Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER I

And it hurries to live and it hastens to feel.

Prince Vyazemsky¹

I

My uncle is a man of honour,

When in good earnest he fell ill,

He won respect by his demeanour

And found the role he best could fill.

Let others profit by his lesson,

But, oh my God, what desolation

To tend a sick man day and night

And not to venture from his sight!

What shameful cunning to be cheerful

With someone who is halfway dead,

To prop up pillows by his head,

To bring him medicine, looking tearful,

To sigh – while inwardly you think:

When will the devil let him sink?

2

Reflecting thus, a youthful scapegrace,

By lofty Zeus’s² will the heir

Of all his kinsfolk, in a post-chaise,

Flew headlong through the dusty air.

Friends of Ruslan and of Lyudmila³

Let me acquaint you with this fellow,

The hero of my novel, pray,

Without preamble or delay:

My friend Onegin was begotten

By the Neva, where maybe you

Originated, reader, too

Or where your lustre’s not forgotten:

I liked to stroll there formerly,

But now the North’s unsafe for me.⁴

3

Having retired from noble service,

His father lived on borrowed cash,

He gave three balls a year, impervious

And lost all in a final crash.

Eugene was saved by fate’s decision:

Madame took on his supervision,

Then to Monsieur passed on her trust.⁵

The child had charm, though boisterous.

Monsieur l’Abbé, a threadbare Frenchman,

Made light of everything he taught

For fear of getting Eugene fraught;

Of stern morality no henchman,

He’d mildly check a boyish lark

And walked him in the Summer Park.⁶

4

But when young Eugene reached the morrow

Of adolescent turbulence,

Season of hopes and tender sorrow,

Monsieur was straightway driven hence.

Behold my Eugene’s liberation:

With hair trimmed to the latest fashion,

Dressed like a London dandy, he

At last saw high society.

In French, which he’d by now perfected,

He could express himself and write,

Dance the mazurka, treading light

And bow in manner unaffected.

What more? Society opined:

Here was a youth with charm and mind.

5

We’ve all learned through our education

Some few things in some random way;

Thank God, then, it’s no tribulation

To put our knowledge on display.

Onegin was to many people

(Who judged him by the strictest scruple)

A pedant, yet an able lad.

He was by fortune talented

At seeming always to be curious,

At touching lightly on a thing,

At looking wise and listening,

When argument became too serious,

And, with a sudden epigram,

At setting ladies’ smiles aflame.

6

Custom no longer favours Latin:

The truth, therefore, was plain enough –

That he was able with a smattering

To puzzle out an epigraph,

To talk of Juvenal⁷ or set a

Concluding vale to a letter;

From the Aeneid⁸ a verse or two,

Not without fault, he also knew.

He did not have the scholar’s temper

In dusty chronicles to trace

The story of the human race:

But anecdotes he did remember

Of bygone times, which he’d relay,

From Romulus until this day.

7

The lofty passion not possessing,

That sacrifices life to rhyme,

He could, no matter how we pressed him,

Not tell a trochee from an iamb,

Homer,⁹ Theocritus¹⁰ he rubbished,

But Adam Smith¹¹ instead he relished,

And was a great economist.

That is, he knew how states subsist,

Acquire their wealth, and what they live on

And why they can dispense with gold,

When, in the land itself they hold

The simple product¹² ready given.

His father could not understand,

And mortgaged, therefore, all his land.

8

What Eugene knew of in addition

I have no leisure to impart,

But where he showed true erudition,

More than in any other art,

What from his early adolescence

Had brought him bliss and painful lessons,

What all day long would occupy

His aching inactivity –

This was the art of tender passion,

That Ovid¹³ sang and paid for dear,

Ending his brilliant, wild career

In banishment and deportation

To far Moldavia’s steppes, where he

Pined for his native Italy.

[9]¹⁴

10

How soon he learned the skill of feigning,

Of seeming jealous, hiding hope,

Inspiring faith and undermining,

Appearing sombre and to mope,

Now acting proud and now submissive,

By turns attentive and dismissive!

How languid, when no word he said,

How fiery, when he spoke, instead,

In letters of the heart how casual!

Loving one thing exclusively,

How self-forgetting he could be!

How rapid was his look and bashful,

Tender and bold, while off and on

With an obedient tear it shone.

