Passages from Eugene Onegin

Some children are never quite at home inside their own family.

And so Tattiana was her name,Nor by her sister’s brilliancyNor by her beauty she becameThe cynosure of every eye.Shy, silent did the maid appearAs in the timid forest deer,Even beneath her parents’ roofStood as estranged from all aloof,Nearest and dearest knew not howTo fawn upon and love express;A child devoid of childishnessTo romp and play she ne’er would go:Oft staring through the window paneWould she in silence long remain.

The friend you fell out with was once the person you told everything to.

Foes! Is it long since friendship rentAsunder was and hate prepared?Since leisure was together spent,Meals, secrets, occupations shared?Now, like hereditary foes,Malignant fury they disclose,As in some frenzied dream of fearThese friends cold-bloodedly draw nearMutual destruction to contrive.Cannot they amicably smileEre crimson stains their hands defile,Depart in peace and friendly live?But fashionable hatred’s flameTrembles at artificial shame.

Two days of meadows, and then the meadows stop existing.

For two whole days it seemed a changeTo wander through the meadows still,The cool dark oaken grove to range,To listen to the rippling rill.But on the third of grove and meadHe took no more the slightest heed;They made him feel inclined to doze;And the conviction soon arose,Ennui can in the country dwellThough without palaces and streets,Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fêtes;On him spleen mounted sentinelAnd like his shadow dogged his life,Or better—like a faithful wife.

The one goose in this poem has been walking on ice for two hundred years.

Already crisp hoar frosts imposeO’er all a sheet of silvery dust(Readers expect the rhyme of rose,There! take it quickly, if ye must).Behold! than polished floor more niceThe shining river clothed in ice;A joyous troop of little boysEngrave the ice with strident noise.A heavy goose on scarlet feet,Thinking to float upon the stream,Descends the bank with care extreme,But staggers, slips, and falls. We greetThe first bright wreathing storm of snowWhich falls in starry flakes below.

Being remembered is a strange thing to ask for, and nearly everyone asks.

Meantime, drink deeply of the flowOf frivolous existence, friends;Its insignificance I knowAnd care but little for its ends.To dreams I long have closed mine eyes,Yet sometimes banished hopes will riseAnd agitate my heart again;And thus it is ’twould cause me painWithout the faintest trace to leaveThis world. I do not praise desire,Yet still apparently aspireMy mournful fate in verse to weave,That like a friendly voice its toneRescue me from oblivion.

Learning to fake a feeling is its own kind of education.

How soon he learnt deception’s art,Hope to conceal and jealousy,False confidence or doubt to impart,Sombre or glad in turn to be,Haughty appear, subservient,Obsequious or indifferent!What languor would his silence show,How full of fire his speech would glow!How artless was the note which spokeOf love again, and yet again;How deftly could he transport feign!How bright and tender was his look,Modest yet daring! And a tearWould at the proper time appear.

Everyone you have trusted with a feeling was a wager.

Oh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?Where is he who doth not deceive?Who words and actions will adjustTo standards in which we believe?Oh! who is not calumnious?Who labours hard to humour us?To whom are our misfortunes griefAnd who is not a tiresome thief?My venerated reader, oh!Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,Spare yourself unavailing painAnd all your love on self bestow;A worthy object ’tis, and wellI know there’s none more amiable.

The hour when night has just decided to begin.

The fire sinks low. An ashy cloakThe golden ember now enshrines,And barely visible the smokeUpward in a thin stream inclines.But little warmth the fireplace lends,Tobacco smoke the flue ascends,The goblet still is bubbling bright—Outside descend the mists of night.How pleasantly the evening jogsWhen o’er a glass with friends we prateJust at the hour we designateThe time between the wolf and dogs—I cannot tell on what pretence—But lo! the friends to chat commence.

The first reader of any poem is rarely the one the poet wanted.

But I the products of my Muse,Consisting of harmonious lays,To my old nurse alone peruse,Companion of my childhood’s days.Or, after dinner’s dull repast,I by the button-hole seize fastMy neighbour, who by chance drew near,And breathe a drama in his ear.Or else (I deal not here in jokes),Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,I sail upon my lake at timesAnd terrify a swarm of ducks,Who, heard the music of my lay,Take to their wings and fly away.