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    dots Submission Name: Eugene Onegin (Translation, Book 1, St. 10-20)dots

    Author: isselman2001
    Elite Ratio:    5.38 - 37/47/46
    Words: 706
    Class/Type: Poetry/Love
    Total Views: 1103
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 5013

       Stanzas 1-9 at http://www.eliteskills.com/z/158747

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    dotsEugene Onegin (Translation, Book 1, St. 10-20)dots

    {Stanzas 1-9 at http://www.eliteskills.com/z/158747}

    Yevgeniy was from youth dishonest;
    He'd feign dispassion, make a scene,
    He'd let you think that he was modest,
    And never show you what he'd mean.
    A troublemaker, and quite pensive;
    Indifferent, and all-attentive;
    How languid was his reticence,
    How passionate his eloquence,
    As in his letters from the heart,
    In which he'd pour himself completely,
    But never show himself concretely;
    He'd always play a different part.
    Yet modesty was all they'd hear,
    And he'd flash an obedient tear.

    How skilled he was at seeming novel!
    How prone to dazzle the naive,
    By way of joke, or with a proverb;
    Sometimes they'd swear they'd never leave!
    But little was what fair youth knew
    Of what our young Eugene could do:
    His gifts for wit and charm were stunning;
    He was a master of the cunning.
    He'd beg to show her what was true,
    Then listened for her heart's true sound
    And always followed her around
    At last to gain a rendezvous...
    And in a private passion-spark,
    He'd give her lessons in the dark!

    How early he had learned to flutter
    The hearts of dirty young coquettes,
    Whenever he wanted to shudder
    And catch sworn rivals in his nets!
    How he would whip his foes with raps!
    How he would set them up for traps!
    Yet, all my married readers, still,
    Would find him nothing but good will!
    He held in favor with the masses,
    As with a pupil of Faublas,
    And a distrusting old pa-pah,
    And one of those unthinking asses,
    Who’s always satisfied with life,
    His belly and his lovely wife.


    Oft, when our hero’s still in slumber
    Invites are carried to his bed;
    Letters in almost untold number
    Are sorted later to be read:
    Here a soiree of pure elation,
    And there a birthday celebration.
    Which one should our Yevgeniy choose?
    Really, my readers, what’s the use?
    He’ll make it everywhere in earnest!
    For now he’ll, in a bolivar,
    Go on perusing the boulevard,
    (As always looking none the sternest!)
    Until his pocket-watch, in chime,
    Announces that it’s dinner-time.

    “Full speed! We’re off!” His voice is sounding
    As dusk falls and around they go.
    He speeds for Talon, hooves rebounding
    And bringing up white bursts of snow.
    Over the hills his sled, flies, skating,
    His friend, Kaverin, watches, waiting.
    He enters with the bottles high,
    And champagnes flowing to the sky.
    Before him bloody roast beef’s waiting,
    And truffles! wonders of the years!
    And all the best from French frontiers,
    And Strasbourg pies, anticipating
    Desserts and cheese in every spice,
    And gold pineapple by the slice!

    “More wine! More wine!” His thirst’s demanding
    To drown the fiery fish-fillet,
    But when the clock strikes ten, reminding,
    That time has come for the ballet,
    The theater’s stern resident-critic,
    And law-creating analytic,
    A sometimes-lover of the stage
    (And actresses of every age),
    Onegin, to the theater rushes,
    Where everybody was, he saw,
    Keen to applaud an entrechat,
    Greet Cleopatra with their hushes,
    And toward Moina send a word,
    (If only so as to be heard!)

    Enchanted land! There, for a season,
    Fonvizin, friend to freedom, played,
    A genius of satire and reason,
    And Knyazhnin, whom God had betrayed.
    There Ozerov his dues had gotten;
    Semyonova, not yet forgotten,
    Displayed her talents on the stage,
    And was the princess of the age.
    There Cornielle had his resurrection
    At the hands of our Katyenin;
    Shakhovsky made us laugh therein,
    And there Didelot had reached perfection.
    My youth lies there, and of all things,
    There’s nothing that more memories brings.

    Where have you gone, my dreams, my muses?
    Please heed my none the happy call.
    Are you still there? My heart still chooses
    To find, unchanged, you, one and all.
    Is that a chorus that I’m hearing?
    A Russian Terpsichore in nearing,
    With fulfilled soul aloft in flight?
    Or, fixed upon some foreign light,
    Will I, with lorgnette disenchanted
    No friendly face on stage observe,
    No foreign happiness deserve,
    And to old memories be transplanted?
    And silent shall I yawn and sigh,
    Remembering the years gone by?

    Submitted on 2010-06-02 01:34:22     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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