11

What talent for appearing novel,

Causing with feigned despair alarm,

Jesting to make the guileless marvel,

Flattering to entertain and charm,

Pouncing upon a moment’s weakness,

Subduing innocence and meekness

With passion and intelligence,

Expecting certain recompense,

Begging, demanding declarations,

Eavesdropping on the heart’s first sound,

Chasing his love, and, in a bound,

Snatching clandestine assignations…

And later in tranquillity

Giving her lessons privately!

12

How soon he knew how to bedevil

The heart of a professed coquette!

Or, to annihilate a rival,

How bitingly he would beget

A train of malice, spite and slander!

What snares he’d set to make him founder!

But you, blest husbands, you remained

His friends and kept him entertained:

The cunning spouse, a Faublas¹⁵ pupil,

Was eager to become his man,

So, too, the wary veteran,

And the grand cuckold, without scruple,

Forever satisfied with life,

His dinner and adoring wife.

[13, 14]

15

Sometimes, when still in bed he drowses,

Notelets are brought to greet the day –

What? Invitations? Yes, three houses

Inviting him to a soirée:

A ball here, there a children’s evening,

For which will my young scamp be leaving?

With which begin? It matters not:

He’ll be wherever on the dot.

Meanwhile, apparelled for the morning

And, donning a broad bolivar,¹⁶

Onegin to the boulevard

Drives out and strolls, at leisure swanning,

Until Bréguet¹⁷ with watchful chime

Rings out that it is dinner time.

16

It’s dark: into a sleigh he settles.

The cry resounds: ‘Away, away’;¹⁸

Upon his beaver collar, petals

Of frostdust form a silver spray.

Off to Talon’s:¹⁹ he’s sure that therein,

Waiting for him, he’ll find Kaverin.²⁰

He enters: cork to ceiling goes

And comet wine²¹ spurts forth and flows,

Bloody roast beef²² is there to savour,

And truffles, young men’s luxury,

The bouquet of French cookery,

And Strasbourg pie, that keeps for ever,²³

Between a golden ananas²⁴

And Limburg cheese’s living mass.²⁵

17

Thirst still replenishes the beakers

To down hot cutlets one by one,

But Bréguet tells the pleasure seekers

Of a new ballet that’s begun.

The theatre’s heartless legislator,

Fickle adorer and spectator

Of actresses, who are the rage,

An honoured citizen backstage,

Onegin flies off to the theatre,

Where liberty’s admirers²⁶ are

Prepared to clap an entrechat,

To hiss off Cleopatra, Phaedra,

Call for Moëna²⁷ (in a word,

Make sure their voices can be heard).

18

Enchanting world! There shone Fonvizin,²⁸

Bold king of the satiric scene,

A friend of liberty and reason,

And there shone copycat Knyazhnin.²⁹

There, Ozerov³⁰ shared the elation

Of public tears and acclamation

With young Semyonova; there our

Katenin³¹ reproduced the power

of Corneille’s genius; there the scathing

Prince Shakhovskoy³² delivered his

Resounding swarm of comedies;

There was Didelot,³³ in glory bathing;

There, in the wings that gave me shelter,

My youthful days sped helter-skelter.

19

My goddesses! Where now? Forsaken?

Oh hearken to my call, I rue:

Are you the same? Have others taken

Your place without replacing you?

When shall I listen to your chorus,

Behold in soul-filled flight before us

Russia’s Terpsichore³⁴ again?

Or will my mournful gaze in vain

Seek a known face on dreary stages,

And, with my disabused lorgnette

Upon an alien public set,

Indifferent to its latest rages,

Shall I in silence yawn and cast

My mind back to a bygone past?

20

The house is full; the boxes brilliant;

Parterre and stalls – all seethe and roar;

Up in the gods they clap, ebullient,

And, with a swish, the curtains soar.

Semi-ethereal and radiant,

To the enchanting bow obedient,

Ringed round by nymphs, Istomina³⁵

Stands still; one foot supporting her,

She circles slowly with the other,

And lo! a leap, and lo! she flies,

Flies off like fluff across the skies,

By Aeolus³⁶ wafted hither thither;

Her waist she twists, untwists; her feet

Against each other swiftly beat.

21

Applause all round. Onegin enters,

Treading on toes at every stall,

Askew, his double eyeglass centres

On ladies whom he can’t recall;

At boxes, at the tiers he gazes;

With all the finery and faces

He’s dreadfully dissatisfied;

Bows to the men on every side

And, in profound abstraction pacing,

Looks at the stage, then turns away –

And yawns, exclaiming with dismay:

‘The whole damn lot there need replacing.

