fixing By will and passion of the maid.
Tatyana’s now trembling, seeing By what a thought, a note, feeling
Sometimes Onegin was surprised, With what could mutely coincide;
At margins of the books she’s meeting Of reader’s pencil slightest signs:
Onegin’s soul always tries Unwittingly to show feeling
With short a word or with a cross, With question sign and so forth.
XXIV
And by degrees but is beginning Tatyana him to comprehend -
Thank God, more clearly - she’s feeling The man, for whom to sigh she had
Through all her fate, severe, ruling. This crank, this dangerous and a gloomy
Creation of the hell or sky, This angel, haughty devil wry,
What’s he? is real imitation From Moscow a spook or whim
In Harold cloak, hat with brim, Or other whims interpretation?
Of stylish words some ready set?
Is he a parody not yet?