Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

A coquette loves by calculation, Tattiana's love was quite sincere, A love which knew no limitation, Even as the love of children dear.She did not think "procrastination Enhances love in estimation And thus secures the prey we seek. His vanity first let us pique With hope and then perplexity, Excruciate the heart and late With jealous fire resuscitate, Lest jaded with satiety, The artful prisoner should seek Incessantly his chains to break."

XXVIII

I still a complication view, My country's honour and repute Demands that I translate for you The letter which Tattiana wrote.At Russ she was by no means clever And read our newspapers scarce ever, And in her native language she Possessed nor ease nor fluency, So she in French herself expressed. I cannot help it I declare, Though hitherto a lady ne'er In Russ her love made manifest, And never hath our language proud In correspondence been allowed.[41]

XXIX

They wish that ladies should, I hear, Learn Russian, but the Lord defend! I can't conceive a little dear With the "Well-Wisher" in her hand![42]I ask, all ye who poets are, Is it not true? the objects fair, To whom ye for unnumbered crimes Had to compose in secret rhymes, To whom your hearts were consecrate,— Did they not all the Russian tongue With little knowledge and that wrong In charming fashion mutilate?Did not their lips with foreign speech The native Russian tongue impeach?

XXX

God grant I meet not at a ball Or at a promenade mayhap, A schoolmaster in yellow shawl Or a professor in tulle cap.As rosy lips without a smile, The Russian language I deem vile Without grammatical mistakes. May be, and this my terror wakes, The fair of the next generation, As every journal now entreats, Will teach grammatical conceits, Introduce verse in conversation.But I—what is all this to me? Will to the old times faithful be.

XXXI

Speech careless, incorrect, but soft,With inexact pronunciationRaises within my breast as oftAs formerly much agitation.Repentance wields not now her spellAnd gallicisms I love as wellAs the sins of my youthful daysOr Bogdanovitch's sweet lays.[43]But I must now employ my MuseWith the epistle of my fair;I promised!—Did I so?—Well, there!Now I am ready to refuse.I know that Parny's tender pen[44]Is no more cherished amongst men.

XXXII