I’ve suffered ballets long enough,

And even Didelot’s boring stuff.’³⁷

22

Still cupids, devils, snakes keep leaping

Across the stage with noisy roars;

And weary footmen still are sleeping

On furs at the theatre doors;

There’s coughing still and stamping, slapping,

Blowing of noses, hissing, clapping;

Still inside, outside, burning bright,

The lamps illuminate the night;

And still in harness shivering horses

Fidget, while coachmen round a fire,

Beating their palms together, tire,

Reviling masters with their curses;

Already, though, Onegin’s gone

To put some new apparel on.

23

Shall I attempt to picture truly

The secret and secluded den

Where fashion’s model pupil duly

Is dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Whatever trinket-dealing London

To satisfy our whims abundant

Exports across the Baltic flood,

Exchanging it for tallow, wood;

Whatever Paris, in its hunger,

Having made taste an industry,

Invents for our frivolity,

For luxury and modish languor –

These graced, at eighteen years of age,

The study of our youthful sage.

24

Pipes from Tsargrad,³⁸ inlaid with amber,

Bronzes and china on a stand,

Perfumes³⁹ in crystal vials to pamper

The senses of a gentleman;

Combs, little files of steel, and scissors,

Straight ones and curved, and tiny tweezers,

And thirty kinds of brush to clean

The nails and teeth, and keep their sheen.

Rousseau⁴⁰ (I’ll note with your permission)

Could not conceive how solemn Grimm⁴¹

Dared clean his nails in front of him,

The madcap sage and rhetorician.

Champion of rights and liberty,

In this case judged wrong-headedly.

25

One still can be a man of action

And mind the beauty of one’s nails:

Why fight the age’s predilection?

Custom’s a despot and prevails.

My Eugene, like Chaadaev,⁴² fearful

Of jealous censure, was most careful

About his dress – a pedant or

A dandy, as we said before.

At least three hours he spent preparing

In front of mirrors in his lair,

And, stepping out at last from there,

Looked like a giddy Venus wearing

A man’s attire, who, thus arrayed,

Drives out to join a masquerade.

26

Having diverted you concerning

The latest taste in toiletry,

I could regale the world of learning

With his sartorial repertory;

An enterprise that’s bold, I know it,

Yet, after all, I am a poet:

But pantalons, frac and gilet⁴³

Are still not Russian words today.

Indeed, I offer my excuses,

Since my poor style, such as it is,

Could well forgo the vanities

Of foreign words and like abuses,

Though I dipped into, formerly,

The Academic Dictionary.

27

But to continue with our story:

We’d better hurry to the ball

To which Onegin in his glory

Has sped by coach to make his call.

Through sleeping streets, past houses darkened

Twin carriage lamps pour out a jocund

Illumination row on row,

Projecting rainbows on the snow;

With lampions around it scattered,

A splendid house is brightly lit,

Past whole-glass windows shadows flit

And profiled heads are silhouetted

Of ladies, and outlandish men –

Fashion’s most recent specimen.

28

Behold our hero at the doorway;

Past the hall porter like a dart

He flies, ascends the marble stairway,

Flicking his straying hair apart,

Enters. The ballroom’s full to brimming;

The music now is tired of dinning;

Mazurkas entertain the crowd;

The room is packed, the noise is loud;

The spurs of Chevalier Gardes⁴⁴ jangle,

The little feet of ladies fly;

Their charming tracks are followed by

Glances that fly from every angle,

And jealous female whisperings

Are deafened by the howling strings.

29

In days of revelries and passions

I’d go insane about a ball:

For billets doux and declarations

There’s no securer place at all,

Respected husbands! May I offer

My service to you lest you suffer;

I beg you, note my every word,

I want you always on your guard.

And you, mammas, pay more attention,

Observe your daughters’ etiquette

And keep a hold on your lorgnette!

Or else… you’ll need God’s intervention!

I’m only writing this to show

That I stopped sinning long ago.

30

Alas, much life I have neglected

For every pastime thinkable,

Yet were my morals not affected,

I to this day would love a ball.

