Alas, Tatyana's fading quickly;
She's pale and wasted, doesn't speak!
Her soul, unmoved, grows wan and sickly;
She finds all former pleasures bleak.
The neighbours shake their heads morosely
And whisper to each other closely:
'It's time she married . . . awful waste. . . .'
But that's enough. I must make haste
To cheer the dark imagination
With pictures of a happy pair;
I can't, though, readers, help but care
And feel a deep commiseration;
Forgive me, but it's true, you know,
I love my dear Tatyana so!
25
Each passing hour more captivated
By Olga's winning, youthful charms,
Vladimir gave his heart and waited
To serve sweet bondage with his arms.
He's ever near. In gloomy weather
They sit in Olga's room together;
Or arm in arm they make their rounds
Each morning through the park and grounds.
And so? Inebriated lover,
Confused with tender shame the while
(Encouraged, though, by Olga's smile),
He sometimes even dares to cover
One loosened curl with soft caress
Or kiss the border of her dress.
26
At times he reads her works of fiction
Some moralistic novel, say,
Whose author's powers of depiction
Make Chateaubriand's works seem grey;
But sometimes there are certain pages
(Outlandish things, mere foolish rages,
Unfit for maiden's heart or head),
Which Lensky, blushing, leaves unread. . . .
They steal away whenever able
And sit for hours seeing naught,
Above the chessboard deep in thought,
Their elbows propped upon the table;
Where Lensky with his pawn once took,
Bemused and muddled, his own rook.
27
When he drives home, she still engages
His poet's soul, his artist's mind;
He fills her album's fleeting pages
With every tribute he can find:
He draws sweet views of rustic scenery,
