Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER VII

Moscow, Russia’s favourite daughter,

Where is your equal to be found?

Dmitriyev

One can’t but love one’s native Moscow.

Baratynsky

‘Reviling Moscow! This is what

You get from seeing the world!

Where is it better, then?

Where we are not.’

Griboyedov¹

1

Chased by the vernal beams, already

Down the surrounding hills the snow

Has run in turbid streams that eddy

On to the flooded fields below;

Nature, not yet from sleep returning,

Greets with a smile the new year’s morning.

The skies shine with a bluish sheen,

Transparent still, the woods turn green,

Lending the trees a downy cover,

The bee flies from its waxen comb,

Bringing the meadows’ tribute home.

The dales dry out and colour over.

Herds low, the hush of darkness brings

The nightingale that newly sings.

2

How sad to me is spring’s arrival,

Season of love, when all’s in bud!

What languid tumult, what upheaval

Disturb my soul, disturb my blood!

With what a heavy, tender feeling

I revel in the season, breathing

The vernal wind that fans my face

In some secluded, rural place!

Or am I now estranged from pleasure,

Does all that gladdens, animates,

All that exults and radiates

Cast boredom, languor in like measure

Upon a soul long dead, does all

Seem dark to it, funereal?

3

Or, cheerless, when the leaves of autumn

Are resurrected by the spring,

We recollect a bitter fortune,

Hearing the woods’ new murmuring;

Or we, in troubled contemplation

Compare with nature’s animation

The withered years of our estate,

That nothing can resuscitate.

Perhaps in thought we may recover,

When caught in a poetic haze,

Some other spring of older days

That once more sets our hearts aquiver

With dreams of some far distant clime,

A wondrous night, a moon sublime…

4

It’s time: good idlers, I beseech you,

Epicureans to the soul,

You, fortune’s favourites, I entreat you, You,

fledglings of the Lyovshin² school,

You rural Priams³ in your manors,

You, ladies blessed with gentle manners,

Spring calls you to the country soil,

Season of warmth, of flowers and toil,

Season of blissful walks and wandering,

Betokening seductive nights.

Quick, to the fields, the land invites

Your coaches, ponderously trundling;

By private horse or postal chaise,

Forsake the city gates, make haste!

5

You, too, my reader, ever gracious,

Into your foreign carriage climb,

Leave now the noisy city spaces

Where you caroused in winter time;

On my capricious Muse depending,

Let’s hear the oak wood’s sound ascending

Above a river without name,

Where my Eugene, the very same,

Reclusive, idle and dejected,

Spent winter only recently

In Tanya’s close proximity,

My dreaming maid whom he rejected;

But now, no longer at his place,

He’s left behind a dismal trace.

6

Midst hills in semi-circle lying,

Let us go thither where a brook,

By way of a green meadow plying,

Runs through a linden, forest nook.

The nightingale, through night’s long hours,

Sings to the spring; the dog rose flowers,

And there is heard the source’s sound –

There, too, a tombstone can be found

Beside two ancient pines umbrageous.

The inscription tells the passer-by:

‘Vladimir Lensky doth here lie,

Who died a young man and courageous,

Aged such and such, in such a year.

Young poet, rest and slumber here.’

7

Upon a pine branch, low inclining,

Time was, there hung a secret wreath,

Rocked by the breeze of early morning

Over that humble urn beneath.

Time was, two girls in evening leisure

Would come to mourn this doleful treasure,

And, on the grave, in moonlight glow,

Embracing, they would weep… but now

The monument’s forgot by people.

The trail to it is overgrown,

The wreath upon the bough is gone.

Alone, beside it, grey and feeble,

The shepherd sings still as before,

Plaiting his wretched shoes of yore.

[8,9]

10

My poor, poor Lensky! Pining, aching,

Not long did his beloved weep,

Soon was the youthful bride forsaking

A grief that went not very deep.

Another captured her attention,

Another’s flattering intervention

Restored the sufferer to calm,

A lancer wooed with practised charm,

And, by this lancer overpowered,

Already at the altar she

Stands with becoming modesty

Beneath the bridal crown, head lowered,

And, as her fiery eyes she dips,

A smile alights upon her lips.