I love the youthfulness and madness,

The crush, the glitter and the gladness,

The care with which the women dress;

I love their little feet, yet guess

You’d be unlikely to discover

Three shapely pairs of women’s feet

In all of Russia. Long indeed

Have two small feet caused me to suffer…

Sad, cold, I still recall their smart,

And in my sleep they stir my heart.

31

To what far desert will you wander,

Madman, to overcome their sting?

Ah, little, little feet! I wonder

Where now you crush the flowers of spring?

Born to the softness of the orient,

On our sad snows you left no imprint:

You loved the sumptuous feel instead

Of rugs that yielded to your tread,

You lived in luxury, refinement.

For you how long ago did I

Forget renown and eulogy,

My native land and my confinement?

The happiness of youth has passed

Like your light trace on meadow grass.

32

Diana’s⁴⁵ breast, the cheeks of Flora,⁴⁶

Are charming, friends, I do agree,

But somehow what enchant me more are

The small feet of Terpsichore.

To all who gaze on them magnetic,

Of priceless recompense prophetic,

Their classic gracefulness inspires

A wilful swarming of desires.

I love them, dear Elvina,⁴⁷ under

A lengthy tablecloth or pressed

On grass in spring or when they rest

In winter on a cast-iron fender,

Upon the parquet floors of halls,

Beside the sea on granite walls.

33

Once by the sea, a storm impending,

I recollect my envy of

The waves, successively descending,

Collapsing at her feet with love.

Oh how I wished to join their races

And catch her feet in my embraces!

No, never did I in the fire

Of my ebullient youth desire

To kiss with so much pain and hunger

A young Armida’s⁴⁸ lips or seek

The rose upon a flaming cheek

Or touch a bosom full of languor;

No, never did a passion’s squall

So rend and tear apart my soul.

34

Another memory comes, revealing

A cherished dream in which I stand

Holding a happy stirrup… feeling

A tiny foot inside my hand.

Imagination seethes, excited,

Once more its contact has ignited

The blood within my withered heart,

Once more I love, once more I smart!…

But why should I think it my duty

To praise these proud ones with my lyre,

Who don’t deserve the passions or

The songs engendered by their beauty.

Their charming words and glances cheat

As surely as… their little feet.

35

But my Onegin? Home to bed he

Drives sleepily through city streets,

While restless Petersburg already

Is wakened by the drummer’ beats.

The merchant’s up, the hawker’s calling,

And to his stand the cabman’s crawling,

The Okhta⁴⁹ girl, her jug held tight,

Crunches the snow in hurried flight.

The early-morning noise is cheering,

Shutters unlock, in columns high

Blue chimney smoke ascends the sky,

The baker, punctual German, wearing

His cotton cap, already has

Opened and shut his vasisdas.⁵⁰

36

But, turning morning into nighttime,

Exhausted by the ballroom’s din,

The child of luxury and pastime

In blissful shade sleeps quietly in.

He’ll wake past noon, and till next morning

His selfsame life will go on turning

In its unchanging, motley way,

Tomorrow just like yesterday.

And yet how happy was my Eugene –

A free man in the bloom of years

‘midst splendid conquests and affairs,

‘midst daily pleasures to indulge in?

Was it in vain that, feasting, he

Displayed such health and levity?

37

No: soon a coldness numbed his feeling;

The social hubbub left him bored;

The fair sex ceased to be appealing,

To dominate his every thought.

Betrayals no more entertained him,

While friends and friendships simply pained him,

Since he, not always, it was plain,

Could drink a bottle of champagne,

To down a Strasbourg pie and beef-steaks,

And scatter caustic words of wit,

While thinking that his head might split;

And he, a fiery rake, his leave takes

Of that exhilerating life

Of sabre, lead and martial strife.

38

A malady, whose explanation

Is overdue, and similar

To English spleen – the Russian version,

In short, is what we call khandra –⁵¹

Possessed him bit by bit; not tempted,

Thank God, to shoot himself, but, emptied

Of all attachment to this life,

He, like Childe Harold,⁵² would arrive

In drawing rooms, dejected, languid;

Neither the worldly gossiping,

Nor game of boston,⁵³ then in swing,

Immodest sighs or glances candid,

Naught touched Onegin to the core

He noticed nothing any more.

[39, 40, 41]

42

Capricious ladies of society!

