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XXXVII

   But what about Onegin? By the way,    brothers! I beg your patience:    his daily occupations in detail  4 I shall describe to you.    Onegin anchoretically lived;    he rose in summer between six and seven    and, lightly clad, proceeded to the river  8 that ran under the hillside. Imitating    the songster of Gulnare,    across this Hellespont he swam,    then drank his coffee, while he flipped 12 through some wretched review,    and dressed

XXXIX

   Rambles, and reading, and sound sleep,    the sylvan shade, the purl of streams,    sometimes a white-skinned, dark-eyed girl's  4 young and fresh kiss,    a horse of mettle, bridle-true,    a rather fancy dinner,    a bottle of bright wine,  8 seclusion, quiet —    this was Onegin's saintly life;    and he insensibly to it    surrendered, the fair summer days 12 in carefree mollitude not counting,    oblivious of both town and friends    and of the boredom of festive devices.

XL

   But our Northern summer is a caricature    of Southern winters;    it will glance by and vanish: this is known,  4 though to admit it we don't wish.    The sky already breathed of autumn,    the sun already shone more seldom,    the day was growing shorter,  8 the woods' mysterious canopy    with a sad murmur bared itself,    mist settled on the fields,    the caravan of clamorous geese 12 was tending southward; there drew near    a rather tedious period;    November stood already at the door.

XLI

   Dawn rises in cold murk;    stilled in the grainfields is the noise of labors;    with his hungry female, the wolf  4 comes out upon the road;    the road horse, sensing him,    snorts, and the wary traveler    goes tearing uphill at top speed;  8 no longer does the herdsman drive at sunrise    the cows out of the shippon,    and at the hour of midday in a circle    his horn does not call them together; 12 in her small hut singing, the maiden23    spins and, the friend of winter nights,    in front of her the splintlight crackles.

XLII

   And now the frosts already crackle    and silver 'mid the fields    (the reader now expects the rhyme “froze-rose” —  4 here, take it quick!).    Neater than modish parquetry,    the ice-clad river shines.    The gladsome crew of boys24  8 cut with their skates resoundingly the ice;    a heavy goose with red feet, planning    to swim upon the bosom of the waters,    steps carefully upon the ice, 12 slidders, and falls. The gay    first snow flicks, whirls,    falling in stars upon the bank.

XLIII

   What can one do at this time in the wilds?    Walk? But the country at that time    is an involuntary eyesore  4 in its unbroken nakedness.    Go galloping in the harsh prairie?    But, catching with a blunted shoe    the treacherous ice, one's mount  8 is likely any moment to come down.    Stay under your desolate roof,    read; here is Pradt, here's Walter Scott!    Don't want to? Verify expenses, 12 grumble or drink, and the long evening    somehow will pass; and next day the same thing,    and famously you'll spend the winter.

XLIV

   Onegin like a regular Childe Harold    lapsed into pensive indolence:    right after sleep he takes a bath with ice,  4 and then, at home all day,    alone, absorbed in calculations, armed    with a blunt cue,    using two balls,  8 ever since morn plays billiards.    The country evening comes; abandoned    are billiards, the cue is forgot.    Before the fireplace the table is laid; 12 Eugene waits; here comes Lenski,    borne by a troika of roan horses;    quick, let's have dinner!