Straight scissors, curved ones, thirty sizes
Of brushes for the modern male
For hair and teeth and fingernail.
Rousseau (permit me this digression)
Could not conceive how solemn Grimm*
Dared clean his nails in front of him,
The brilliant madcap of confession.
In this case, though, one has to say
That Freedom's Champion went astray.
25
For one may be a man of reason
And mind the beauty of his nails.
Why argue vainly with the season?
For custom's rule o'er man prevails.
Now my Eugene, Chadyev's* double,
From jealous critics fearing trouble,
Was quite the pedant in his dress
And what we called a fop, no less.
At least three hours he peruses
His figure in the looking-glass;
Then through his dressing room he'll pass
Like flighty Venus when she chooses
In man's attire to pay a call
At masquerade or midnight ball.
26
Your interest piqued and doubtless growing
In current fashions of toilette,
I might describe in terms more knowing
His clothing for the learned set.
This might well seem an indiscretion,
Description, though, is my profession;
But pantaloons, gilet, and frock
These words are hardly Russian stock;
And I confess (in public sorrow)
That as it is my diction groans
With far too many foreign loans;
But if indeed I overborrow,
I have of old relied upon
Our Academic Lexicon.
27
But let's abandon idle chatter
And hasten rather to forestall
Our hero's headlong, dashing clatter
In hired coach towards the ball.
Before the fronts of darkened houses,
Along a street that gently drowses,
The double carriage lamps in rows
Pour forth their warm and cheerful glows
And on the snow make rainbows glitter.
One splendid house is all alight,
Its countless lampions burning bright;
While past its glassed-in windows flitter
In quick succession silhouettes
Of ladies and their modish pets.
28
But look, Onegin's at the gateway;
He's past the porter, up the stair,
Through marble entry rushes straightway,
Then runs his fingers through his hair,
And steps inside. The crush increases,
The droning music never ceases;
A bold mazurka grips the crowd,
The press intense, the hubbub loud;
The guardsman clinks his spurs and dances,
The charming ladies twirl their feet
Enchanting creatures that entreat
A hot pursuit of flaming glances;
While muffled by the violin
The wives their jealous gossip spin.
29
In days of dreams and dissipations
On balls I madly used to dote:
No surer place for declarations,
Or for the passing of a note.
And so I offer, worthy spouses,
My services to save your houses:
I pray you, heed my sound advice,
A word of warning should suffice.
You too, you mamas, I commend you
To keep your daughters well in sight;
Don't lower your lorgnettes at night!
Or else ... or else . . . may God defend you!
All this I now can let you know,
Since I dropped sinning long ago.
30
So much of life have I neglected
In following where pleasure calls!
Yet were not morals ill affected
I even now would worship balls.
I love youth's wanton, fevered madness,
The crush, the glitter, and the gladness,
The ladies' gowns so well designed;
I love their feetalthough you'll find
That all of Russia scarcely numbers
Three pairs of shapely feet. .. And yet,
How long it took me to forget
Two special feet. And in my slumbers
They still assail a soul grown cold
And on my heart retain their hold.
31
In what grim desert, madman, banished,
Will you at last cut memory's thread?
Ah, dearest feet, where have you vanished?
What vernal flowers do you tread?
Brought up in Oriental splendour,
You left no prints, no pressings tender,
Upon our mournful northern snow.
You loved instead to come and go
On yielding rugs in rich profusion;
While Iso long ago it seems!
For your sake smothered all my dreams
Of glory, country, proud seclusion.
All gone are youth's bright years of grace,
As from the meadow your light trace.
32
Diana's breast is charming, brothers,
And Flora's cheek, I quite agree;
But I prefer above these others
The foot of sweet Terpsichore.
It hints to probing, ardent glances
Of rich rewards and peerless trances;
Its token beauty stokes the fires,
The wilful swarm of hot desires.
My dear Elvina, I adore it
Beneath the table barely seen,
In springtime on the meadow's green,
In winter with the hearth before it,
Upon the ballroom's mirrored floor,
Or perched on granite by the shore.
33
I recollect the ocean rumbling: