Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER ONE

He rushes life and hurries through emotion.

PRINCE VYÁZEMSKY

1

“Uncle, a man of purest probity,

Has fallen ill, beyond a joke.

Respected now, and scorned by nobody,

He has achieved his masterstroke

With this exemplary behaviour,

But it would try the Holy Saviour

To tend a sickbed night and day,

And never stir a step away,

Employing shameful histrionics

To bring a half-dead man some cheer,

Plump pillows and draw sadly near,

Indulging him with pills and tonics,

Heaving deep sighs, but thinking, ‘Ooh!

When will the devil come for you?’” 2

These were the thoughts of a young gállant,

Lodged in his dust-blown chaise, whom chance

(Or mighty Zeus) had willed the talent

Of family inheritance.

Friends of Ruslán, friends of Lyudmíla,

Allow me forthwith to reveal a

New hero, for this novel, who

Comes thus unintroduced to you:

Onégin (we were friends for ages)

Was born by the Nevá, where you,

Perhaps, dear reader, were born too,

Or maybe ran around rampageous.

I’ve also had some good times there—

But I can’t breathe that northern air. 3

With worthy service now behind him,

His father lived from debt to debt.

Three balls a year soon undermined him.

He was as poor as you can get.

Fate saved the boy, who was aware of

Madame, and being taken care of,

And her replacement, a Monsieur.

The child was frisky, though demure.

Monsieur l’Abbé, a Catholic father,

Not keen to weigh Yevgeny down,

Taught him by acting like a clown.

Morals seemed irksome; he would rather

Chide him for the odd naughty lark,

And walk him in the Summer Park. 4

Rebellious youth came in due season—

A season full of hopeful dreams

And gentle sadness—ample reason

To give Monsieur the sack, it seems.

Onegin now, devil-may-care-style,

Copied the very latest hairstyle

And came out like a London fop

To see society. Tip-top

In spoken French (no less proficient

In speech and writing), he could dance,

And with the utmost nonchalance

Perform a bow, which was sufficient

To show him in a pleasing light

As a nice lad, and very bright. 5

We’ve all of us been taught in smatters

Of this and that, done bit by bit.

Not that our education matters:

We shine despite the lack of it.

Onegin was esteemed by many

(Judges as hard and strict as any)

As an enlightened clever dick.

He had evolved the happy trick

Of butting in on French or Russian

With flippant comments here and there

Delivered with an expert air,

While dodging any deep discussion.

He could bring smiles to ladies’ lips

With epigrams and fiery quips. 6

Although we’ve lost the taste for Latin,

He knew enough of it to read

An epitaph and render that in

Some Russian form, we must concede,

To mention Juvenal, and, better,

Write Vale, signing off a letter.

He knew by heart—or sort of did—

The odd line from the Aeneid.

He didn’t know—having no patience

To learn in any deep degree—

The world’s historiography,

Yet he remembered, from the Ancients,

A fund of jokes and tales for us

From our times back to Romulus. 7

Lacking high passion, too prosaic

To deem sounds more than life, he read

What was iambic as trochaic—

I couldn’t get it through his head.

Homer, Theocritus he slated,

But Adam Smith was highly rated

By this self-styled economist,

Who knew it all: how states exist,

How to transform them, make them wealthy,

And why they have no need of gold

If they have things that can be sold—

The product is what keeps them healthy.

His father couldn’t understand,

And went on mortgaging his land. 8

I cannot run through this man’s learning

In full, but there’s one field in which

He had a genius so discerning

It was incomparably rich.

This, since his youth, had proved so serious

It brought him toil and joys delirious,

Intruding with daylong distress

Into his anguished idleness:

Yes, tender passion, that same science

Which Ovid sang and suffered for,

Languishing sadly more and more,

After such bright days of defiance,

On a Moldavian plain, where he

Pined for his long-lost Italy. [9] 10

Early he learnt to sow confusion,

To hide his hopes, show jealous spite,

To build trust, then to disillusion,

To brood and droop with all his might,

To spurn with pride, or turn obedient,

Cold or attentive, as expedient.

He could be silent, malcontent

Or passionately eloquent;

In missives of the heart, off-handed.

While yearning with a single dream,

How self-dismissive he could seem!

