bout a dove

Like dreams of infant, sweet and dear,

Like sailing goddess of the gloom,

Of mysteries and sighs - the Moon.

He sang of missed ones, storm del mar,

Of something, of the murky far

And of the roses of romance;

He sang of lands of far away,

Where had in silence cried by day,

Where tears fallen; hence,

Of faded colours of the world,

Not being 18 years old.

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XI

In desert where Onegin only

Could value Lensky's gifts,

The latter couldn't stand the phony

Their neighbours' feasts and eats.

As in discussion covered topics

Were not the jewels of rhetorics,

But decent chat of harvest, kin,

Wine, dogs and dreams had seen.

Although it didn't provide the flame,

The passion of poetic strength,

It wasn't sharp or smart or tense,

But mostly mundane and the same

What their good wives chit-chatted `bout

Was much more worse and much more loud.

XI

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XII

As rich and handsome, Lensky was received

In every house as perspective groom;

Such was tradition in the countryside perceived

And every neighbour's daughter in the bloom

Intended was for fellow semi-Russian;

If he comes over then at once discussion

By little, like the slightest tingle,

Turns to drawbacks of being single;

And then he's called to samovar

And Dunya serves the drink,

They wisper `Girl, observe!' and wink

Then bring to her guitar,

And good my Lord! she starts to squeek:

To golden palace come for me to seek!

XII

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XIII

But Lensky didn't want, of course,

To ties of marriage to be bound,

But sought becoming bit more close

With E.Onegin, which was found.

Made friends. But stone and waves,

The coldest ice and hottest flames

Have more in common, differ less;

At first, it bored them to death

Then came to liking one another,

And every day they side by side

Joined for a horseback-ride

Until became unseparatable rather.

So people (I'm first t'confess to you)

Make friends because of nothing else to do.

XIII

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XIV

Friendship like this exists no more.

As with the prejudice we're done,

We view the rest as round zero

Regarding ourselves as `one'.

We aim at Napoleon to be;

Bipedal creatures millions we see

As simple tools fulfilling our plans.

We view as alien and funny feelings, sense.

Evgeniy was bearable compared to the rest;

Though he knew well the human kind

And as a rule held it in contempt and out of sight

But (as exemption t'every rule or test)

He did distinguish rare, rare men,

And even he respected some of them.

XIV

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He listened t'Lensky with a smile,

To poet's fervent, ardent speech,

Observed his mind in search for why,

Inspired sight and cheeks of peach.

Onegin found these were new for him;

While he did try to cool his steam

With words reserved prepared in advance

But thought: I'd be so stupid taking chance

To meddle in his temporary bliss; Oh, Lord!

Without me that time will come;

Let him be odd, be dreamy and be rum,

Believing in the perfect world;

Let us forgive youth's fever and illusion

As well as youth' excitement and delusion.

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XVI

Just everything could lead to verbal fights,

To meditation, revelation and upheaval:

Some treaties of some vanished tribes,

The fruits of science, the good and evil,

And superstitions ages old,

Enigmae of sepulchre deathly cold,

The fate and life in their turn

Their car'ful judgement undergone.

The poet in the ardour of discourse

En reverie read out-loud verses -

Of northern poets cited clauses.

Onegin, he, despite was used to prose,

Did heed him diligently though did not

Get words and issues he then heard

XVI.

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XVII

And often passions, hot and cool,

Preoccupied my hermits' minds.

Once freed of their restless rule,

Onegin spoke of them sometimes

With sigh of pity and regret.

Is blessed the one who passions had

But left them after all; a lot

More blessed the one who had them not,

Who cooled his love with distant journey,

His rivals cooled with irony and puns,

Who was not jealous even once

While with his friends and wife was yawning

Who did not trust the legacy he got

To cunning cards and fickle lot.

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XVIII

When all of us become allied

Around banner of judicious quiet

When flames of passion in the heart subside

We laugh at passion's willful riot,

Its gust and its belated comments

And passion's little acid torments. -

When we surrender having no concession,

Sometimes to others' tongue of passion

We love to listen, love to hear.-

It touches softly our heart.

Likewise forgotten in his hut

Old crippled man so gladly gives his ear

To stories brought him in rush

By some young men avec moustache

XVIII.

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XIX

Likewise cannot conceal a thing

That flashy and flamboyant youth.

They'll bring out their joy and grim

And love without a permission or excuse.

Considering himself a kind of love-impared,

Onegin listen'd thoughtfully as if he cared

To deepest secrets poet told -

He loved t'confess and have his heart unfold;

His candid conscience

He bared in a way naive.

Onegin easily archived

Access to poet story, wild like oceans,

About his love so turbulent and rich -

For us familiar for long. To it now let us switch.

XIX.

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Oh, how he loved! He loved in such a way

Nobody does in our time.

To such a love is sentenced by to-day

Few poets fervent soul for an unmentioned crime:

Always and everywhere - dreaming, fever, fire,

And that familiar desire

And that familiar sad look.

And neither distant trip he took,

Nor years and years of separation,

Nor hours dedicated to the muse,

Nor to the fun (he tried himself t'amuse),

Nor foreign lands, nor to the studies dedication

Could him disperse, could alter poet's soul

Warmed by pure virgin fire on the whole

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XXI.

