All Eugene knew besides
I have no leisure to recount;
but where he was a veritable genius,
4 what he more firmly knew than all the arts,
what since his prime had been to him
toil, torment, and delight,
what occupied the livelong day
8 his fretting indolence —
was the art of soft passion
which Naso sang,
wherefore a sufferer
12 his brilliant and unruly span
he ended, in Moldavia,
deep in the steppes, far from his Italy.
How early he was able to dissemble,
conceal a hope, show jealousy,
shake one's belief, make one believe,
4 seem gloomy, pine away,
appear proud and obedient,
attentive or indifferent!
How languorously he was silent,
8 how fierily eloquent,
in letters of the heart, how casual!
With one thing breathing, one thing loving,
how self-oblivious he could be!
12 How quick and tender was his gaze,
bashful and daring, while at times
it shone with an obedient tear!
XI
How he was able to seem new,
in jest astonish innocence,
alarm with ready desperation,
4 amuse with pleasant flattery,
capture the minute of softheartedness;
the prejudices of innocent years
conquer by means of wits and passion,
8 wait for involuntary favors,
beg or demand avowals,
eavesdrop upon a heart's first sound,
pursue love — and all of a sudden
12 obtain a secret assignation,
and afterward, alone with her,
amid the stillness give her lessons!
XII
How early he already could disturb
the hearts of the professed coquettes!
Or when he wanted to annihilate
4 his rivals,
how bitingly he'd tattle!
What snares prepare for them!
But you, blest husbands,
8 you remained friends with him:
him petted the sly spouse,
Faublas' disciple of long standing,
and the distrustful oldster,
12 and the majestical cornuto,
always pleased with himself,
his dinner, and his wife.
It happened, he'd be still in bed
when little billets would be brought him.
What? Invitations? Yes, indeed,
4 to a soiree three houses bid him:
here, there will be a ball; elsewhere, a children's fete.
So whither is my scamp to scurry?
Whom will he start with? Never mind:
8 'tis simple to get everywhere in time.
Meanwhile, in morning dress,
having donned a broad bolivar3,
Onegin drives to the boulevard
12 and there goes strolling unconfined
till vigilant Bréguet
to him chimes dinner.
XVI
'Tis dark by now. He gets into a sleigh.
The cry “Way, way!” resounds.
With frostdust silvers
4 his beaver collar.
To Talon's4 he has dashed off: he is certain
that there already waits for him [Kavérin];
has entered — and the cork goes ceilingward,
8 the flow of comet wine spurts forth,
a bloody roast beef is before him,
and truffles, luxury of youthful years,
the best flower of French cookery,
12 and a decayless Strasbourg pie
between a living Limburg cheese
and a golden ananas.
XVII
Thirst is still clamoring for beakers
to drown the hot fat of the cutlets;
but Bréguet's chime reports to them
4 that a new ballet has begun.
The theater's unkind
lawgiver; the inconstant
adorer of enchanting actresses;
8 an honorary citizen of the coulisses,
Onegin has flown to the theater,
where, breathing criticism,
each is prepared to clap an entrechat,
12 hiss Phaedra, Cleopatra,
call out Moëna — for the purpose
merely of being heard.