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

The tea, as I remarked, appeared, But scarce had maids their saucers ta'en When in the grand saloon was heard Of bassoons and of flutes the strain.His soul by crash of music fired, His tea with rum no more desired, The Paris of those country parts To Olga Petoushkova darts:To Tania Lenski; Kharlikova, A marriageable maid matured, The poet from Tamboff secured, Bouyanoff whisked off Poustiakova.All to the grand saloon are gone— The ball in all its splendour shone.

XL

I tried when I began this tale, (See the first canto if ye will), A ball in Peter's capital, To sketch ye in Albano's style.[63]But by fantastic dreams distraught, My memory wandered wide and sought The feet of my dear lady friends. O feet, where'er your path extends I long enough deceived have erred. The perfidies I recollect Should make me much more circumspect, Reform me both in deed and word, And this fifth canto ought to be From such digressions wholly free.

XLI

The whirlwind of the waltz sweeps by, Undeviating and insane As giddy youth's hilarity— Pair after pair the race sustain.The moment for revenge, meanwhile, Espying, Eugene with a smile Approaches Olga and the pair Amid the company career.Soon the maid on a chair he seats, Begins to talk of this and that, But when two minutes she had sat, Again the giddy waltz repeats.All are amazed; but Lenski he Scarce credits what his eyes can see.

XLII

Hark! the mazurka. In times past, When the mazurka used to peal, All rattled in the ball-room vast, The parquet cracked beneath the heel, And jolting jarred the window-frames. 'Tis not so now. Like gentle dames We glide along a floor of wax. However, the mazurka lacks Nought of its charms original In country towns, where still it keeps Its stamping, capers and high leaps. Fashion is there immutable, Who tyrannizes us with ease, Of modern Russians the disease.

XLIII

Bouyanoff, wrathful cousin mine, Unto the hero of this lay Olga and Tania led. Malign, Oneguine Olga bore away.Gliding in negligent career, He bending whispered in her ear Some madrigal not worth a rush, And pressed her hand—the crimson blush Upon her cheek by adulation Grew brighter still. But Lenski hath Seen all, beside himself with wrath, And hot with jealous indignation, Till the mazurka's close he stays, Her hand for the cotillon prays.

XLIV