Nasce una gente, a cui l'morir non dole.*
Petrarch
1
Though pleased with the revenge he'd taken,
Onegin, noting Lensky'd left,
Felt all his old ennui awaken,
Which made poor Olga feel bereft.
She too now yawns and, as she dances,
Seeks Lensky out with furtive glances;
The endless dance had come to seem
To Olga like some dreadful dream.
But now it's over. Supper's heeded.
Then beds are made; the guests are all
Assigned their roomsfrom entrance hall
To servants' quarters. Rest is needed
By everyone. Eugene has fled
And driven home alone to bed.
2
All's quiet now. Inside the parlour,
The portly Mr. Pustyakv
Lies snoring with his portly partner.
Gvozdin, Buynov, Petushkv
And Flynov, who'd been reeling badly-
On dining chairs have bedded gladly;
While on the floor Triquet's at rest
In tattered nightcap and his vest.
The rooms of Olga and Tatyana
Are filled with girls in sleep's embrace.
Alone, beside the windowcase,
Illumined sadly by Diana,
Poor Tanya, sleepless and in pain,
Sits gazing at the darkened plain.
3
His unexpected reappearance,
That momentary tender look,
The strangeness of his interference
With Olgaall confused and shook
Tatyana's soul. His true intention
Remained beyond her comprehension,
And jealous anguish pierced her breast
As if a chilling hand had pressed
Her heart; as if in awful fashion
A rumbling, black abyss did yawn. . ..
'I'll die,' she whispers to the dawn,
'But death from him is sweet compassion.
Why murmur vainly? He can't give
The happiness for which I live.'
4
But forward, forward, #62038; my story!