You were the first ones he forswore,

And, in our years, bon ton,⁵⁴ propriety

Have, it is true, become a bore;

While you may find a dame among them,

Elucidating Say and Bentham,⁵⁵

Their conversation, all in all,

While harmless, is nonsensical;

On top of that, they are so gracious,

Majestic and intelligent,

So full of pious sentiment,

So circumspect, precise and precious,

So inaccessible to men,

The sight of them brings on the spleen.⁵⁶

43

And even you, young beauties, gracing

The droshkies that career away,

Over the city’s pavements racing

From late at night to break of day,

You, too, he left in equal measure.

An apostate from stormy pleasure,

He locked himself inside his den,

Yawning, he reached out for a pen,

He wished to write – but could not manage

The pain of persevering toil,

Nothing proceeded from his quill,

Nor did he join that cocky parish

Or guild of which I’ll speak no wrong,

Since it’s among them I belong.

44

And once more given to inaction,

Empty in spirit and alone,

He settled down – to the distraction

Of making other minds his own;

Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful,

Read, read, not even one was helpful:

Here, there was dullness, there pretence;

This one lacked conscience, that one sense;

All were by different shackles fettered;

And, past times having lost their hold,

The new still raved about the old.

Like women, books he now deserted,

And mourning taffeta he drew

Across the bookshelf’s dusty crew.

45

Disburdened of the world’s opinions,

Like him, disdaining vanity,

At that time we became companions.

I liked his personality,

The dreams to which he was addicted,

The oddness not to be depicted,

The sharp, chilled mind and gloomy bent

That rivalled my embitterment.

We both had known the play of passions,

By life we both had been oppressed;

In each the heart had lost its zest;

Each waited for the machinations

Of men, and blind Fortuna’s gaze,

Blighting the morning of our days.

46

He who has lived and thought can never

Help in his soul despising men,

He who has felt will be forever

Haunted by days he can’t regain.

For him there are no more enchantments,

Him does the serpent of remembrance,

Him does repentance always gnaw.

All this will frequently afford

A great delight to conversations.

Initially, I was confused

By Eugene’s speech, but I grew used

To his abrasive disputations,

His humour halfway mixed with bile

And epigrams in sombre style.

47

How often did the summer court us,

When skies at night are limpid, bright⁵⁷

And when the cheerful, glass-like waters

Do not reflect Diana’s light;

Recalling former years’ romances,

Recalling love that time enhances,

With tenderness, with not a care,

Alive, at liberty once more,

We drank, in mute intoxication,

The breath of the indulgent night!

Just as a sleepy convict might

Be carried from incarceration

Into a greenwood, so were we

Borne to our youth by reverie.

48

Leaning upon a ledge of granite,

His soul full of regrets and woes,

Eugene stood pensively (the Poet⁵⁸

Himself appears in such a pose).

All round was silent, save a sentry

Hailing another, or the entry,

With sudden clip-clop from afar,

Of droshkies in Millionaya.⁵⁹

Upon the sleeping river, gliding,

Sailed one lone boat with waving oars,

Bold song and horn from distant shores

Charmed us… but what is more delighting

Than on a merry night to hear

Toquato’s octaves drawing near!

49

O Adriatic waves, o Brenta!⁶⁰

Nay, I shall see you and rejoice,

With inspiration new I’ll enter

And hearken to your magic voice!

To grandsons of Apollo sacred,

I know it well, to me it’s kindred

From Albion’s proud poetry.⁶¹

The nights of golden Italy

I’ll spend with a Venetian daughter,

Now talkative, now mute; with her

In a mysterious gondola

Voluptuously through the water

My lips will study how to move

In Petrarch’s⁶² tongue, the tongue of love.

50

My hour of freedom, is it coming?

I call to it: it’s time, it’s time!

Above the sea, forever roaming,⁶³

I beckon every sail and clime.

Mantled by storms, with waves contending,

Upon the sea’s free crossway wending,

When shall I start my freedom’s flight?

Dull shore that gives me no delight,

It’s time to leave you for the ocean,

That swells beneath a Southern sky,

And in my Africa⁶⁴ to sigh

For sombre Russia, for the portion

Of love and suffering I incurred

And where I left my heart interred.

51

Onegin was prepared to travel

To foreign parts with me, but fate

Was soon to part us and unravel

Our plans until a future date.

His father died upon the instant.

