Thus does her thought roam far away:
high life and noisy ball are both forgotten,
but meantime does not take his eyes off her
4 a certain imposing general.
The aunts exchanged a wink and both
as one nudged Tanya with their elbows,
and each whispered to her:
8 “Look quickly to your left.”
“My left? Where? What is there?”
“Well, whatsoever there be, look....
In that group, see? In front....
12 There where you see those two in uniform....
Now he has moved off... now he stands in profile.”
“Who? That fat general?”
LV
But here we shall congratulate
my dear Tatiana on a conquest
and turn our course aside,
4 lest I forget of whom I sing....
And by the way, here are two words about it:
“I sing a youthful pal
and many eccentricities of his.
8 Bless my long labor,
O you, Muse of the Epic!
And having handed me a trusty staff,
let me not wander aslant and askew.”
12 Enough! The load come off my shoulders!
To classicism I have paid my respects:
though late, but there's an introduction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fare thee well, and if for ever,Still for ever, fare thee well.
Byron
I
In those days when in the Lyceum's gardens
I bloomed serenely,
would eagerly read Apuleius,
4 did not read Cicero;
in those days, in mysterious valleys,
in springtime, to the calls of swans,
near waters shining in the stillness,
8 the Muse began to visit me.
My student cell was all at once
radiant with light: in it the Muse
opened a banquet of young fancies,
12 sang childish gaieties,
and glory of our ancientry,
and the heart's tremulous dreams.
And I, setting myself for law
only the arbitrary will of passions,
sharing emotions with the crowd,
4 I led my frisky Muse into the hubbub
of feasts and turbulent discussions —
the terror of midnight patrols;
and to them, in mad feasts,
8 she brought her gifts,
and like a little bacchante frisked,
over the bowl sang for the guests;
and the young people of past days
12 would turbulently dangle after her;
and I was proud 'mong friends
of my volatile mistress.
IV
But I dropped out of their alliance —
and fled afar... she followed me.
How often the caressive Muse
4 for me would sweeten the mute way
with the bewitchment of a secret tale!
How often on Caucasia's crags,
Lenorelike, by the moon,
8 with me she'd gallop on a steed!
How often on the shores of Tauris
she in the gloom of night
led me to listen the sound of the sea,
12 Nereid's unceasing murmur,
the deep eternal chorus of the billows,
the praiseful hymn to the sire of the worlds.
V
And the far capital's glitter and noisy feasts
having forgotten in the wilds
of sad Moldavia,
4 she visited the humble tents
of wandering tribes;
and among them grew savage, and forgot
the language of the gods
8 for scant, strange tongues,
for songs of the steppe dear to her.
Suddenly everything around
changed, and lo! in my garden she appeared
12 as a provincial miss,
with a sad thought in her eyes, with a French
book in her hands.