His glances could be fond or candid,

Reserved or forthright—or appear

To gleam with an obedient tear! 11

Changing at will, today, tomorrow,

He could fool innocence by jest,

Alarm with artificial sorrow,

Flatter the easily impressed,

Pick up the early signs of ardour,

Press pure young creatures ever harder

With passion, and use all his wit

To foil reluctant girls with it.

Urging commitment by entreaty,

Catching at heartbeats, he would thrill

And harass them with love until

He winkled out a secret meeting,

And when he got the girl alone

What silent lessons was she shown! 12

Early he taught himself to ravage

The feelings of accomplished flirts,

And when he felt the need to savage

His rivals in pursuit of skirts

His vicious language was appalling.

What traps he set for them to fall in!

But you, good husbands, did not tend

To spurn him. He was your close friend,

As was the foxy spouse, whose story

Had had its Casanova days,

And codgers with their snooping ways,

And the fine cuckold in his glory,

So smug, so satisfied with life,

Pleased with his table and his wife. [13, 14] 15

He often lay abed while thumbing

Through notes brought in. What have we here?

More invitations! They keep coming.

Three soirées to attend. Oh dear,

Then there’s a ball, a children’s party…

Which will be graced by my young smarty?

Where will he start? It matters not.

He’ll easily get round the lot.

In morning dress he sallies yonder,

Beneath his Bolivar’s broad brim.

The boulevardier born in him

Will stroll abroad and widely wander

Till his unsleeping Bréguet’s chime

Announces that it’s dinner-time. 16

Later he mounts his sledge in darkness.

“Drive on!” he calls. The frost, it seems,

Has daubed his beaver collar’s starkness

With silver dust until it gleams.

He speeds to Talon’s place, not sparing

The horses, sure to find Kavérin.

Inside, corks pop. The foam, the fizz

Of Comet wine, the best there is!

Bloody roast beef will soon restore him,

With truffles. Young folk are so keen

On this fine flower of French cuisine!

And Strasburg pie is waiting for him

Between a living Limburg cheese

And golden pineapples. Yes, please. 17

And now the glasses need refilling

To slake the chops’ hot fat—but hey!

The Bréguet now alerts them, shrilling—

The new ballet is under way.

He was the theatre’s closest stickler.

With actresses no one came fickler;

He loved the nice ones (any age),

And was a regular backstage.

He hurried there. With free demeanour

The liberals there will shout hurrah

To celebrate an entrechat,

Boo Phèdre or call out Moëna

Or Cleopatra. (In a word,

They shout to get their voices heard.) 18

O magic realm! There, in his season,

A brilliant satirist was seen,

That friend of freedom, bold Fonvízin,

And the mercurial Knyazhnín.

There Ozerov shared an ovation,

The tears and plaudits of the nation,

With young Semyónova, and then

Katénin brought to life again

The spirit of Corneille so splendid.

There comedies, good Shakhovskóy’s,

Swarmed through and filled the house with noise,

And Didelot to fame ascended.

There, there, at a much younger age,

I spent my early days backstage. 19

Where are you now, my lost goddésses?

Oh, hear my melancholy call.

Are you the same, or have successors

Emerged to supersede you all?

Can I still hope to hear your chorus?

Terpsichore, will you dance for us

That doleful, Russian, soulful dance?

Is no one left for my sad glance

To recognize on that drab staging?

Must I allow this alien set

To disillusion a lorgnette

That finds their frolics unengaging?

Am I to yawn at everyone,

Silently ruing what is gone? 20

House full. We see the boxes gleaming,

The pit and stalls a seething world.

On high, the heckling gods are teeming,

The curtain zooms up, sweetly swirled.

Semi-ethereally splendid,

Watching the magic bow, suspended,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

There stands—Istómina. We glimpse

Two tiny feet twirling together,

One circling, one upon the boards,

And then she skips and flits and soars,

Puffed like a soft aeolian feather.

She twines, untwines, spins at the hips.

Her tiny toes touch at their tips. 21

Everyone claps. And, having tangled

With toes of people where they sit,

He peers across, his glasses angled

At unknown ladies opposite,

Taking things in on every level—

Clothing and faces that bedevil—

Onegin’s still dissatisfied.

Exchanging bows on every side,

He gives the stage some small attention,

But soon, distracted and withdrawn,

He turns back, saying with a yawn,

“It’s time to put this lot on pension.

