His views on morals ever mellow,
He seldom punished any lark,
And walked the boy in Letny Park.*
4
But when the age of restless turnings
Became in time our young man's fate,
The age of hopes and tender yearnings,
Monsieur l'Abb was shown the gate.
And here's Oneginliberated,
To fad and fashion newly mated:
A London dandy, hair all curled,
At last he's ready for the world!
In French he could and did acutely
Express himself and even write;
In dancing too his step was light,
And bows he'd mastered absolutely.
Who'd ask for more? The world could tell
That he had wit and charm as well.
5
We've all received an education
In something somehow, have we not?
So thank the Lord that in this nation
A little learning means a lot.
Onegin was, so some decided
(Strict judges, not to be derided),
A learned, if pedantic, sort.
He did possess the happy forte
Of free and easy conversation,
Or in a grave dispute he'd wear
The solemn expert's learned air
And keep to silent meditation;
And how the ladies' eyes he lit
With flashes of his sudden wit!
6
The Latin vogue today is waning,
And yet I'll say on his behalf,
He had sufficient Latin training
To gloss a common epigraph,
Cite Juvenal in conversation, P
ut vale in a salutation;
And he recalled, at least in part,
A line or two of Virgil's art.
He lacked, it's true, all predilection
For rooting in the ancient dust
Of history's annals full of must,
But knew by heart a fine collection
Of anecdotes of ages past:
F
rom Romulus to Tuesday last.
7
Lacking the fervent dedication
That sees in sounds life's highest quest,
He never knew, to our frustration,
A dactyl from an anapest.
Theocritus and Homer bored him,
But reading Adam Smith restored him,
And economics he knew well;
Which is to say that he could tell
The ways in which a state progresses
The actual things that make it thrive,
And why for gold it need not strive,
When basic products it possesses.
His father never understood
And mortgaged all the land he could.
8
I have no leisure for retailing
The sum of all our hero's parts,
But where his genius proved unfailing,
The thing he'd learned above all arts,
What from his prime had been his pleasure,
His only torment, toil, and treasure,
What occupied, the livelong day,
His languid spirit's fretful play
Was love itself, the art of ardour,
Which Ovid sang in ages past,
And for which song he paid at last
By ending his proud days a martyr
In dim Moldavia's vacant waste,
Far from the Rome his heart embraced.
(9)* 10
How early on he could dissemble,
Conceal his hopes, play jealous swain,
Compel belief, or make her tremble, S
eem cast in gloom or mute with pain,
Appear so proud or so forbearing,
At times attentive, then uncaring!
What languor when his lips were sealed,
What fiery art his speech revealed!
What casual letters he would send her!
He lived, he breathed one single dream,
How self-oblivious he could seem!
How keen his glance, how bold and tender;
And when he wished, he'd make appear
The quickly summoned, glistening tear!
11
How shrewdly he could be inventive
And playfully astound the young,
Use flattery as warm incentive,
Or frighten with despairing tongue.
And how he'd seize a moment's weakness
To conquer youthful virtue's meekness
Through force of passion and of sense,
And then await sweet recompense.
At first he'd beg a declaration,
And listen for the heart's first beat,
Then stalk love fasterand entreat
A lover's secret assignation . . .
And then in private he'd prepare
In silence to instruct the fair!
12
How early he could stir or worry
The hearts of even skilled coquettes!
And when he found it necessary
To crush a rivaloh, what nets,
What clever traps he'd set before him!
And how his wicked tongue would gore him!
But you, you men in wedded bliss,
You stayed his friends despite all this:
The crafty husband fawned and chuckled
(Faublas'* disciple and his tool),
As did the skeptical old fool,
And the majestic, antlered cuckold
So pleased with all he had in life:
Himself, his dinner, and his wife.
(13-14) 15
Some mornings still abed he drowses,
Until his valet brings his tray.
What? Invitations? Yes, three houses
Have asked him to a grand soire.
There'll be a ball, a children's party;
Where will he dash to, my good hearty?
Where will he make the night's first call?
Oh, never mindhe'll make them all.