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   No — every minute to see you; to follow 24 you everywhere;    the smile of your lips, movement of your eyes,    to try to capture with enamored eyes;    to listen long to you, to comprehend 28 all your perfection with one's soul;    to melt in agonies before you,    grow pale and waste away... that's rapture!
   And I'm deprived of that; for you 32 I drag myself at random everywhere;    to me each day is dear, each hour is dear,    while I in futile dullness squander    the days told off by fate — they are 36 sufficiently oppressive anyway.    I know: my span is well-nigh measured;    but that my life may be prolonged    I must be certain in the morning 40 of seeing you during the day.
   I fear: in my meek plea    your severe gaze will see    the schemes of despicable cunning — 44 and I can hear your wrathful censure.    If you hut knew how terrible it is    to languish with the thirst of love,    burn — and by means of reason hourly 48 subdue the tumult in one's blood;    wish to embrace your knees    and, in a burst of sobbing, at your feet    pour out appeals, avowals, plaints, 52 all, all I could express,    and in the meantime with feigned coldness    arm speech and gaze,    maintain a placid conversation, 56 glance at you with a cheerful glance!...
   But let it be: against myself    I've not the force to struggle any more;    all is decided: I am in your power, 60 and I surrender to my fate.

XXXIII

   There is no answer. He sends a new missive.    To the second, to the third letter —    there is no answer. He drives out to some  4 reception. Hardly has he entered — there she is    coming in his direction. How severe!    He is not seen, to him no word is said.    Ugh! How surrounded she is now  8 with Twelfthtide cold!    How anxious are to hold back indignation    her stubborn lips!    Onegin peers with a keen eye: 12 where, where are discomposure, sympathy,    where the tearstains? None, none!    There's on that face but the imprint of wrath...

XXXIV

   plus, possibly, a secret fear    lest husband or monde guess    the escapade, the casual foible,  4 all my Onegin knows....    There is no hope! He drives away,    curses his folly —    and, deeply plunged in it,  8 the monde he once again renounces    and in his silent study comes to him    the recollection of the time    when cruel chondria 12 pursued him in the noisy monde,    captured him, took him by the collar,    and shut him up in a dark hole.

XXXV

   Again, without discrimination,    he started reading. He read Gibbon,    Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder,  4 Chamfort, Mme de Staël, Bichat, Tissot.    He read the skeptic Bayle,    he read the works of Fontenelle,    he read some [authors] of our own,  8 without rejecting anything —    the “almanacs” and the reviews    where sermons into us are drummed,    where I'm today abused so much 12 but where such madrigals addressed tome    I used to meet with now and then:    e sempre bene, gentlemen.

XXXVI

   And lo — his eyes were reading, but his thoughts    were far away;    chimeras, desires, sorrows  4 kept crowding deep into his soul.    Between the printed lines    he with spiritual eyes    read other lines. It was in them  8 that he was utterly absorbed.    These were the secret legends of the heart's    dark ancientry;    dreams unconnected 12 with anything; threats, rumors, presages;    or the live tosh of a long tale,    or a young maiden's letters.