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

And it may be a secret dread 
Lest the world or her lord divine 
A certain little escapade 
Well known unto Oneguine mine.

'Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee 
Cursing his own stupidity, 
And brooding o'er the ills he bore, 
Society renounced once more.

Then in the silent cabinet 
He in imagination saw 
The time when Melancholy's claw 
'Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet, 
Caught him and by the collar took 
And shut him in a lonely nook.

XXXIV

He read as vainly as before, 
perusing Gibbon and Rousseau, 
Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,[88] 
Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:

He read the unbelieving Bayle, 
Also the works of Fontenelle, 
Some Russian authors he perused— 
Nought in the universe refused:

Nor almanacs nor newspapers, 
Which lessons unto us repeat, 
Wherein I castigation get; 
And where a madrigal occurs 
Writ in my honour now and then— 
E sempre bene, gentlemen!

XXXV

But what results? His eyes peruse 
But thoughts meander far away— 
Ideas, desires and woes confuse 
His intellect in close array.

His eyes, the printed lines betwixt, 
On lines invisible are fixt; 
'Twas these he read and these alone 
His spirit was intent upon.

They were the wonderful traditions 
Of kindly, dim antiquity, 
Dreams with no continuity, 
Prophecies, threats and apparitions, 
The lively trash of stories long 
Or letters of a maiden young.

XXXVI

And by degrees upon him grew 
A lethargy of sense, a trance, 
And soon imagination threw 
Before him her wild game of chance.

And now upon the snow in thaw 
A young man motionless he saw, 
As one who bivouacs afield, 
And heard a voice cry—Why! He's killed!—

And now he views forgotten foes, 
Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue, 
Bevies of treacherous maidens young; 
Of thankless friends the circle rose, 
A mansion—by the window, see! 
She sits alone—'tis ever she!

XXXVII

So frequently his mind would stray 
He well-nigh lost the use of sense, 
Almost became a poet say— 
Oh! what had been his eminence!

Indeed, by force of magnetism 
A Russian poem's mechanism 
My scholar without aptitude 
At this time almost understood.

How like a poet was my chum 
When, sitting by his fire alone 
Whilst cheerily the embers shone, 
He "Benedetta" used to hum, 
Or "Idol mio," and in the grate 
Would lose his slippers or gazette.

XXXVIII