When hardly into teens, by Olga captured,

Not knowing yet how heart may hurt,

He was a witness humble, yet enraptured,

Of games she played, of toys she got.

And in the shade of oak-wood

Together play the games they would.

And neighbours, parents, after all

Foretold them t'join under wedding toll.

Deep in the country under humble seal

Filled with innocence she grew,

And was in dear parents' view

A blooming secret lily, fair daffodil,

Concealed in high and wild field weed

Unknown to butterflies and bees it hid.

XXI.

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XXII

She was the first to gift the poet

With dream of passionate delight,

The thought she caused was first t'be followed

By moan of the poet's pipe.

Farewell, oh games of days of gold!

He fell in love with groves that old,

With solitude, with silence, gloom,

And night, and stars, and Moon.

The Moon - the heaven's icon-lamp

To which we used to dedicate

Walks in the dusk and in the shade

And tears - consolation of the ramp...

But now we see in it a mere substitute

For lanterns wan: too big, but cute.

XXII.

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She's always modest, always is agreeing,

And cheerful like the morning sun,

Like poet's life is open, not a thing concealing,

Nice like a kiss of love that's just begun.

Her eyes are blue like springtime skies;

The smile, and flaxen locks, again - the eyes

And movements, voice, slender waist-

These all you'll find in Olga... But don't waste

Your time, just open any of heart-braking books,

There must be her por-trait, I bet,

Once real love for such I had,

But now am tired of these standard looks;

Now let me, dear miss or mister,

Proceed with you to Olga's elder sister.

XXIII.

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The sister was baptized Tatyana...

We must be first a name like that

To put on tender pages of the piano

Novel, and there's nothing to be smiling at.

What's wrong with it? It's nice, it has the sound,

But, yes, I know this name's a sort of bound

To times long gone, to things now out of fashion,

To servant rooms! We all must make confession:

There isn't much of taste been left

In ourselves, in our names (and might

Be in the poetry we write):

For us enlightenment is time-theft,

All what we learn is questionable art

Of being finical and not too smart.

XXIV

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But, anyway, Tatyana was her name.

She had nom beauty of her sister,

Nor rosy freshness equally same,

T'attract of glances twister.

Wild, sad, and taciturn, not vivid,

Like forest dear timid,

She seemed a stranger in her home,

Among her family - alone.

She didn't know how to caress

Her father and her mother,

As kid she'd stand alone than with the other

Kids play in noise and in mess.

And often lonely all the day

By window silently she could there stay.

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XXVI

And pensiveness, her dear friend

From cradle days she was a baby

Filled up her spare-time content

With dreams as if a fairy, maybe.

Her softest fingers never touched a needle,

On tambour plate appeared no silk riddle,

Nor pattern did as neither did design,

However vivid was or fine.

A sign of future wish to rule,

With servile dolls a kid prepares

Through games to make no stupid errors

Along the traps of which the world is full.

And to the doll retells a daughter (or a son)

The lesson's just been taught by Mom.

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XXVII

But even as a kid Tatyana never

Played with a doll or happened to discuss

With her new fashions what-so-ever

Or city news, its gossips or its fuss.

She didn't like t'engage in follies

Or other games with other kids; but horror stories

Were what did capture young girl's mind

In winter long and scary night.

When nanny gathered on wide lawn

For Olga little girls she had befriended,

To play with them Tatyana not intended

Preferring t'stay somewhere, be alone

For bored she was with pals' loud laughter

And noisy games that followed after.

XXVII

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XXVIII

To greet Aurora coming out,

She loved to stand on balcony before sunrise,

In time when stars seem just to be about

To fade away on getting pale high skies,

When edge of earth lights up so low

And wind, dawn's partner, starts to blow,

When day his power starts t'embark.

In winter, when the lightless dark

Possesses hemisphere longer,

And longer dreams the lazy East

In silence calm with Moon in mist

When cold grows faster stronger,

She woke in neither morning nor in night

And had the bedside candle light.

XXVIII

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XXIX

Since days of childhood she was into books,

They substituted her the life itself.

She fell in love with stories of two crooks,

Rousseau and Richardson, in novels on her shelf.

Her father was good man, a decent one,

Left in the century just passed, its son,

No harm in books he ever could perceive

As never touched a single printed leaf.

He thought them be a trifle, kind of toy,

He never slightest care took

What was his daughter secret book

Laid under pillow, calm and coy.

His wife was woman kind of such

That loved old Richardson so much

XXIX

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She loved the books by Richardson

But not because them read, alas,

Nor due to fact that Grandison

She would prefer to old Lovlas.

But long ago princess Aline,

Her moscow cousin very fine,

Did talk a lot about them.

Was fiance her man back then,

But she longed for another person,

Who looked more handsome and refined,

Attracted her with more profound mind,

Who seemed to her a way more awesome:

This Grandison, who was that fine and smart,

Was quite a gambler and a sergeant in the guard.

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Like his outfits, her dresses were

Well-made and followed couture haut;

But there was none of her opinion to care

And to the altar girl was brought.