Before Onegin an insistent

Brigade of creditors appeared,

Each wanting something different cleared:

Eugene, detesting litigation,

Contented with his lot, at once

Abandoned his inheritance,

In this perceiving no privation,

Or was it that he could foretell

His ageing uncle’s death as well?

52

Indeed, quite suddenly the steward

Reported uncle gravely ill

And on his deathbed, looking forward

To bidding Eugene a farewell.

No sooner had he finished reading

This woeful note than to this meeting

Upon a post-chaise Eugene sped,

And yawned, as he prepared ahead

For sighs and boredom and deception

For money’ sake (and it was here

My novel started its career);

But he, instead of this reception,

Found uncle on a table laid,

Earth’s tribute ready to be paid.

53

He found the grounds full of attendants;

Arriving from all sides to call,

Friends, enemies were in attendance,

All lovers of a funeral.

The dead man buried, feasting followed,

The priests and guests imbibed and swallowed,

And, gravely, afterwards dispersed

As if some business they’d rehearsed.

Now our Onegin, country dweller,

Of land, wood, water, factory

Is master (former enemy

Of order and a wasteful fellow),

And very glad to change his lot

For something new, no matter what.

54

For two whole days the lonely meadows,

The bubbling brook’s tranquillity,

The oak wood’s leafy cool and shadows,

Appeared to him a novelty;

The third day he could no more muster

Delight in grove or hill or pasture;

Already they put him to sleep;

Clearly he saw he could not keep

Out boredom in a country setting,

Though not a palace, street or ball

Or cards or verse were there at all.

Khandra was there, on guard and waiting,

And dogged him like a faithful wife

Or shadow fixed to him for life.

55

But I was born for peaceful pleasures,

For country quiet: there I thrive:

There sounds the lyre with clearer measures.

Creative dreams are more alive.

In innocent pursuits I wander,

By a deserted lake I ponder

And far niente is my law.

I wake each morning ready for

Sweet comfort and a free existence:

I sleep a great deal, little read,

To wanton glory pay no heed.

Casting my mind into the distance,

Did I not spend my happiest days

In idleness and shaded ways?

56

O flowers, country, love, inaction,

O fields! I am your devotee!

I always note with satisfaction

Onegin’s difference from me,

Lest somewhere a sarcastic reader

Or publisher or such-like breeder

Of complicated calumny

Discerns my physiognomy

And shamelessly repeats the fable

That I have crudely versified

Myself like Byron, bard of pride,

As if we were no longer able

To write a poem and discuss

A subject not concerning us.

57

Poets, I’ll note, in this connection

Are friends of amorous reverie.

It used to be my predilection

To dream of objects dear to me;

My soul retained their secret image

Until the Muse gave them a language:

Carefree, I’d sing of my ideal,

Maid of the mountains, and of all

The captive maids of Salgir’s⁶⁵ waters.

Now, friends, I hear you put to me,

The question not infrequently:

For whom among these jealous daughters

Sighs most your lyre? To which of these

Did you devote its melodies?

58

‘Whose gaze, exciting inspiration,

Rewarded with caressing eyes

Your pensive song and adoration?

Whom did your verses idolize?’

Friends, not a single one, believe me!

Love’s mad alarms will not deceive me,

I’ve been through them with little joy.

Happy is he who can alloy

Them with a fevered rhyme: he doubles

The poet’s sacred frenzy, strides

In Petrarch’s footsteps, and besides

Relieves the heart of all its troubles,

And captures glory’s palm to boot;

But I, in love, was stupid, mute.

59

Love passed, the Muse resumed dominion

And cleared the darkness from my mind,

Free now, I seek again the union

Of feelings, thoughts and magic sound.

I write, my heart’s no longer pining,

My pen no longer wanders, making

Sketches of female heads or feet

Alongside verses incomplete.

Dead ashes cannot be replenished,

I’m sad still, but the tears are gone,

And soon, soon when the storm is done

And in my soul all trace has vanished,

Then will I start a poem – oh,

In cantos, twenty-five or so.

60

I have a plan already for it,

And how the hero will be known;

But for the moment I’ll ignore it,

Having completed Chapter One.

I’ve scrutinized it all for any

Discrepancies – and there are many,

But I’ve no wish to change them yet;

I’ll pay the censorship my debt;

My labour’s fruits I shall deliver

To the reviewers to devour;

Depart then, newborn work this hour,

Off to the banks of Nevsky river

And earn for me the prize of fame:

Falsification, noise and blame!