11

Alas, poor Lensky! In the kingdom

Of distant, dark eternity,

Was he perturbed by vows reneged on,

Reports of infidelity,

Or, on the Lethe, lulled to slumber,

Where, blessedly, no thoughts encumber,

The poet is no more perturbed,

The earth is closed and no more heard?

Just so! An earth that will ignore us

Awaits us all beyond the grave.

The voice of lover, friend or knave

Breaks off. Alone, the angry chorus

Of heirs to the estate is raised,

Disputing in indecent haste.

12

Soon Olya’s voice no more resounded

Inside her old environment,

The lancer, as his lot demanded,

Must take her to his regiment.

With tears of bitter sorrow flowing,

The mother at her daughter’s going

Seemed almost ready now to die,

But Tanya simply could not cry,

Only a deathly pallor covered

The maiden’s melancholy face.

When all came out to view the chaise

And, bustling, said goodbye and hovered,

Still holding back the newly wed,

Tatiana wished the pair God speed.

13

And after them, outside the manor,

Long did she gaze as through a mist…

Alone, alone now is Tatiana!

Alas, her sister, whom she missed,

Companion of so many seasons,

Her youthful little dove now hastens

To somewhere far off, borne by fate,

From her for ever separate;

And, like a shade, she wanders, goalless,

Glances into the garden bare…

She finds no comforts anywhere

Nor anything to give her solace

For all the tears she has suppressed,

And torn asunder is her breast.

14

And in her cruel isolation

She feels more strongly passion’s sway,

Her heart with greater perturbation

Speaks of Onegin far away.

She will not see him, maybe never,

She should abhor in him for ever

The slayer of her brother. Woe,

The poet’s dead… already, though,

He is forgot, his bride has given

Herself already to be wed,

The poet’s memory has fled

As smoke across an azure heaven,

There are two hearts yet, I believe,

That grieve for him… but wherefore grieve?

15

Evening arrived. The sky has darkened.

The beetle whirrs. The waters flow.

Gone are the choirs to which we hearkened;

Across the river, smoking, glow

The fires of fishermen; and, dreaming

Under the silver moonlight streaming,

Out in the country, on her own,

Tatiana walks, walks on and on,

When suddenly, and with a quiver,

Below her, from her hill, she sees

A manor house, a village, trees,

A garden by a limpid river.

She gazes – and the heart in her

Starts beating fast and oftener.

16

She pauses now as doubts beset her:

Should she continue, does she dare?

He isn’t here. They’ve never met her…

‘Oh, just the house – and garden there.

I’ll peep at them,’ she says, advancing

Downhill, scarce breathing, round her glancing,

Bewildered as the house draws close…

And to the empty courtyard goes.

Dogs, barking, hurtle out toward her

And, hearing her alarming cry,

A noisy crowd of serf boys fly

From different entrances to guard her,

And, after fighting off each hound,

They leave the lady safe and sound.

17

‘Please, can I see the house?’ asked Tanya.

The children ran off speedily

To find the keeper of the manor

Who had with her the hallway key.

Anisya promptly came to meet her,

To open up the house and greet her.

She entered the deserted pile,

Our hero’s recent domicile,

She looked: inside the hall, unheeded,

A cue lay on the billiard baize,

A riding crop upon a chaise

Dishevelled. She proceeded.

Here is the fireplace,’ said the crone:

‘Here master used to sit alone.

18

‘He used to dine here in the winter

With neighbour Lensky, now deceased.

This way, I’ll lead you. Here, we enter

The master’s study, where he pleased

To sleep, take coffee, pay attention

To what the steward had to mention,

And read a book the morning through…

And the old master lived here, too.

Time was, on Sundays, by this casement,

He’d don his glasses and agree

To play “tomfoolery”⁴ with me.

God save his soul, he was so patient,

And give his bones a peaceful berth

In his damp grave in mother-earth.’

19

With melting gaze Tatiana measures

The objects that surround her here,

All seem to her like priceless treasures,

All set her languid soul astir

With feelings joyful and half-anguished:

The desk, the lamp there, now extinguished,

The carpet-covered bed, the books,

The window over them that looks

Out on the moonlit dark unending,

And that pale half-light over all,

Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall,

And, on a little column standing,

Arms crossed, a cast-iron statuette

With gloomy forehead and a hat.⁵

20

Tatiana long as in a vision

Stands in this fashionable cell.

But it is late. A cold wind’s risen.

The valley’s dark. The grove is still

Above the mist-enveloped river;

The moon behind the hill takes cover

And it is time, indeed high time

The pilgrim makes her homeward climb.

And Tanya, hiding her excitement,

Stifles a sigh before she starts

Out back to more familiar parts.

But first she asks whether she mightn’t

Visit again the empty home

And read the books there on her own.

21

Tatiana and Anisya parted,

Beyond the gate. After two days –

In early morning now – she started

Towards that strange, deserted place.

And, in the study’s silent setting,

Briefly the earth entire forgetting,

She was at last alone and free,

And wept a long time, copiously.

The books then called for her attention.

At first, she lacked the appetite,

But all the titles within sight

Appeared bizarre. With apprehension

She avidly began to read

And found a different world indeed.

22

Although, as we’re aware, Onegin

Had long abandoned reading, still

There were some books he’d not forsaken

That earned a place in his goodwill:

The bard of Juan and the Giaour⁶

And two, three novels of the hour,⁷

In which the epoch was displayed

And modern man put on parade

And fairly faithfully depicted:

With his depraved, immoral soul,

Dried up and egotistical,

To dreaming endlessly addicted,

With his embittered, seething mind

To futile enterprise consigned.

23

There were preserved on many pages

The trenchant mark of fingernails,

With them the watchful girl engages

As if she were deciphering spells.

Tatiana saw with trepidation

What thought it was or observation

Had struck Onegin, what they meant,

To which he’d given mute consent.

And in the margins she encountered

His pencil marks by certain lines.

Throughout, his soul was by such signs,

Without his knowing it, expounded,

Whether by cross, by succinct word,

Or question mark, as they occurred.

24

And gradually my Tatiana

Begins to understand – thank God! –

More clearly now the true persona

To sigh for whom it is her lot,

By fate united to this stranger:

Eccentric, sad, exuding danger,

Creature of heaven or of hell,

This angel, this proud devil – well,

What is he then? An imitation,

A paltry phantom or a joke,

A Muscovite in Harold’s cloak,

Of alien fads an explication,

Of modish words a lexicon,

A parody, when said and done?

25

Can she have solved Onegin’s puzzle?

Can she have found the fitting ‘word’?

The hours race on and in her tussle

Her journey home is long deferred.

Two neighbours there have met to chatter

About her.’Well then, what’s the matter?’

‘She is no child now, if you please,’

Said the old lady with a wheeze.

‘Why, Olen’ka is younger than her.’

‘It’s time that she was settled, yes,

But I feel helpless, I confess.

In such a curt and point-blank manner

She turns down everyone. And broods,

And wanders lonely in the woods.’

26

‘Might she not be in love?’ ‘With whom, then?’

‘Buyanov courted her – no fear.

And Petushkov – she left the room then.

A guest, hussar Pykhtin, was here,

And he found Tanya such a marvel,

Pursued her like the very devil!

I thought perhaps she’ll take this one,

But no, once more the deal’s undone.’

‘My dear good woman, why not send her

To Moscow, to the bridal fair!

So many vacant places there.’

‘Good sir, my income’s much too slender.’

‘Enough, though, for a winter’s spree,

If not, then borrow – say, from me.’

27

The ageing lady was delighted

To hear this sensible advice;

She pondered – and at once decided

One winter would be worth the price.

And Tanya learns of her intention.

Unto the stringent monde’s attention

To offer up the clarity

Of countryside simplicity,

Its dated finery and dresses

And no less dated turns of phrase,

Sure to attract the mocking gaze

Of Moscow’s popinjays and Circes!⁸

God, no! Much better to remain

Secluded in the wood’s domain.

28

Arising as the sun is dawning,

She hastens out; with melting eyes

Surveys the fields, and speaks in mourning

These words to all her rural ties:

‘Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to

Familiar hilltops that I call to,

Farewell, familiar woods near by;

Farewell, the beauty of the sky,

Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;

I am exchanging my dear peace

For noisy, glittering vanities…

Farewell, my freedom that must perish!

Whither and wherefore do I strive?

What can I hope for in this life?’

29

Her walks continue, lasting longer.

Now at a hillock, now a stream

Tatiana cannot help but linger,

Arrested by their special charm.

As with old friends Tatiana hastens

To carry on her conversations

With every meadow, grove in sight,

But short-lived summer’s taking flight.

And golden autumn is arriving.

Nature, now pale and tremulous,

Is richly dressed for sacrifice.

Here is the North now, storm clouds driving,

It blows, it howls – and winter then,

The sorceress arrives again.

30

She’s come, herself she scatters, weighting

The oaken boughs with flocks of snow;

Lies down in carpets undulating

Over the hills and fields below;

Spreads out a puffy shroud to cover

The trace of banks and frozen river;

Frost gleams. And we take pleasure in

Old Mother Winter’s frolicking.

But Tanya finds her antics galling.

She shuns the winter, cannot bear

To take a breath of frosty air,

Or at the bath with new snow falling

To wash her face, her shoulders, breast.

Tatiana dreads this winter’s quest.

31

Departure has been long extended,

The final date is almost gone.

The coach has been inspected, mended,

Recovered from oblivion.

The usual three kibitkas manage

The plethora of goods and baggage:

Pans, jars of jam, and chairs and chests

And feather beds and mattresses,

Roosters in cages, pots and basins,

Etcetera – for so much more

Is wrested from the family store.

And in the log hut, losing patience

The servants weep, farewell is hard:

And eighteen nags invade the yard.

32

They’re harnessed to the master carriage,

The cooks prepare a lunch for all,

The three kibitkas teem with baggage,

While household women, coachmen brawl.

A bearded outrider is seated

Upon a jade, unkempt, depleted.

Up at the gate retainers vie

To bid their mistresses goodbye.

The venerable carriage, gliding,

Has crept beyond the gate. ‘Farewell,

You peaceful places, hill and dell!

Farewell the refuge that I’d hide in!

When shall I see you all?’ she cries,

And tears stream out of Tanya’s eyes.

33

When we are free of the constrictions

Of our benign enlightenment,

In time (we’re told, from the predictions

Of philosophic measurement,⁹

In some five hundred years) our highways

Will no more look like tawdry byways,

But surfaced roads on every hand

Will unify the Russian land,

And cast-iron bridges will support us

On wide arcs over waterways,

We’ll part the mountains in the skies,

Dig daring tunnels under waters,

And Christendom will institute

A chain of inns on every route.

34

But now our roadways are decaying,

Our bridges, now forgotten, rot,

At stations fleas and bedbugs preying

Won’t let a traveller sleep a jot.

There are no inns. In some cold cabin

There hangs for show a highfalutin’

And meagre menu to excite

An unrewarded appetite;

While rural Cyclopes take courage

Before a fire of little heat,

And with a Russian hammer treat

A slender European carriage,

And bless the ditches and the moats

That constitute our country’s roads.

35

Yet in the chilly winter season

A drive is light and pleasant. Like

A voguish song devoid of reason,

Unruffled is the winter track.

We have automedons,¹⁰ quick-witted,

And troikas tireless and intrepid,

And mileposts, like a fence, race by,

Diverting the lethargic eye.

But Larina drove none too fleetly,

Her transport all her own for fear

Post-chaises would have proved too dear,

And our young maid enjoyed completely

The road’s monotonous delights:

They travelled seven days and nights.

36

But they are close now, and their horses

To white-stone Moscow gallop, as

They glimpse ahead the golden crosses

Glowing on ancient cupolas.

Brothers, there’s nothing that can equal

My pleasure when a semi-circle

Of churches, belfries, gardens, halls

Opened to me inside the walls.

How often, sadly separated,

Fated to roam without resort,

Moscow, it was of you I thought!

Moscow, whose name reverberated

In every Russian heart! I heard

So many echoes in that word!

37

Here next, by leafy grove surrounded,

Petrovsky Castle¹¹ stands. Dark pride

In recent glory here resounded.

Here Bonaparte chose to reside

By Fortune’s smile intoxicated,

He waited – but in vain he waited –

For Moscow on her bended knees

To yield to him old Kremlin’s keys.

My Moscow spurned such self-abasement,

No gift, no feast day she declared,

A fiery welcome she prepared

To greet a hero so impatient.

From here he watched, in thought immersed,

The dreadful conflagration burst.

38

Farewell to you, Petrovsky Palace,

Witness of glory’s first defeat,

Away now to the turnpike pillars¹²

Whitening on Tverskaya Street.

Across the pits the carriage flashes,

Past sentries, peasant women dashes,

Past street lamps,¹³ shops and errand boys,

Past monasteries, gardens, sleighs,

Mansions, Bokharans,¹⁴ small plantations,

Shacks, merchants, peasants selling wares,

Boulevards and Cossack messengers,¹⁵

Towers, pharmacies and stores with fashions,

Balconies, gates where lions curl,¹⁶

Crosses where flocks of jackdaws swirl.¹⁷

39,40¹⁸

An hour or two they go on driving

In this exhausting marathon,

When at a gated house arriving,

They stop – just by St Khariton¹⁹

To see an aunt, who, with consumption

Some four years now, can hardly function.

To them the door is opened wide,

A grey-haired Kalmyk²⁰ stands inside,

Arrayed in torn kaftan and glasses,

And with a stocking in his hand.

In the salon, from her divan,

The cry they hear is the Princess’s.

The two old ladies weep, embrace

And exclamations pour apace.

41

‘Princesse, mon ange!’ ‘Pachette!’²¹ ‘Dear cousin

Alina!’ ‘Who’d have thought? It’s been

So long. You’ll stay? Well, stop this fussing,

Sit down – how wonderful, a scene

Out of a novel, just the manner.’

‘But meet my daughter here, Tatiana.’

‘Ah Tanya, come to me, my dear…

I’m getting quite deranged, I fear…

Our Grandison, do you remember?’

‘What Grandison? Oh, Grandison!

Of course, I wonder where he’s gone?’

‘Lives near St Simeon’s;²² last December,

On Christmas Eve he called on me:

Married a son quite recently.

42

‘The other one – a little patience…

Tomorrow, Tanya we shall show

To all her various relations.

Pity, I’m too infirm to go,

I scarce can drag my feet, the devils,

But you are weary from your travels;

Together let us take a rest,

Oh, I’ve no strength… my poor, tired chest…

Not even joy, not only sorrow

Is hard for me to bear, my dear.

I’m good for nothing now, it’s clear.

Life in old age is such a horror.’

And, weeping, by exhaustion hit,

She breaks into a coughing fit.

43

Tatiana’s touched by the good-hearted

Affection of the invalid,

And yet she is unhappy, parted

From her accustomed room and bed.

Round her a silken curtain closes,

Yet she can’t sleep, when she reposes,

The church bells’ early roundelay,

Precursor of the labouring day,

Arouses her, and in the shadows

She sits beside the window, sees

The darkness thinning by degrees,

But can’t discern her fields, her meadows,

Before her lies a yard that’s strange,

A stable, fence and kitchen range.

44

To daily dinners Tanya’s taken

With her extended family,

But grandmas, grandpas cannot quicken

The girl’s abstracted lethargy.

Relatives from a far location

Are welcomed with solicitation,

With exclamations and good cheer.

‘How Tanya’s grown! How long, my dear,

Since at your christening I dried you,’

‘And since I held you – all those years!’

‘And since I pulled you by the ears!’²³

‘And since with gingerbread I plied you!’

And grandmothers in chorus cry:

‘Oh how our years go flying by!’

45

But nothing changes in their bearing,

Where age-old fashion is the rule;

The princess Aunt Yelena’s wearing

Her ancient mobcap made of tulle;

Cerused still is Lukerya Lvovna,

Still telling lies Lyubov Petrovna,

Ivan Petrovich is inane,

Semyon Petrovich²⁴ just as mean;

Still Pelageya Nikolavna

Keeps Monsieur Finemouche²⁵ in her house

With Pomeranian dog²⁶ and spouse.

While he, the conscientious clubber,²⁷

Is still the meek and deaf man who

Consumes and drinks enough for two.

46

Their daughters put their arms round Tanya.

These graces of young Moscow²⁸ now

Without a word observe Tatiana,

Surveying her from top to toe;

They find her somewhat unexpected,

Provincial and a touch affected,

A little pale, a little thin,

But passable for kith and kin;

And then, to nature’s way submitting,

They take her to their rooms, make friends,

And kiss her, gently squeezing hands,

Fluff up her curls to look more fitting,

And in their singsong tones impart

Maids’ secrets, secrets of the heart,

47

Conquests, their own and those of others,

Their hopes, their pranks, their reveries.

Their guileless conversation gathers,

Embellished by slight calumnies,

Then, to requite their indiscretion,

They sweetly ask for her confession

Of secrets of the heart she keeps.

But Tanya, just as if she sleeps,

Is hearing them without partaking,

And, understanding nothing, she

Protects her secret silently,

Her heart’s fond treasure, blissful, aching,

The tears and joys she will not share

With anyone encountered there.

48

Tatiana seeks to be convivial,

To listen to what people say,

But in the drawing-room such trivial

And incoherent rot holds sway;

The people are so pale and weary,

Their very slander’s dull and dreary.

Within this land of sterile views,

Interrogations, gossip, news,

Through four-and-twenty hours you’ll never

Spot one lone thought, even by chance;

A languid mind won’t smile or dance,

Even in jest the heart won’t quiver.

We might to foolish jokes respond,

If you but knew some, hollow monde!

49

The archive boys²⁹ in congregation

Cast eyes on Tanya priggishly

And speak of her with denigration

In one another’s company.

But there’s one coxcomb in dejection

For whom she seems ideal perfection,

And, leaning on a doorpost, he

Prepares for her an elegy.

Once, Vyazemsky,³⁰ on meeting Tanya

At some dull aunt’s, sat by the girl

And managed to engage her soul,

And near him, an old man,³¹ who’d seen her,

Straightening out his wig, inquired

After this maiden he admired.

50

But where Melpomene³² is uttering

Her loud, protracted wails, laments

And, with her gaudy mantle fluttering,

Confronts a frigid audience,

Where Thalia³³ is quietly napping,

Hearkening not to friendly clapping,

Where to Terpsichore alone

he young spectator now is drawn

(As was the case in years departed,

In your day and in mine the same),

At whom no jealous ladies aim

Lorgnettes when once the ballet’s started.

Nor modish experts train a glass,

From box or stall, to judge her class.

51

To the Assembly,³⁴ too, they bring her,

Where the excitement, crush and heat,

The tapers’ glare, the music’s clangour,

The flicker, whirl of dancing feet,

The light attire of pretty women,

The galleries with people brimming,

The arc of seats for brides-to-be

All strike the senses suddenly.

Here are inveterate fops, parading

Their waistcoats and impertinence,

And nonchalantly held lorgnettes.

Here are hussars on leave, invading,

Who, thundering through in great display,

Flash, captivate and fly away.

52

The night has many starry clusters,

And Moscow pretty women, too,

But, brighter far than all her sisters,

The moon shines in the airy blue.

But she – my lyre dares not disquiet her

With songs, I fear, that won’t delight her –

Shines like the regal moon alone

‘Midst maids and ladies round her throne.

With what celestial pride she graces

The earth which by her is caressed,

What blissful feelings fill her breast,

How wondrous-languidly she gazes!…

But stop, enough, I beg of you,

To folly now you’ve paid your due.

53

Noise, laughter, galop, waltz, mazurka,

Bows, bustle… meanwhile from the dance

Tatiana hides – the capers irk her –

Beside a column, ‘twixt two aunts,

She looks but does not see, detesting

The worldly tumult and the jesting,

She, stifling here, in fancy strains

To reach again her fields and lanes,

Her rural life: the tranquil bowers,

The poor folk, the secluded nook

Where flows a tiny, limpid brook,

Her novels and the country flowers,

And those tenebrous linden ways

Where he appeared in former days.

54

But while her mind is in the distance,

Forgetting monde and noisy ball,

A certain general of substance

Won’t take his eyes off her at all.

The two aunts wink and in like manner

Both with their elbows nudge Tatiana,

And each one whispers in her ear:

‘Look quickly to the left, my dear.’

‘The left? But where? What is so special?’

‘Well, never mind what it may be,

Just look… that group… in front, you see…

Those two in uniform, official…

Gone… Wait, his profile’s in between.’

‘Who? That fat general, you mean?’

55

But let’s extend congratulations

To dear Tatiana, triumphing,

And change my course (entreating patience),

Lest I forget of whom I sing.

And by the way two words, updating:

‘I sing a youthful friend, relating

His many eccentricities.

Please favour the felicities,

O epic Muse, of my exertions,

And, with your trusty staff, let me

Not wander on so waywardly.’

There, done! Enough! No more diversions!

Thus, classicism I placate:

An Introduction’s here, though late.