Could it be that the same Tatiana
to whom, alone with her,
at the beginning of our novel
4 back in a stagnant, distant region,
in the fine fervor of moralization
precepts he once had preached;
the one from whom a letter he preserves
8 where the heart speaks,
where all is out, all unrestrained;
that little girl — or is he dreaming? —
that little girl whom in her humble state
12 he had passed over — could it be that now
she had been so indifferent,
so bold with him?
XXI
He leaves the close-packed rout,
he drives home, pensive; by a fancy —
now sad, now charming,
4 his first sleep is disturbed.
He wakes; is brought
a letter: Prince N. begs the honor of his presence
at a soiree. Good God — to her?
8 I will, I will! And rapidly a courteous
reply he scrawls. What is the matter
with him? In what strange daze is he?
What has stirred at the bottom of that cold
12 and sluggish soul?
Vexation? Vanity? Or once again
youth's worry — love?
XXII
Once more Onegin counts the hours,
once more he can't wait for the day to end.
But ten strikes: he drives off,
4 he has flown forth, he's at the porch;
with tremor he goes in to the princess:
he finds Tatiana
alone, and for some minutes
8 they sit together. From Onegin's lips
the words come not. Ill-humored,
awkward, he barely, barely
replies to her. His head
12 is full of a persistent thought.
Persistently he looks: she sits
easy and free.
XXIII
The husband comes. He interrupts
this painful tête-à-tête;
he with Onegin recollects
4 the pranks, the jests of former years.
They laugh. Guests enter.
Now with the large-grained salt of high-life malice
the conversation starts to be enlivened.
8 Before the lady of the house, light nonsense
flashed without stupid affectation,
and meantime interrupted it
sensible talk, without trite topics,
12 eternal truths, or pedantry,
nor did its free vivacity
shock anybody's ears.
XXIV
Yet here was the flower of the capital,
both high nobility and paragons of fashion;
the faces one meets everywhere,
4 the fools one cannot go without;
here were, in mobcaps and in roses,
elderly ladies, wicked-looking;
here were several maidens —
8 unsmiling faces;
here was an envoy, speaking
of state affairs;
here was, with fragrant hoary hair,
12 an old man in the old way joking —
with eminent subtility and wit,
which is somewhat absurd today!
XXV
Here was, to epigrams addicted
a gentleman cross with everything:
with the too-sweet tea of the hostess,
4 the ladies' platitudes, the ton of men,
the comments on a foggy novel,
the badge two sisters had been granted,
the falsehoods in reviews, the war,
8 the snow, and his own wife.
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XXVI
Here was […], who had gained
distinction by the baseness of his soul
and blunted in all albums,
4 Saint-P[riest], your pencils;
in the doorway another ball dictator
stood like a fashion plate,
as rosy as a Palm Week cherub,
8 tight-coated, mute and motionless;
and a far-flung traveler,
an overstarched jackanapes,
provoked a smile among the guests
12 by his studied deportment,
and an exchange of silent glances was
his universal condemnation.