To make her sorrow gradually fade,

The clever husband too her to estate

That was quite far from city in the countryside

Where she amongst some strangers had t'reside.

At first she cried, smashed china - was enraged,

And even tried to seek divorce,

But things went smoothly not bit worse,

In household routine she got engaged -

Got used. The habit is God's gift, it's His tribute:

To happiness it's equal substitute.

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The habit sweetened sorrow's pain

She'd thought she couldn't bear;

But soon she found out way

Placated her forever:

She by the way found out means

To rule husband unsuspecting this,

To govern him like autocrat -

And things went better after that.

She ran estate with iron hand,

Ran budget and conserved mush-rooms,

Shaved heads of servants, serves and grooms,

On Saturdays to banya went,

And beat her maids up when mad -

T'her husband not reporting that.

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XXXIII

In albums of her friends and kin

She wrote with blood as ink in pen

And called Praskovia `Pauline'

And spoke as if she sang,

She wore a corset though too tight,

And Russian `N' t'pronounce liked

The nasal way French people do;

But soon got tired of these too;

And she forgot princess Aline

And corset, albums, poems she collected -

The touchy ones t'which girls so well reacted,

And called Akulka maid she used to call Seline,

And had remodeled a bonnet

And quilted housecoat she hidden had.

XXXIII

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XXXIV

Her husband's love was very tender -

He cared not of what she did,

He trusted her, in business did not enter,

In dressing gown came dawn to eat;

His life flowed smoothly at a stable pace;

By evenings visited his place

Of neighbours friendly flock,

Friends with whom easy was to joke,

And gossip, and sometimes complain -

Thus time was spent;

And by the way was Olga sent

T'prepare tea for those who came,

Tea followed supper, then time approached to sleep,

And at this point guests would start to leave.

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In their life they didn't trait and didn't amend

The customs of the gracious past,

Had pancakes rich on winter's last weekend,

And twice a year they had fast,

They loved round dancing, round swing,

Folk songs at dinner table to sing,

On day of Trinity when people at the church

Would gather service there to watch,

To listen t'it concealing yawn,

When moved the two would sure drop

Three tears, then they'd stop;

Like air needed kvas alone,

At their table it was strictly quite observed

T'have their guests according to the rank be served.

XXXV

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XXXVI

In such a life they both were growing old.

And finally sepulchre's doors were opened

To let the husband in the darkness and in cold =

He left the family be orphan.

Before the dinner-time he gone,

A neighbour came, he came to mourn,

And mourned man's kids, his wife as well -

A way more faithful and sincere, I should tell.

He was a simple, good landlord,

And where his ashes now are laying

The tombstone there is saying:

`Dimitry Larin, slave of Lord,

A humble sinner and a brigadier,

He rests in peace beneath right here.'

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XXXVII

When back to home Penates he came,

Vladimir visited the tombstone

That beared neighbour's humble name,

Sighed over ashes laid alone.

For many hours Lensky's heart remained sad

`Oh, Poor Yorick!- solemnly he said,-

He used to hold me in his arms,

As kid I played more times than ones

With medal for Ochakovo he'd got.

He wanted Olga marry me,

He wondered if he was that day to see...'

And moved with gloom he never sought

Vladimir quickly after that inscribed

A tombstone madrigal of epitaphic type.

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And there as well, in tears, with a sad inscription

He honored ashes of beloved kin:

His father's memory, his mother's in addition...

Alas! How much it's sad and grim,

As momentary harvest on the furrows of the life,

A generation cometh, growth t'meet sciecle's knife,

It follows the divine intent unknown,

And then it's followed by another to be grown...

And so behaves the flippant tribe of us -

It grows, it moves, and boils, even dares

To push to grave its own forbears.

But soon enough the time will come, alas,

Grandchildren our will one lucky day

Push us all off world, push us away!

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Enjoy this fragile life, my dear friends,

Enjoy it now while you are allowed!

I realize how far its insignificance extends,

I'm not attached to it - I state it out-loud!

I closed my eyes to phantams and illusion,

But vaguest hopes sometimes do bring confusion

In my old heart that beats in chest:

Without trace I'd be upset to rest

In peace, when I'm most fair Judge await.

I live and write not for a praise;

But seems to me, I should seek ways

To have some fame in my most humble fate,

To have at least a sound to remind

About Pushkin to the mankind

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XL

Maybe one day it will be touching someone's heart;

And stanza I had written,

Preserved by fate, would not depart

To Hades, sink in Lethe or be smitten.

Or (that's a hope too flattering to me)

An ignoramus-then-to-be

Would point at my then renowned picture

And say without mock or stricture

`That was a poet, man, I'm tellin'. '

Accept my thanks, disciple of the muses,

The one whose memory then chooses

T'preserve my fleeting verse, maybe its spelling,

Whose gracious hand would pet

The laurels on the oldman's head!

XL

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Where are you going? Oh, these poets' follies!
- Goodbye, Onegin, time for me to go.
"I don't delay you, but where do you always
Go every evening, who attracts you so?"
-I go to th'Larins -- "Oh, now that is the news!
For goodness sake, how came you are seduced
To kil