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

My goddesses, where are your shades? Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? Are ye replaced by other maids Who cannot conjure former joys?Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia's Terpsichore review Again in her ethereal dance? Or will my melancholy glance On the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass direct Where I can no more recollect?— A careless looker-on estranged In silence shall I sit and yawn And dream of life's delightful dawn?

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The house is crammed. A thousand lamps On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, Impatiently the gallery stamps, The curtain now they slowly raise.Obedient to the magic strings, Brilliant, ethereal, there springs Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding Istomina[11] the nimbly-bounding;With one foot resting on its tip Slow circling round its fellow swings And now she skips and now she springs Like down from Aeolus's lip, Now her lithe form she arches o'er And beats with rapid foot the floor.

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Shouts of applause! Oneguine passes Between the stalls, along the toes; Seated, a curious look with glasses On unknown female forms he throws.Free scope he yields unto his glance, Reviews both dress and countenance, With all dissatisfaction shows.To male acquaintances he bows, And finally he deigns let fall Upon the stage his weary glance. He yawns, averts his countenance, Exclaiming, "We must change 'em all! I long by ballets have been bored, Now Didelot scarce can be endured!"

XIX

Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout Across the stage still madly sweep, Whilst the tired serving-men without Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.Still the loud stamping doth not cease, Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze, Still everywhere, without, within, The lamps illuminating shine;The steed benumbed still pawing stands And of the irksome harness tires, And still the coachmen round the fires[12] Abuse their masters, rub their hands: But Eugene long hath left the press To array himself in evening dress.

XX

Faithfully shall I now depict, Portray the solitary den Wherein the child of fashion strict Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?All that industrial London brings For tallow, wood and other things Across the Baltic's salt sea waves, All which caprice and affluence craves, All which in Paris eager taste, Choosing a profitable trade, For our amusement ever made And ease and fashionable waste,— Adorned the apartment of Eugene, Philosopher just turned eighteen.

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