"My uncle's goodness is extreme, 

If seriously he hath disease; 

He hath acquired the world's esteem 

And nothing more important sees;

A paragon of virtue he! 

But what a nuisance it will be, 

Chained to his bedside night and day 

Without a chance to slip away.

Ye need dissimulation base 

A dying man with art to soothe, 

Beneath his head the pillow smooth, 

And physic bring with mournful face, 

To sigh and meditate alone: 

When will the devil take his own!"

Thus mused a madcap young, who drove 

Through clouds of dust at postal pace, 

By the decree of Mighty Jove, 

Inheritor of all his race.

Friends of Liudmila and Ruslan,[1] 

Let me present ye to the man, 

Who without more prevarication 

The hero is of my narration!

Oneguine, O my gentle readers, 

Was born beside the Neva, where 

It may be ye were born, or there 

Have shone as one of fashion's leaders.

I also wandered there of old, 

But cannot stand the northern cold.[2]

Having performed his service truly, 

Deep into debt his father ran; 

Three balls a year he gave ye duly, 

At last became a ruined man.

But Eugene was by fate preserved, 

For first "madame" his wants observed, 

And then "monsieur" supplied her place;[3] 

The boy was wild but full of grace.

"Monsieur l'Abbe," a starving Gaul, 

Fearing his pupil to annoy, 

Instructed jestingly the boy, 

Morality taught scarce at all;

Gently for pranks he would reprove 

And in the Summer Garden rove.

When youth's rebellious hour drew near 

And my Eugene the path must trace— 

The path of hope and tender fear— 

Monsieur clean out of doors they chase.

Lo! my Oneguine free as air, 

Cropped in the latest style his hair, 

Dressed like a London dandy he 

The giddy world at last shall see.

He wrote and spoke, so all allowed, 

In the French language perfectly, 

Danced the mazurka gracefully, 

Without the least constraint he bowed.

What more's required? The world replies, 

He is a charming youth and wise.

We all of us of education 

A something somehow have obtained, 

Thus, praised be God! a reputation 

With us is easily attained.

Oneguine was—so many deemed 

[Unerring critics self-esteemed], 

Pedantic although scholar like, 

In truth he had the happy trick

Without constraint in conversation 

Of touching lightly every theme. 

Silent, oracular ye'd see him 

Amid a serious disputation,

Then suddenly discharge a joke 

The ladies' laughter to provoke.

Latin is just now not in vogue, 

But if the truth I must relate, 

Oneguine knew enough, the rogue 

A mild quotation to translate,

A little Juvenal to spout, 

With "vale" finish off a note; 

Two verses he could recollect 

Of the Aeneid, but incorrect.

In history he took no pleasure, 

The dusty chronicles of earth 

For him were but of little worth, 

Yet still of anecdotes a treasure 

Within his memory there lay, 

From Romulus unto our day.

For empty sound the rascal swore he 

Existence would not make a curse, 

Knew not an iamb from a choree, 

Although we read him heaps of verse.

Homer, Theocritus, he jeered, 

But Adam Smith to read appeared, 

And at economy was great; 

That is, he could elucidate 

How empires store of wealth unfold, 

How flourish, why and wherefore less 

If the raw product they possess 

The medium is required of gold.

The father scarcely understands 

His son and mortgages his lands.

But upon all that Eugene knew

I have no leisure here to dwell,

But say he was a genius who

In one thing really did excel.

It occupied him from a boy,

A labour, torment, yet a joy,

It whiled his idle hours away

And wholly occupied his day—

The amatory science warm,

Which Ovid once immortalized,

For which the poet agonized

Laid down his life of sun and storm

On the steppes of Moldavia lone,

Far from his Italy—his own.[4]

How soon he learnt deception's art, 

Hope to conceal and jealousy, 

False confidence or doubt to impart, 

Sombre or glad in turn to be, 

Haughty appear, subservient, 

Obsequious or indifferent!

What languor would his silence show, 

How full of fire his speech would glow!

How artless was the note which spoke 

Of love again, and yet again; 

How deftly could he transport feign!

How bright and tender was his look, 

Modest yet daring! And a tear 

Would at the proper time appear.

How well he played the greenhorn's part 

To cheat the inexperienced fair, 

Sometimes by pleasing flattery's art, 

Sometimes by ready-made despair;

The feeble moment would espy 

Of tender years the modesty 

Conquer by passion and address, 

Await the long-delayed caress.

Avowal then 'twas time to pray, 

Attentive to the heart's first beating, 

Follow up love—a secret meeting 

Arrange without the least delay— 

Then, then—well, in some solitude 

Lessons to give he understood!

How soon he learnt to titillate 

The heart of the inveterate flirt!

Desirous to annihilate 

His own antagonists expert, 

How bitterly he would malign, 

With many a snare their pathway line!

But ye, O happy husbands, ye 

With him were friends eternally: 

The crafty spouse caressed him, who 

By Faublas in his youth was schooled,[5]

And the suspicious veteran old, 

The pompous, swaggering cuckold too, 

Who floats contentedly through life, 

Proud of his dinners and his wife!

One morn whilst yet in bed he lay, 

His valet brings him letters three. 

What, invitations? The same day 

As many entertainments be!

A ball here, there a children's treat, 

Whither shall my rapscallion flit? 

Whither shall he go first? He'll see, 

Perchance he will to all the three.

Meantime in matutinal dress 

And hat surnamed a "Bolivar"[6] 

He hies unto the "Boulevard," 

To loiter there in idleness 

Until the sleepless Breguet chime[7] 

Announcing to him dinner-time.

'Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh, 

"Drive on!" the cheerful cry goes forth, 

His furs are powdered on the way 

By the fine silver of the north.

He bends his course to Talon's, where[8] 

He knows Kaverine will repair.[9] 

He enters. High the cork arose 

And Comet champagne foaming flows.

Before him red roast beef is seen 

And truffles, dear to youthful eyes, 

Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies, 

The choicest flowers of French cuisine, 

And Limburg cheese alive and old 

Is seen next pine-apples of gold.

Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels 

To cool the cutlets' seething grease, 

When the sonorous Breguet tells 

Of the commencement of the piece.

A critic of the stage malicious, 

A slave of actresses capricious, 

Oneguine was a citizen 

Of the domains of the side-scene.

To the theatre he repairs 

Where each young critic ready stands, 

Capers applauds with clap of hands, 

With hisses Cleopatra scares, 

Moina recalls for this alone 

That all may hear his voice's tone.

Thou fairy-land! Where formerly 

Shone pungent Satire's dauntless king, 

Von Wisine, friend of liberty, 

And Kniajnine, apt at copying.

The young Simeonova too there 

With Ozeroff was wont to share 

Applause, the people's donative. 

There our Katenine did revive 

Corneille's majestic genius, 

Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out 

His comedies, a noisy rout, 

There Didelot became glorious, 

There, there, beneath the side-scene's shade 

The drama of my youth was played.[10]

My goddesses, where are your shades? 

Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? 

Are ye replaced by other maids 

Who cannot conjure former joys?

Shall I your chorus hear anew, 

Russia's Terpsichore review 

Again in her ethereal dance? 

Or will my melancholy glance 

On the dull stage find all things changed, 

The disenchanted glass direct 

Where I can no more recollect?— 

A careless looker-on estranged 

In silence shall I sit and yawn 

And dream of life's delightful dawn?

The house is crammed. A thousand lamps 

On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, 

Impatiently the gallery stamps, 

The curtain now they slowly raise.