Ballet! I’ve taken all I can—

And Didelot’s such a boring man!” 22

There’s many a cupid, devil, dragon

Still clomping on the boarded floor,

And footmen still, with coats to sag on,

Sleep wearily beside the door.

Much foot-stamping is in the offing,

Blown noses, hissing, clapping, coughing,

And still at every end, it seems,

Inside and out, a lantern gleams.

Chilled horses stand, pawing the whiteness,

Irked by their harnesses and reins,

While drivers, cursing near the flames,

Beat their cold hands. And yet, despite this,

Onegin’s gone. Is that so strange?

Oh, no, he’s driving home to change. 23

Shall I describe, with qualm and scruple,

The hidden room of peace and rest

Where this man, fashion’s model pupil,

Is dressed, undressed and then re-dressed?

Every last whim and freak of fancy

And London-born extravagancy

Exchanged across the Baltic seas

For timber and for tallow, these,

Along with goods hailing from Paris,

Where trade and good taste are on hand

To make things for our pleasure, and

Where luxury with fashion marries—

No one had more of these things than

This eighteen-year-old thinking man. 24

Byzantine pipes on tables (ambered),

Lay beside porcelain and bronze

And, to delight the truly pampered,

Bottles of perfume (cut-glass ones),

With combs and little steels for filing

And scissors straight or curved for styling

And thirty brushes (various scales)

For treating dirty teeth and nails.

I can’t help adding: Jean-Jacques Rousseau

(Loquacious oddball) watched while Grimm

Dared clean his nails in front of him,

And thought it rude of Grimm to do so.

On human rights Rousseau was strong,

But in this instance he was wrong. 25

You can be an effective person

And still take good care of your nails.

Don’t blame the age, the times that worsen:

Fashion’s a tyrant to young males.

A new Chadáyev, my Yevgeny

Feared jealous blame and thought it brainy

To dress the pedant, toe to top,

And be what we would call a fop.

Three hours or more he ( just between us)

Would spend at mirrors hung about

His dressing room, and then walk out,

For all the world a giddy Venus,

A goddess in men’s clothes arrayed,

Departing for a masquerade. 26

No doubt your interest has been captured

By his toilette and taste. And how

The learned world would be enraptured

If I described his clothing now!…

This would not be a wise endeavour.

I’ve been describing things for ever,

But pantalon, Frack, gilet… Please!

There are no Russian words for these.

I know my poor vocabulary

Is reason to apologize.

It has already, for its size

Too many foreign words to carry.

I say this after having scanned

The expert wordsmiths of our land. 27

But this we cannot be delayed in.

We’d better rush off to the ball.

In a fast hackney my Onegin

Has hurtled there before us all.

Past many city houses darkling,

Along the sleeping highways, sparkling

With double lanterns, hackneys go

In relays, lighting up the snow

And scattering rainbows. In this setting,

See, here we have a splendid pile

Lit up with oil lamps in fine style,

Its plate-glass windows silhouetting

A group that features, when it stops,

Fine ladies and pretentious fops. 28

Our hero now flies through the entry,

Darts past the porter and ascends

A marble staircase for the gentry,

Smoothing his hair with finger-ends.

He’s in. The room is full of dancers,

The band has thundered, but now answers

With a mazurka danced by all,

While noisy revellers cram the hall.

The boots of cavalrymen jingle

And lovely ladies flick their feet,

Leaving an afterview so sweet

They catch the eye and tease and tingle,

While scraping fiddles in the band

Drown gossip hushed behind the hand. 29

When we were sporty, yearning creatures

I loved the ballroom well. We knew

No better place for lovelorn speeches

Or handing over billets doux.

You, husbands—each an upright figure—

I conjure you with all my vigour:

Listen to what I have to say.

I’d like to warn you, if I may.

And you, mamas, you must be stricter.

Don’t let your daughters out of sight.

Use your lorgnette, and hold it tight,

Or else… God save you… That’s the picture.

I tell you this since I can say

I do not sin like that today. 30

On various pleasures (some that hurt you)

Much of my life has gone to waste,

But, if they didn’t threaten virtue,

Balls still would have been to my taste.

I love the youthful dash and clamour,

The crush, the gaiety and glamour,

The ladies scrupulously dressed.

I love their tiny feet. At best,

In all our land you’ll scarce discover

Three pairs of lovely female feet.

