The flame does not flare up from the ashes, And, though I am sad, yet my eyes are dry, And soon, the trace of the storm flown by In my deepest soul will be totally quenched. Then definitely I shall start to compose An epic poem of twenty five cantos. LX I have already thought of an underlying plan, And what the hero's name will be; Meanwhile of this present novel in verse The first chapter I've finished and set to rest. I have looked at the lot of it through and through And in it there are many contradictions, But to put them right is not my aim, For censorship must have work to do, And to the journalists for their devouring The fruits of my labour I will consign. Go then, little book, to the banks of the Neva, My new born babe, my own creation, And earn there for me renown's main gift: Intemperate criticism and short shrift! Chapter Two O rus! Horace O country! I The estate in which our bored Yevgeny Now lived, was in fact a fine retreat: There a lover of the simpler pleasures Would thank the heavens for his fate. His mansion house was solitary, Sheltered by hills in windy weather, And stood by a river. Stretching away Far off the meadows were bright and gay With flowers, and the cornfields golden. And here was a hamlet, there another, And cattle wandered the meadows at random, While shade was cast both deep and wide By a huge garden all overgrown, For the pensive Dryads a secret home. II The stately mansion was built and planned As all good mansions should really be:
The flame does not flare up from the ashes, And, though I am sad, yet my eyes are dry, And soon, the trace of the storm flown by In my deepest soul will be totally quenched. Then definitely I shall start to compose An epic poem of twenty five cantos. LX I have already thought of an underlying plan, And what the hero's name will be; Meanwhile of this present novel in verse The first chapter I've finished and set to rest. I have looked at the lot of it through and through And in it there are many contradictions, But to put them right is not my aim, For censorship must have work to do, And to the journalists for their devouring The fruits of my labour I will consign. Go then, little book, to the banks of the Neva, My new born babe, my own creation, And earn there for me renown's main gift: Intemperate criticism and short shrift! Chapter Two O rus! Horace O country! I The estate in which our bored Yevgeny Now lived, was in fact a fine retreat: There a lover of the simpler pleasures Would thank the heavens for his fate. His mansion house was solitary, Sheltered by hills in windy weather, And stood by a river. Stretching away Far off the meadows were bright and gay With flowers, and the cornfields golden. And here was a hamlet, there another, And cattle wandered the meadows at random, While shade was cast both deep and wide By a huge garden all overgrown, For the pensive Dryads a secret home. II The stately mansion was built and planned As all good mansions should really be: