Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER VIII

Fare thee well, and, if for ever.

Still forever fare thee well.¹

Byron

1

In those far days, serene and careless,

The lycée’s² gardens saw me grow,

I read with pleasure Apuleius³

And disregarded Cicero⁴,

In those far days, in dales mysterious,

In spring, when swans call out, imperious,

Near waters shining tranquilly,

The Muse began to visit me.

My student cell was inundated

With sudden light. She brought me there

A youthful feast, a merry fare

Of fancies that in song she fêted,

Sang, too, our glorious, ancient themes,

Sang of the heart that stirs our dreams.

2

And with a smile my Muse was greeted;

Our first success encouraged us,

We were by old Derzhavin⁵ heeded

And blessed before he joined the dust…⁶

3

And I, who make the rule of passions

The only law I recognize,

Sharing my feelings with the fashions,

I led my frisky Muse to prize

The noise of feasts and fierce discussions,

Of watch-endangering excursions;⁷

And to these crazy feasts she brought

Her native gifts, began to sport

And gambol like a young bacchante,

And, over cups, to guests she’d sing,

And in a youthful gathering

Among the men she’d be the centre,

And in that amicable crowd,

My giddy mistress made me proud.

4

But I seceded from their union

And fled afar⁸… she followed me.

How often would she, fond companion,

Sweeten my mute trajectory

With secret tales and magic aura!

How often, moonlit, like Leonora,⁹

She d gallop with me on a horse

Across the crags of Caucasus!

How often on the shores of Tauris¹⁰

She led me in nocturnal gloom

To listen to the sea’s dull boom,

The Nereids¹¹ unceasing chorus,

The waves profound, eternal choir

And hymn of praise to heaven’s sire.

5

And then a change in her behaviour:

Forgetting feasts and opulence,

Amid the wastes of sad Moldavia¹²

She visited the humble tents

Of wandering tribes, and, living with them,

Grew wild and shared their daily rhythm,

Forgetting her Olympian speech

For strange, scant tongues the tribesmen teach,

For steppe-land song she found appealing…

Then suddenly this picture cleared

And in my garden she appeared

As a provincial miss, revealing

A thoughtful sadness in her look

And in her hands a small, French book.¹³

6

And, for the first time now, I’m taking

My Muse to join a worldly rout;

With jealous apprehension quaking,

I view the steppe-land charms she’s brought.

Through solid rows aristocratic,

Of army fops, corps diplomatic

And past imperious dames she flits.

Now, looking quietly, she sits,

The noisy multitude admiring,

The flickering of dress and speech,

The guests who slowly try to reach

The young hostess, who waits untiring,

The men, who, like dark picture frames,

Surround the women and the dames.

7

She liked the hieratic order

Of oligarchic colloquies,

The chill of tranquil pride that awed her,

And ranks and years that mixed at ease.

But who in this august collection

Stands silently, with disaffection?

Not one of them appears to know.

Before him, faces come and go

Like ghosts in tedious succession.

What does his face show – spleen, hurt pride?

Why is this person at our side?

Who is he? Well, it’s my impression

He’s Eugene. Really? Yes, it’s clear.

What wind is it that’s blown him here?

8

Is he the same or more pacific?

Has he returned in novel style?

Or does he still play the eccentric?

What will he stage for us meanwhile?

As what will he appear now? Melmoth?

A cosmopolitan, a patriot,

A Harold, Quaker, Pharisee¹⁴

Or else some other jeu d’esprit

Or simply as a decent fellow,

Like you and me and everyone?

A fashion that is past and done

I say you should not try to follow.

We’ve had enough of all his show.

‘You know him, then?’ ‘Well, yes and no.’

9

‘Then tell me why you’re so begrudging,

When talking of him. Might it be

Because we never tire of judging

The world around us ceaselessly,

Because a rash and fiery spirit,

To smug nonentities that near it,

Seems insolent and out of place,

And men of wit constrain your space?

Because we’re wont to talk forever

Instead of acting or because

Stupidity wins our applause?

Because grave men delight in trivia,

And only mediocrity

Will make us feel at liberty?’

10

Blest who in youth was truly youthful,

Blest who matured in proper time,

Who, step by step, remaining truthful,

Could weather, yearly, life’s bleak clime,

To curious dreams was not addicted,

Nor by the social mob constricted,

At twenty was a blade or swell

And then at thirty married well;

Ridding himself, on reaching fifty,

Of debts and other bills to foot,

Then calmly gaining rank, repute

And money, too, by being thrifty;

Of whom the world’s opinion ran:

NN’s an estimable man.

11

How sad, however, if we’re given

Our youth as something to betray,

And what if youth in turn is driven

To cheat on us, each hour, each day,

If our most precious aspirations,

Our freshest dreams, imaginations

In fast succession have decayed,

As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade.

It is too much to see before one

Nothing but dinners in a row,

Behind the seemly crowd to go,

Regarding life as mere decorum,

Having no common views to share,

Nor passions that one might declare.

12

When noisy comments start to plague you,

You won’t endure it (you’ll agree),

If people of good sense should take you

For someone feigning oddity,

A melancholy, crazed impostor

Or maybe a satanic monster

Or even my own Demon.¹⁵ Thus,

Onegin once more busies us.

He’d killed his friend; bereft of pleasure,

He lived with neither work nor goal

Till twenty-six, and still his soul

Languished in unproductive leisure;

He lacked employment and a wife

And any purpose in his life.

13

A restless spirit took him over,

A wish to travel, anywhere

(An inclination like a fever

Or cross that few will gladly bear).

And so he came to the conclusion

To leave the fields’ and woods’ seclusion,

Where every day a bloodstained shade

Appeared to him and would not fade,

And sallied forth without direction,

With one sensation in his mind;

And, as with all he’d left behind,

So travel, too fed his dejection.

He found his way back after all,

Like Chatsky, leaving boat for ball.¹⁶

14

But look at how the crowd is clearing,

How whispers speed around the hall…

The hostess sees a lady nearing,

In tow a weighty general.

She is unhurried, not loquacious,

Not cold, standoffish, not ungracious,

She does not stare with insolence,

And to success makes no pretence;

Reveals no petty affectation

Or imitative artifice,

She shows a quiet, simple grace,

And seems a faithful illustration

Of comme il faut (a phrase which I,

Shishkov¹⁷ forgive, can’t Russify).

15

The ladies gathered closer to her;

Old women smiled as she passed by,

The gentlemen were bowing lower,

Endeavouring to catch her eye.

In front of her, the girls stopped chasing

Across the room, while gravely raising

Shoulders and nose above them all,

The general impressed the hall.

None could have said she was a beauty,

Nevertheless, from head to foot,

None could have found in her what would,

In fashionable London city,

In that high autocratic court,

Be known as vulgar (I can not…

16

I’ m very fond of this expression,

But own, I can’t translate it yet,

It still feels like an innovation

And hardly suits our etiquette;

An epigram might serve it better…)

But let me turn now to our matter.

With carefree charm, our lady sat,

Engaged in amicable chat

With Nina Voronskoy, at table,

The Cleopatra of Neva,¹⁸

Who, though more beautiful by far,

With classic features, smooth like marble,

Could not eclipse her fellow guest,

For all the dazzle she possessed.

17

‘Can it be possible?’ thinks Eugene

‘Can it be she? But no… and yet…

What! From the steppes, that outback region…?’

He keeps his resolute lorgnette

Directed at her every minute

And dimly sees, reflected in it,

Looks he’d forgotten long ago.

‘Excuse me, Prince, but do you know

That lady in the crimson beret

Talking with Spain’s ambassador?’¹⁹

The Prince looks at Onegin: ‘Ah!

You’ve been away a long time – very,

Wait, I’ll present you, when they end.’

‘But who is she?’ ‘My wife, dear friend.’

18

‘You’re married.’ ‘Oh, you did not know then?’

‘How long?’ ‘About two years.’ ‘To whom?’

‘To Larina.’ ‘Tatiana!’ ‘Oh then,

She knows you.’ ‘I live near her home.’

‘In that case, come,’the Prince says, taking

His relative and friend, Onegin,

To meet his wife. The Princess looks

At him… and whatsoever shakes

Her soul, whatever her impression

Of him or the astonishment

She feels or the bewilderment,

Nothing betrays her self-possession.

Her tone remains as it had been,

Her bow is equally serene.

19

Not only did she not take flight now,

Or suddenly turn crimson, white…

She never even moved an eyebrow,

Nor pursed her lips a bit too tight.

Although Onegin looked most closely,

He found no trace in her that loosely

Recalled the girl that he had met.

He wanted to address her… yet

He could not… She then spoke, inquiring

How long had he been here, and whence,

And was it from their parts perchance;

Then to her husband turned, retiring.

With weary look she glided hence…

Eugene remained there, motionless.

20

Could it be she, the same Tatiana,

The very maiden he once met

In that remote and distant corner

And preached to in a tête-à-tête

With loftiness and exhortation,

When we embarked on our narration,

Was hers the letter he’d preserved,

In which her heart spoke, unreserved,

Out in the open, undeflected,

That little girl… a dream, maybe?

That little girl… the one whom he

Had, in her humble lot, neglected,

Could it be she who, now so bold,

Had, heedless, left him in the cold?

21

He leaves the packed hall hurriedly

And pensively he drives back home,

His tardy sleep is worried by

A dream, now sad, now full of charm,

He wakes; an invitation’s brought;

His presence by Prince N is sought

At a soirée. ‘My God, to her!

I will, I will, without demur!

He scrawls a courteous ‘Yes, I’ll be there.’

What’s happening? In what strange dream

Is he now? What, deep down in him,

Has stirred his sluggish soul to fever?

Pique? Vanity? Or, once again,

Could it be love, that youthful pain?

22

The passing hours Onegin’s counting,

For day to end he cannot wait.

But ten strikes,²⁰ he’s already mounting

His carriage, soon he’s at the gate.

He enters in a nervous manner,

There, on her own, he finds Tatiana,

Some minutes they together sit.

Once more Onegin cannot fit

A word in place. Embarrassed, sullen,

He scarcely can reply to her.

But all the time his mind’s a-whirr.

A fixed idea he keeps on mulling.

And fixedly he looks, while she

Sits calmly and at liberty.

23

Her husband enters, interrupting

This most unpleasant tête-à-tête,

And joins Onegin in recapturing

Pranks, jokes enjoyed, when first they met.

They laugh together. Guests now enter

And with the large-grained salt of banter

The grand monde’s conversation sparks;

Around the hostess, light remarks

Are flashing without affectation.

While, interrupting them, good sense

Eschews banality, pretence,

Eternal truths, pontification,

And, in its free vivacity,

Shocks nobody’s propriety.

24

Yet here was found the city’s flower:

Nobles and fashion’s exemplars,

Faces one meets with every hour,

And fools – a necessary class;

Here were, in mobcaps and in roses,

Elderly dames who looked ferocious;

Here there were several spinsters, who

Would never think to smile at you;

Here an ambassador was speaking

About some government affair;

Here was, with scented, greying hair,

An old man in the old way joking:

With first-rate wit and subtle play,

That seem somewhat absurd today.

25

Here was, to epigrams addicted,

An irritable gentleman,

Cross with the tea – too sweet a liquid –

With trivial ladies, vulgar men,

The foggy novel being debated,

The badge of which two sisters prated,²¹

The lies the journals told, the war,²²

The snow, and wife he found a bore²³

…………………………………………

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26

Here was Prolasov²⁴ whose distinction

Lay in his soul’s depravity,

In every album you can mention

He wore your pencils down, Saint-Priest;²⁵

There at the door a ball dictator,

Fit for a fashion illustrator,

Pink as a Palm Week cherub,²⁶ shone,

Tight-buttoned, mute and still as stone;

A jackanapes, a bird of passage,

With neck-cloth overstarched,²⁷ produced

A smile among the guests, seduced

By his fastidious poise and carriage,

But silent glances in the end

Confirmed he was by all condemned.

27

Throughout the evening my Onegin

Thought only of Tatiana, not

The shy young girl that he’d forsaken,

Simple and poor, by love distraught,

But the princess, so very different,

Now the goddess, so very distant,

Ruling the opulent Neva.

O humans! You’re so similar

To Eve, our ancestress: what’s granted

Does not appeal to you at all,

You hear the serpent’s endless call

To where a secret tree is planted;

Forbidden fruit provides more spice,

Without it there’s no paradise.

28

How changed Tatiana is, adapting

So resolutely to her role,

With what alacrity accepting

The codes of rank that cramp the soul!

Who’d dare to seek the tender creature

In this majestic legislator

Of every salon, one whose heart

Had once by him been torn apart?

Time was, when virginally grieving

For Eugene in the dark of night,

While Morpheus²⁸ was still in flight,

She raised her tired eyes moonward, dreaming

Of how together they might wend

Their humble journey to the end.

29

Love is for every age auspicious,

But for the virginal and young

Its impulses are more propitious

Like vernal storms on meadows sprung:

They freshen in the rain of passion,

Ripening in their renovation –

And life, empowered, sends up shoots

Of richest blooms and sweetest fruits.

But at a late age, dry and fruitless,

The final stage to which we’re led,

Sad is the trace of passions dead:

Thus storms in autumn, cold and ruthless,

Transform the field into a slough,

And strip the trees from root to bough.

30

There is no doubt, alas, that Eugene’s

In love with Tanya like a child,

And every day and night imagines,

In throes of love, some fancy wild,

Not harking to his mind’s stern censures,

Each day up to her porch he ventures,

Into her entrance hall of glass;

He shadows her in every place;

He’s happy if upon her shoulders

He casts a fluffy boa, if he

Touches her hand hot-bloodedly

Or motley liveries, like soldiers,

He separates before her or

Her handkerchief picks from the floor.

31

She does not mark, she does not heed him,

Though he might struggle, short of death,

To visit her she grants him freedom,

Elsewhere she scarcely wastes her breath;

Sometimes she’ll bow out of politeness,

Sometimes she simply takes no notice.

There is no coquetry in her –

It is not brooked in her milieu.

Onegin pales, can hardly function.

She does not care or does not see.

Onegin pines away, is he

Already suffering from consumption?

All send him to the doctors, they

Prescribe a spa without delay.

32

He stays: beforehand he’d been ready

To warn his forebears to expect

That soon he’d be among them, yet she

Cares not a bit (such is their sex).

But he is stubborn, won’t surrender,

Still hopes and keeps to his agenda.

Far bolder than a healthy man,

Unwell, he writes with feeble hand

The Princess an impassioned letter,

Although (in this I share his views)

He saw in letters little use;

But with his heart held in a fetter,

A missive could not be deferred.

Here is his letter, word for word.

Onegin’s Letter to Tatiana

I can predict: I shall offend

You²⁹ with my secret, sad confession,

And I foresee your proud expression

Of bitter scorn for what I send.

What do I want? To what end, after

I’ve opened up my soul to you?

What wicked merriment, what laughter

I’ll give, perhaps, occasion to!

When first I met you, I detected

A tender spark, I was affected,

But to the challenge dared not rise,

I’d curbed myself of that sweet habit,

And I had no desire to forfeit

The hateful freedom I so prize.

Yet one more thing drove us asunder…

Lensky, a hapless victim, fell…

And then, from all a heart finds tender

I tore my own; an alien soul,

Without allegiances, I vanished,

Thinking that liberty and peace

Could take the place of happiness.

My God, how wrong, how I’ve been punished!

To see you as each minute flies,

To follow you in all directions,

To capture with enamoured eyes

Your smiling lips, your eyes’ reflections,

To listen and to understand

With all my soul your perfect nature,

To melt in torments at your hand,

Grow pale and waste away – that’s rapture!

And I’m deprived of that: for you

I drag myself at random, wander,

Each day is dear, each hour too:

Yet I in futile dullness squander

The days my fate has counted off.

And they are burdensome enough.

I know: my end may well be dawning,

But so as to prolong my stay,

I must be certain every morning

That I shall see you that same day…

I fear that my meek supplication

Will be by your relentless gaze

Seen as a shameful machination –

I hear your furious dispraise.

If you but knew the frightful torment

To languish after your beloved,

To burn – while reason every moment

Tells you to quell your raging blood,

To wish to hold your knees, and, pouring

My tears out at your feet, to press,

Entreat, confess, reproach, imploring

All, all I’ve wanted to express,

To do so, feigning reservation,

To arm each glance and every phrase,

To look at you with cheerful gaze

And hold a placid conversation…

But let that be: I’m in no state

To struggle further with my passion;

My life depends on your decision

And I surrender to my fate.

33

He gets no answer to this letter,

A second and a third he sends,

But neither one fares any better.

At a reception he attends,

He’s hardly entered than towards him

Tatiana comes, and she ignores him,

Says nothing, does not see him there.

What frost surrounds her, how severe!

How, holding back her indignation,

Her stubborn lips remain in place!

Onegin peers with searching gaze:

Where, where’s the pity, perturbation?

The tear stains, where? No trace, no trace,

Anger alone has marked this face…

34

And, possibly the apprehension

That monde or husband might suppose

Some waywardness, some casual penchant…

And everything Onegin knows…

No hope! He drives from the reception,

Cursing his crazy self-deception;

Though part of it, he did not rue

Bidding the monde again adieu;

The silence of his study brought him

Remembrance of another time,

When in the loud monde’s pantomime,

Khandra had cruelly chased and caught him,

And seized him by the collar, then

Enclosed him in his gloomy den.

35

He read again, but all at random:

Manzoni, Gibbon³⁰ and Rousseau,

Madame de Staël, Chamfort³¹ in tandem,

Bichat and Herder and Tissot.³²

He read the sceptic Bayle,³³who led him

To Fontenelle,³⁴ and when he’d read him,

He tried some authors of our own

Without rejecting anyone –

The almanachs, reviews that ever

Are drumming sermons into us,

And treating me with animus,³⁵

But where, time was, I might discover

Such madrigals to me back then:

E sempre bene,³⁶ gentlemen!

36

But even while his eyes were reading,

His thoughts were far away, as old

Desires, dreams, sorrows kept invading

And crowding deep inside his soul.

Between the lines before him, printed,

His inward eye saw others hinted.

On these he concentrated most,

In their decipherment engrossed.

These were the secret legends, fictions

The heart’s dark story had collected,

The dreams with all else unconnected,

The threats, the rumours, the predictions,

Or else some lengthy, crazy tale

Or letters from a fledgling give.

37

And by degrees his thought and feeling

By lethargy are overcome,

Meanwhile, imagination’s dealing

Its motley faro cards to him.

He sees on melted snow, recumbent,

As if asleep at some encampment,

A youth on his nocturnal bed

And hears a voice: ‘Well then, he’s dead!’

He sees past enemies forgotten,

Base cowards and calumniators,

A swarm of youthful, female traitors,

A group of former friends turned rotten,

And then a country house – where she

Sits at the window… constantly.

38

Such musings soon became a habit

And nearly drove him off his head

Or, failing this, made him a poet –

That would have been a boon, indeed!

Truly: by means of magnetism³⁷

He almost grasped the mechanism

Of Russian poetry of the time –

This muddled neophyte of mine.

He looked a poet to the letter:

Ensconced before a blazing hearth,

He sat alone as flames would dart,

Hummed Idol Mio, Benedetta,³⁸

And dropped into the fire, unseen,

A slipper or a magazine.

39

Winter, as warming air blew through it,

Was over now; the days rushed by;

And he did not become a poet,

Nor turn insane, nor did he die.

Enlivened by the spring’s returning,

He leaves upon one cloudless morning

The shuttered rooms, where he had spent

The winter like a marmot pent.

From fireplace and the double windows,

By sleigh, past the Neva he flies.

Upon blue blocks of hewn-out ice³⁹

The sun disports; in dirty cinders

The furrowed snow melts on the street:

Where, then, upon it with such speed

40

Is he proceeding? Oh, already

You’ve guessed, you’re right: my unreformed

Eccentric’s rushing to his lady,

To his Tatiana, unforewarned.

He walks in like a corpse, nobody

Is there to greet him in the lobby.

In the reception room there’s not

A soul. A door he opens… what

What confronts him then, what makes him shudder?

Before him the Princess alone

Sits pale and unadorned, forlorn,

Immersed in what looks like a letter,

A flood of tears she softly sheds

With cheek on hand… Ah, what regrets,

41

What silent sufferings were reflected

In this quick moment of distress!

Who is it could not have detected

Poor Tanya in the new princess!

Eugene, the moment that he saw her,

Fell maddened with remorse before her.

She gave a start, said not a word

And looked at Eugene unperturbed

Without surprise or wrath… His fading

Appearance, his extinguished look,

Imploring aspect, mute rebuke

She takes in all. The simple maiden

Returns again now, reappears

With dreams and heart of former years.

42

She lets Onegin go on kneeling

And, looking at him fixedly,

Does not withdraw her hand unfeeling

That he is kissing avidly…

What is she dreaming of at present?

A long time passes by, quiescent,

At last she softly speaks again:

‘Enough, get up. I must explain

Myself to you. I wonder whether,

Onegin, you recall, do you,

The garden and the avenue,

The hour when fate brought us together

And how you lectured me, so meek.

Today it is my turn to speak.

43

‘I was much younger at that meeting

And better looking, to my mind,

I loved you then, was that upsetting?

And in your heart, what did I find?

What was your answer? Only sternness.

You’d never, would you, take in earnest

A little maiden’s modest love.

My blood runs cold now – God above! –

The very moment I remember

Your chilling glance, that sermon… I’m

Not blaming you: at that dark time

You showed at least a noble temper

And you were right regarding me,

I thank you for your honesty…

44

‘Admit that in our backwoods haven,

From empty rumour far away,

I was not to your liking… Say, then,

Why you’re pursuing me today.

Why have you marked me for attention?

Might it not be because convention

Includes me in the social round,

Because I’m wealthy and renowned,

Because my husband’s wounds in battle

Have gained him royal favour, fame?

Might it not be because my shame

Would feed the flames of tittle-tattle

And win you, in society,

Seductive notoriety?

45

‘I weep… if you recall your Tanya,

There’s one thing you should hear from me:

Your sharp reproach, unfriendly manner,

Your cold, unsparing homily,

All this, with which you made me cower,

I’d have preferred, had I the power,

To this offensive passion, to

The letters, tears I’ve had from you.

You showed my childish dreams compassion,

And you at least respected me

And my young age. But now, I see

You at my feet in coward fashion?

How with the heart and mind you have

Can you be paltry feeling’s slave?

46

‘This pomp, Onegin, these excesses,

The trumpery of hateful days,

My high society successes,

My fashionable house, soirées,

What do they mean? Oh, I’d surrender

At once this masquerade, this splendour,

With all its glitter, noise and smoke

For one wild garden and a book,

For our poor home, to me the dearest,

For all those places I recall,

Where I beheld you first of all,

And for the humble churchyard near us,

Where now a cross and branches shade

The grave where my poor nurse is laid…

47

‘And yet that time was so auspicious

And happiness so near… But no,

My fate is settled. Injudicious

I may have been, but it is so.

With tears my mother begged, entreated

And I, poor Tanya, listless, ceded,

All lots were equal anyhow…

I married. Pray you, leave me now.

Your heart is honest and I prize it:

And there resides in it true pride

With candid honour, side by side.

I love you (why should I disguise it?),

But I am someone else’s wife,

To him I shall be true for life.

48

She goes. He stands in desolation

As if by thunder struck. In what

A sudden tempest of sensation

His heart’s ungovernably caught!

But then a clink of spurs resounded,

Tatiana’s husband he encountered.

And, reader, now, in this mischance,

In this unhappy circumstance,

We’ll leave my hero to his meeting

For long… for ever… in his track

We’ve roamed around the world and back.

On land again, let’s send our greeting

To each and all. So, now, hurrah!

It’s high time (you’ll agree), by far.

49

Whatever, reader, your opinion,

A friend or foe, I wish to part

With you today like a companion.

Farewell. Whatever you may chart

Among these careless lines, reflections –

Whether tumultuous recollections

Or light relief from labour’s yoke,

The lively image, witty joke

Or the mistakes I’ve made in grammar –

God grant you find here just a grain

To warm the heart, to entertain,

To feed a dream, and cause a clamour

With journals and their clientele,

Upon which, let us part, farewell!

50

Goodbye, strange comrade, now for ever,

And you, my true ideal – now gone,

Goodbye, my lively, long endeavour,

Though slender work. With you I’ve known

The things that every poet covets:

Oblivion, when the tempest buffets,

Sweet talk of friends. So many days

Have passed since in a dreamy haze

I first saw young Tatiana near me,

With her, Onegin – and when I

Looked through the magic crystal’s eye,

I could not yet distinguish clearly

The distant reach of the domain

That my free novel would attain.

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But of those friends who, meeting, listened

To those first strophes that I wrote…

Some are no more now, some are distant,

As Sadi⁴⁰ once said in a note.

They’ve missed the fully fledged Onegin,

And she, from whom the model’s taken

For dear Tatiana, she is gone…

Oh, much by fate has been undone!

Blest who betimes has left life’s revel,

Whose wine-filled glass he has not drained,

Who does not read right to the end

Life’s still, as yet, unfinished novel,

But lets it go, as I do my

Onegin, and bid him goodbye.