But I know two that were so sweet…

And though I’m sad—my day is over—

I can’t forget them now, it seems;

They bring me heartache in my dreams. 31

So, where and when, in the out yonder,

Will you forget them, madman? How?

O tiny feet, where do you wander?

What green blooms do you trample now?

Spoilt by the east, you left no northern

Traces in snows where there is more than

Enough of sadness. Oh, the snug

Touch of an oriental rug!

The luxury! The soft entwinement!

For your sake I forgot the cause,

The thirst for glory and applause,

My homeland, where I knew confinement.

My happy youth was soon to pass,

Like your light traces on the grass. 32

Diana’s bosom, friends, is charming,

And Flora’s cheeks are, oh, so sweet,

Terpsichore is more disarming,

However, with her tiny feet.

That foot, a prophesy of pleasure,

A quite inestimable treasure

Of pure, symbolic beauty, stirs

A swarm of yearnings—to be hers.

I love the foot, my dear Elvina,

Beneath a tablecloth’s long swing,

Tracing a greensward in the spring

Or on cold winter hearths, still keener

If treading glass-like floors, or if

On beaches by a granite cliff. 33

Once, on a shore… A storm was brewing,

And I felt jealous of the waves

That rushed on her in raging ruin,

Collapsing at her feet, like slaves.

Oh, how I longed to know what bliss is

By covering those feet with kisses.

No, not once in the fiery blaze

Of my ebullient younger days

Did I in this way long and languish

To kiss a young Armida, or

Kiss burning pink cheeks and adore,

Or kiss a bosom racked with anguish.

No, never did a surge of lust

Assault my soul with such a thrust. 34

Another scene… Let me unfold it;

The cherished memory still stands…

A happy stirrup… There, I hold it,

Feeling a small foot in my hands.

This sets imagination seething—

That touch again, beyond believing,

New grief, new love. A surging flood

Inflames the fading heart with blood!

But let’s stop praising them, these snooty

Objects of my loquacious muse.

They’re worthless. Why do we enthuse,

Or sing of their inspiring beauty?

These sorceresses’ words and eyes

Are like their little feet—all lies. 35

Onegin? He looks none too brilliant,

Dozing his way home. Here he comes,

While Petersburg, ever resilient,

Awakens to the morning drum.

The dealer strides out, and the hawker,

The cabby to his stand (slow walker!);

An Okhta girl, her jug held close,

Crunches across the morning snows.

A morning rumble hums to wake her,

Shutters are down, from many a flue

Smoke climbs in a thin line of blue,

And there’s that fussy German baker,

Cotton-capped, who for some time has

Been busy at his was-ist-das. 36

But noisy ballrooms leave him weary;

He now turns midnight into morn,

Sleeping in shadow, blessed and bleary,

A man to wealth and pleasure born.

His life will be, when late he rises,

Spelt out for him with no surprises,

Coloured, but in the same old way,

Tomorrow being yesterday.

But was he, in this loose employment,

A happy young man, in his prime,

With brilliant conquests all the time,

With this quotidian enjoyment?

Heedless and healthy he would go

A-banqueting. Was this all show? 37

No. While still young he lost all feeling,

Finding the noisy world a bore

And lovely girls not so appealing,

Not so obsessive as before.

Betrayals left him sad and weary,

Both friends and friendship he found dreary.

You cannot keep on sluicing steaks

Or Strasburg pie with what it takes—

The best champagne! And it gets harder

To please the diners with bons mots

When headaches leave you feeling low.

Yevgeny, once a man of ardour,

Acknowledged that his love was dead

For conflict, sabres and the lead. 38

The malady that left him undone

(Of which we ought to know the cause)

Was like imported spleen from London,

Known as khandrá within our shores.

It gradually left him emptied,

Though, thank God, he was never tempted

To put a pistol to his head,

But still he seemed to be half-dead,

Childe Harold-like, with an impression

Of brooding gloom and nothing more,

And as for cards, or gossip, or

Fond looks, or sighs of indiscretion,

He found their impact less than slim,

For nothing registered with him. [39, 40, 41] 42

You weird and wonderful high ladies,

You were the first that he forswore.

Oh, yes, your bon ton, I’m afraid, is

Considered nowadays a bore.

Some of your kind think nature meant them

To hold forth on Jean Say and Bentham,

But by and large they are awash

With empty words and dreadful tosh,

And their high-mindedness is hideous,

They are so stately and so wise,

So predisposed to moralize,

So circumspect and so fastidious,

And when it comes to men, so mean,

The only thing they rouse is spleen. 43

And those young beauties of the fun set,

Who, in those carriages of theirs

Are swept along into the sunset

Down Petersburg’s fine thoroughfares,

Yevgeny learnt to put behind him,

With all such sport. Where would you find him?

Locked in at home, where he sat still,

Yawning as he took up the quill.

He tried to write, but soon was killed off

By the hard toil, so not a scrap

Emerged from this non-writing chap,

Who never made that busy guild of

People whom I judge not. Ahem!

I could not, being one of them. 44

Idle again (and we should mention

His weary emptiness of soul),

He sat back, turning his attention

To other minds—a noble goal.

With rows of books to put his hand on,

He read and read, but quite at random,

All dull, dishonest, rambling stuff,

Not virtuous or clear enough.

They were in every way constraining.

Old things came over as old hat,

And new as old, too. That was that:

Books were (like women) not Yevgeny,

So all things dusty of that ilk

Were curtained off with funeral silk. 45

Freed from convention, and its burden,

Like him I gave up vain pursuits.

Befriending this man, I was spurred on

By noticing his attributes:

A strong capacity for dreaming,

A style inimitable-seeming,

A sharp and chilly cast of mind.

I was embittered; he repined.

We’d both known passion, and life’s canker

Had left us both dissatisfied.

The fire in both of us had died.

Ahead of us lay only rancour

From Lady Luck and men, all strife,

And in the morning of our life. 46

To live and think is to be daunted,

To feel contempt for other men.

To feel is to be hurt, and haunted

By days that will not come again,

With a lost sense of charm and wonder,

And memory to suffer under—

The stinging serpent of remorse.

This all adds piquancy, of course,

To conversation. To begin with,

I bridled at his witticisms,

But soon I settled to his rhythms:

The stinging shafts that he would win with,

The dark remarks, half-joke, half-bile,

That made his epigrams so vile. 47

On limpid summer nights, how often,

We watched as limpid evenings passed,

And saw the Neva night sky soften

On happy waters smooth as glass

With no Diana in reflection.

Recalling romance and affection,

We hymned serenely love gone by,

Breathed vapours from the tender sky

And living gladness from the scenery,

Glorying in it, drinking deep.

Like a freed convict, half-asleep,

Transported into woodland greenery,

We dreamt ourselves away, in truth,

Back to the dawning of our youth. 48

Depressed in spirit, looking doleful

And leaning on the granite shelf,

There stood Yevgeny, sad and soulful

(As once a bard described himself ),

And in the stillness, from their entries,

Night sentries hailed their brother sentries.

Rattling carriages were about—

From Million Street the wheels rang out—

And then a splashing oarsman boated

His small craft down the dozing stream.

Far off, as in a pleasant dream,

A horn blew, singing came, full-throated.

But there’s no sweeter late-night sound

Than Tasso’s octaves, I have found. 49

O waters of the Adriatic!

Brenta! I will see you one day.

Inspired anew, I’ll be ecstatic

To hear your magic voice at play.

Apollo’s grandchildren revere it;

I know it well. I came to hear it

From tales that England’s proud lyre told.

And those Italian nights of gold

Will bring delight to me, a wanderer

Floating with a Venetian chum,

A girl, half-chatterbox, half-dumb,

Secreted with me in a gondola.

She’ll teach my lips the language of

Francesco Petrarch—and of love. 50

Shall I be one of God’s free creatures?

“Let it be now!” is on my lips.

I watch the weather, roam the beaches

And beckon to the sails of ships.

Clad in dark cloud, braving the waters,

Across the seas to the four quarters

I’ll sail in freedom one fine day.

This shore is drab. I’ll get away

From uncongenial climes so trying,

And in the shimmering haze of noon

In my own Africa I’ll soon

Be thinking of dark Russia, sighing,

Where I knew suffering, love and toil.

My heart is buried in her soil. 51

We were agreed, and might have started

To visit many an alien clime,

But all too soon we two were parted

By destiny for a long time.

Death came at this time to his father,

Which left Onegin faced with rather

A lot of greedy creditors,

Each with his argument or cause.

Yevgeny, loathing litigation

And happy with things as they stood,

Handed them every copeck. Good—

It didn’t seem like deprivation.

