XLVII
The fire was dying; cinders faintly
covered the golden coal -- the steam
tumbled and whirled and twisted quaintly
its barely noticeable stream.
The hearth was low beyond all stoking.
Straight up the chimney, pipes were smoking.
Still on the board the beakers hissed,
and evening now drew on in mist . . .
(I like a friendly conversation,
the enjoyment of a friendly drink,
at hours, which, why I cannot think,
somehow have got the designation
of time between the wolf and dog.)
Now hear the friends in dialogue:

    XLVIII
'Tell me, our neighbours, are they thriving?
and how's Tatyana? Olga too,
your dashing one, is she surviving?'
'Just half a glass more . . . that will do . . .
All flourishing; they send their duty.
Take Olga's shoulders now -- the beauty!
What breasts! What soul! . . . We'll go one day
visit the family, what d'you say?
if you come with me, they'll be flattered;
or else, my friend, how does it look?
you called there twice, and since then took
no notice of them. But I've chattered
so much, I'm left no time to speak!
of course! you're bidden there next week.'

    XLIX
'I?' 'Saturday. The invitation
Olinka and her mother sent:
Tatyana's name day celebration.
It's right and proper that you went.'
'But there'll be such a rout and scrabble
with every different kind of rabble . . .'
'No, no, I'm sure the party's small.
Relations. No one else at all.
Let's go, our friendship's worth the labour!'
'All right, I'll come then . . .' 'What a friend!'
He drained his glass down to the end
by way of toast to their fair neighbour;
then he began to talk once more
of Olga: love's that kind of bore!

    L
Lensky rejoiced. His designated
Rapture was just two weeks ahead;
Love's crown, delectable, awaited
His transports, and the marriage-bed
In all its mystery. Hymen's teasing,
The pain, the grief, the marrow-freezing
Onset of the incipient yawn,
Were from his vision quite withdrawn.
While under the connubial banner
I can see naught, as Hymen's foe,
Beyond a string of dull tableaux,
A novel in Lafontaine's manner . . .
My wretched Lensky in his heart
Was just created for the part.

    LI    
And he was loved . . . at least he never
doubted of it, so lived in bliss.
Happy a hundredfold, whoever
can lean on faith, who can dismiss
cold reason, sleep in sensual welter
like a drunk traveller in a shelter,
or, sweeter, like a butterfly
in flowers of spring it's drinking dry;
but piteous he, the all-foreseeing,
the sober head, detesting each
human reaction, every speech
in the expression of its being,
whose heart experience has cooled
and saved from being charmed or fooled!

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Excerpted from Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin. Copyright© Charles Johnson, 1977, 1979. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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