And now with solemn mien, and dying
To have his couplet heard at last,
Triquet stands up; the congregation
Falls silent in anticipation.
Tatyana's scarce alive; Triquet,
With verse in hand, looks Tanya's way
And starts to sing, off-key. Loud cheering
And claps salute him. Tanya feels
Constrained to curtsey . . . almost reels.
The bard, whose modesty's endearing,
Is first to toast her where he stands,
Then puts his couplet in her hands.
34
Now greetings come, congratulations;
Tatyana thanks them for the day;
But when Eugene's felicitations
Came due in turn, the girl's dismay,
Her weariness and helpless languor,
Evoked his pity more than anger:
He bowed to her in silence, grave . . .
But somehow just the look he gave
Was wondrous tender. If asserting
Some feeling for Tatyana's lot,
Or if, unconsciously or not,
He'd only teased her with some flirting,
His look was still a tender dart:
It reawakened Tanya's heart.
35
The chairs, pushed back, give out a clatter;
The crowd moves on to drawing room:
Thus bees from luscious hive will scatter,
A noisy swarm, to meadow bloom.
Their festive dinner all too pleasing,
The squires face each other wheezing;
The ladies to the hearth repair;
The maidens whisper by the stair;
At green-baize tables players settle,
As Boston, ombre (old men's play),
And whist, which reigns supreme today,
Call out for men to try their mettle:
A family with a single creed,
All sons of boredom's endless greed.
36
Whist's heroes have by now completed
Eight rubbers; and eight times as well
They've shifted round and been reseated;
Now tea is brought. I like to tell
The time of day by teas and dinners,
By supper's call. We country sinners
Can tell the time without great fuss:
