Into the district then to boot

      A new proprietor arrived,

      From whose analysis minute

      The neighbourhood fresh sport derived.

      Vladimir Lenski was his name,

      From Gottingen inspired he came,

      A worshipper of Kant, a bard,

      A young and handsome galliard.

      He brought from mystic Germany

      The fruits of learning and combined

      A fiery and eccentric mind,

      Idolatry of liberty,

      A wild enthusiastic tongue,

      Black curls which to his shoulders hung.

      The pervert world with icy chill

      Had not yet withered his young breast.

      His heart reciprocated still

      When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.

      He was a dear delightful fool —

      A nursling yet for Hope to school.

      The riot of the world and glare

      Still sovereigns of his spirit were,

      And by a sweet delusion he

      Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,

      He deemed of human life the goal

      To be a charming mystery:

      He racked his brains to find its clue

      And marvels deemed he thus should view.

      This he believed: a kindred spirit

      Impelled to union with his own

      Lay languishing both day and night —

      Waiting his coming – his alone!

      He deemed his friends but longed to make

      Great sacrifices for his sake!

      That a friend’s arm in every case

      Felled a calumniator base!

      That chosen heroes consecrate,

      Friends of the sons of every land,

      Exist – that their immortal band

      Shall surely, be it soon or late,

      Pour on this orb a dazzling light

      And bless mankind with full delight.

      Compassion now or wrath inspires

      And now philanthropy his soul,

      And now his youthful heart desires

      The path which leads to glory’s goal.

      His harp beneath that sky had rung

      Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

      And at the altar of their fame

      He kindled his poetic flame.

      But from the Muses’ loftiest height

      The gifted songster never swerved,

      But proudly in his song preserved

      An ever transcendental flight;

      His transports were quite maidenly,

      Charming with grave simplicity.

      He sang of love – to love a slave.

      His ditties were as pure and bright

      As thoughts which gentle maidens have,

      As a babe’s slumber, or the light

      Of the moon in the tranquil skies,

      Goddess of lovers’ tender sighs.

      He sang of separation grim,

      Of what not, and of distant dim,

      Of roses to romancers dear;

      To foreign lands he would allude,

      Where long time he in solitude

      Had let fall many a bitter tear:

      He sang of life’s fresh colours stained

      Before he eighteen years attained.

      Since Eugene in that solitude

      Gifts such as these alone could prize,

      A scant attendance Lenski showed

      At neighbouring hospitalities.

      He shunned those parties boisterous;

      The conversation tedious

      About the crop of hay, the wine,

      The kennel or a kindred line,

      Was certainly not erudite

      Nor sparkled with poetic fire,

      Nor wit, nor did the same inspire

      A sense of social delight,

      But still more stupid did appear

      The gossip of their ladies fair.

      Handsome and rich, the neighbourhood

      Lenski as a good match received, —

      Such is the country custom good;

      All mothers their sweet girls believed

      Suitable for this semi-Russian.

      He enters: rapidly discussion

      Shifts, tacks about, until they prate

      The sorrows of a single state.

      Perchance where Dunia pours out tea

      The young proprietor we find;

      To Dunia then they whisper: Mind!

      And a guitar produced we see,

      And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:

      Come to my golden palace, dear![22]

      But Lenski, having no desire

      Vows matrimonial to break,

      With our Onegin doth aspire

      Acquaintance instantly to make.

      They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,

      Or ice and flame, are not diverse

      If they were similar in aught.

      At first such contradictions wrought

      Mutual repulsion and ennui,

      But grown familiar side by side

      On horseback every day they ride —

      Inseparable soon they be.

      Thus oft – this I myself confess —

      Men become friends from idleness.

      But even thus not now-a-days!

      In spite of common sense we’re wont

      As cyphers others to appraise,

      Ourselves as unities to count;

      And like Napoleons each of us

      A