He sang the rose, romantic flower,
And distant lands where once he'd shed
His living tears upon the bed
Of silence at a lonely hour;
He sang life's bloom gone pale and sere
He'd almost reached his eighteenth year.
11
Throughout that barren, dim dominion
Eugene alone could see his worth;
And Lensky formed a low opinion
Of neighbours' feasts and rounds of mirth;
He fled their noisy congregations
And found their solemn conversations
Of liquor, and of hay brought in,
Of kennels, and of distant kin,
Devoid of any spark of feeling
Or hint of inner lyric grace;
Both wit and brains were out of place,
As were the arts of social dealing;
But then their charming wives he found
At talk were even less profound.
12
Well-off. . . and handsome in addition,
Young Lensky seemed the perfect catch;
And so, by countryside tradition,
They asked him round and sought to match
Their daughters with this semi-Russian.
He'd calland right away discussion
Would touch obliquely on the point
That bachelors' lives were out of joint;
And then the guest would be invited
To take some tea while Dunya poured;
They whisper: 'Dunya, don't look bored!'
Then bring in her guitar, excited . . .
And then, good God, she starts to bawl:
'Come to my golden chamberhall!'
13
But Lensky, having no desire
For marriage bonds or wedding bell,
Had cordial hopes that he'd acquire
The chance to know Onegin well.
And so they metlike wave with mountain,
Like verse with prose, like flame with fountain:
Their natures distant and apart.
At first their differences of heart
Made meetings dull at one another's;
But then their friendship grew, and soon
They'd meet on horse each afternoon,
And in the end were close as brothers.