(Perhaps he could foresee the day

His rich old uncle passed away.) 52

And, sure enough, there came a letter

From uncle’s steward. My, oh my,

Uncle was ill, would not get better,

And he’d quite like to say goodbye.

With this sad missive in his pocket

Yevgeny set off like a rocket

In a post-chaise to visit him,

Yawning already at things so grim.

To get the money he was ready

For tedium, deceits and sighs

(My novel started on this wise),

But once he had arrived, instead he

Found uncle on the table, worth

No more than his six feet of earth. 53

The yard was full of staff and yeomen

Hailing from all localities,

Arriving there as friends or foemen,

Enthusiasts for obsequies,

And after uncle’s sad interment

People and priests fell in a ferment

On food and drink, then everyone

Went his own way, a job well done.

Onegin, in his rural wisdom,

Owns mills, lakes, woods and lands between.

The landlord, who has so far been

A wastrel with no taste for system,

Is pleased that what he used to do

Has been exchanged for… something new. 54

The first two days were a new highlight:

The far fields with their lonesome look,

The chilly oak grove in the twilight,

The beauty of a burbling brook,

But then each hill and copse and covert

Lost interest, and he could not love it.

Now he was bored with every place,

Now stark truth stared him in the face:

Boredom is just as enervating

Where streets and mansions don’t exist,

Nor ballrooms, poetry, nor whist.

Depression dogged him, watching, waiting,

To chase him and to bring him strife,

His shadow or his loving wife. 55

I was born for a calm existence

Out in the country, where, it seems,

The lyre can sing with more insistence

And brighter shine creative dreams.

With pastimes innocent and plenty

I stroll the lakeside. Far niente

Is now a rule of life for me.

I wake up in the morning free,

Expecting pleasures with new hunger.

I read a little, sleep a lot.

Striving for glory I am not.

Those bygone days when I was younger,

Did I not spend them all like this

In shade and idleness and bliss? 56

O rural idyll, love and flowers!

O fields, to you I yield my soul…

I mark what differences are ours,

What separates us on the whole,

So that no reader, no wild joker,

No literary libel-broker

Can publish somewhere by design

Onegin’s features as for mine,

And then repeat the claim (outrageous!)

That here my portrait has been daubed

Like Byron’s, proudly self-absorbed,

As if one could not fill these pages

By painting someone other than

One’s own self as the leading man. 57

Poets, I tell you, are romancers,

Good friends of fancifying love.

I used to dream of cherished fancies

That moved my spirit from above,

Which seized their image to record it,

And later on the muse restored it.

In this way, blithely I portrayed

My ideal girl, the mountain maid,

And the harem on Salgir’s borders.

But now, friends, you bring me to task;

Time and again I hear you ask,

“Whom does your sad lyre set before us?

Which of the jealous maids is she?

Which girl is its dedicatee? 58

Whose gaze caressing and inspiring

Rewards you as she turns to nurse

You through your pensive lyring?

Who is the idol of your verse?”

There’s nobody, my friends, I swear it.

Love’s frenzy, I have had to bear it

Without delight worth thinking of.

Blest is the man who merges love

With rhyming fever; he redoubles

Poetry’s ramblings blessed by God,

He walks with Petrarch where he trod

And soothes the heart in its worst troubles.

He gains fame, too, for years to come.

But I, in love, was dense and dumb. 59

Love came and went. The muse, descending,

Cleared my dark mind, and I felt free.

I sought new magic in the blending

Of feelings, thoughts and euphony.

I write now, and my heart is easy,

My pen, now swift, now bright and breezy,

No longer makes half-lines complete

With female heads and female feet.

Dead ashes, they are dead and ashen.

I still feel sad, but shed no tear.

Soon the storm clouds will disappear

From my sad spirit. Then I’ll fashion

A narrative in verse, a gem

In cantos, twenty-five of them. 60

Already I’ve begun to plan it;

I’ve named the hero—that is done.

This novel’s grown since I began it,

And now I’ve finished Chapter One.

I’ve scrutinized my work of fiction,

And find it full of contradiction,

But these are faults I’ll not pursue,

Paying the censorship its due.

My toil is done. I now deliver

To journalistic scavengers

This newborn child, my tale in verse.

Go! Stroll along the Neva River.

Earn me the fame that will induce

Skewed comments shrilling with abuse.