Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin. Александр Пушкин

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      She was thus fond of Richardson

      Not that she had his works perused,

      Or that adoring Grandison

      That rascal Lovelace she abused;

      But that Princess Pauline of old,

      Her Moscow cousin, often told

      The tale of these romantic men;

      Her husband was a bridegroom then,

      And she despite herself would waste

      Sighs on another than her lord

      Whose qualities appeared to afford

      More satisfaction to her taste.

      Her Grandison was in the Guard,

      A noted fop who gambled hard.

      Like his, her dress was always nice,

      The height of fashion, fitting tight,

      But contrary to her advice

      The girl in marriage they unite.

      Then, her distraction to allay,

      The bridegroom sage without delay

      Removed her to his country seat,

      Where God alone knows whom she met.

      She struggled hard at first thus pent,

      Night separated from her spouse,

      Then became busy with the house,

      First reconciled and then content;

      Habit was given us in distress

      By Heaven in lieu of happiness.

      Habit alleviates the grief

      Inseparable from our lot;

      This great discovery relief

      And consolation soon begot.

      And then she soon ’twixt work and leisure

      Found out the secret how at pleasure

      To dominate her worthy lord,

      And harmony was soon restored.

      The workpeople she superintended,

      Mushrooms for winter salted down,

      Kept the accounts, shaved many a crown[23],

      The bath on Saturdays attended,

      When angry beat her maids, I grieve,

      And all without her husband’s leave.

      In her friends’ albums, time had been,

      With blood instead of ink she scrawled,

      Baptized Prascovia Pauline,

      And in her conversation drawled.

      She wore her corset tightly bound,

      The Russian N with nasal sound

      She would pronounce a la Francaise;

      But soon she altered all her ways,

      Corset and album and Pauline,

      Her sentimental verses all,

      She soon forgot, began to call

      Akulka who was once Celine,

      And had with waddling in the end

      Her caps and night-dresses to mend.

      As for her spouse he loved her dearly,

      In her affairs ne’er interfered,

      Entrusted all to her sincerely,

      In dressing-gown at meals appeared.

      Existence calmly sped along,

      And oft at eventide a throng

      Of friends unceremonious would

      Assemble from the neighbourhood:

      They growl a bit – they scandalise —

      They crack a feeble joke and smile —

      Thus the time passes and meanwhile

      Olga the tea must supervise —

      ‘Tis time for supper, now for bed,

      And soon the friendly troop hath fled.

      They in a peaceful life preserved

      Customs by ages sanctified,

      Strictly the Carnival observed,

      Ate Russian pancakes at Shrovetide,

      Twice in the year to fast were bound,

      Of whirligigs were very fond,

      Of Christmas carols, song and dance;

      When people with long countenance

      On Trinity Sunday yawned at prayer,

      Three tears they dropt with humble mein

      Upon a bunch of lovage green;

      Kvass needful was to them as air;

      On guests their servants used to wait

      By rank as settled by the State.[24]

      Thus age approached, the common doom,

      And death before the husband wide

      Opened the portals of the tomb

      And a new diadem supplied.[25]

      Just before dinner-time he slept,

      By neighbouring families bewept,

      By children and by faithful wife

      With deeper woe than others’ grief.

      He was an honest gentleman,

      And where at last his bones repose

      The epitaph on marble shows:

      Demetrius Larine, sinful man,

      Servant of God and brigadier,

      Enjoyeth peaceful slumber here.

      To his Penates now returned,

      Vladimir Lenski visited

      His neighbour’s lowly tomb and mourned

      Above the ashes of the dead.

      There long time sad at heart he stayed:

      “Poor Yorick,” mournfully he said,

      “How often in thine arms I lay;

      How with thy medal I would play,

      The Medal Otchakoff conferred![26]

      To me he would his Olga give,

      Would whisper: shall I so long live?” —

      And by a genuine sorrow stirred,

      Lenski his pencil-case took out

      And an elegiac poem wrote.

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