Most like what is spleen to Englishmen, Or more simply 'the blues' in Russian, Had gradually sunk and overwhelmed him; At least to shoot himself, thank God, He had no wish to make an attempt But yet his life grew cold and unkempt. Like Byron's gloomy, mournful, Childe Harold, He often appeared in dining rooms. But neither gossip, nor sighs, nor Boston, Nor tender looks moved him; for all was lost on Him, nothing could touch his feeling, He noticed nothing that was appealing. XXXIX, XL, XLI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XLII You fashionable freaks of high society, He first neglected and abandoned you, And to tell the truth, today we know The crushing boredom of being U. Although it is true some women may Talk both of Bentham and of Sey, But generally their conversation Though innocent, is awful tripe; Besides they are so pure, so sinless, So haughty and so intellectual, So full of good deeds and so effectual, So delicately circumspect, so blameless, So unapproachable for men That their sight alone awakes our spleen. XLIII And you, sweet beauties, darling young ones, Whom, late at night when all's at rest Across St. Petersburg's cobblestones The dashing drozhkies carry with zest, Even you Yevgeny at last abandoned. A recluse from tempestuous delights Onegin shut himself indoors Then taking his pen in hand and yawning He tried to write - but the stubborn toil Was nauseous to him. No spawning Words came rushing from his quill, And he did not enter the perky guild Of writers, of whom I cannot be critical, For the reason that I am of their circle
Most like what is spleen to Englishmen, Or more simply 'the blues' in Russian, Had gradually sunk and overwhelmed him; At least to shoot himself, thank God, He had no wish to make an attempt But yet his life grew cold and unkempt. Like Byron's Childe Harold, gloomy, mournful, He often appeared in dining rooms. But neither gossip, nor sighs, nor Boston, Nor tender looks moved him; for all was lost on Him, nothing could touch his feeling, He noticed nothing that was appealing. XXXIX, XL, XLI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XLII You fashionable freaks of high society, He first neglected and abandoned you, And to tell the truth, today we know The crushing boredom of being U. Although it is true some women may Talk both of Bentham and of Sey, But generally their conversation Though innocent, is awful tripe; Besides they are so pure, so sinless, So haughty and so intellectual, So full of good deeds and so effectual, So delicately circumspect, so blameless, So unapproachable for men That their sight alone awakes our spleen. XLIII And you, sweet beauties, darling young ones, Whom, late at night when all's at rest Across St. Petersburg's cobblestones The dashing drozhkies carry with zest, Even you Yevgeny at last abandoned. A recluse from tempestuous delights Onegin shut himself indoors Then taking his pen in hand and yawning He tried to write - but the stubborn toil Was nauseous to him. No spawning Words came rushing from his quill, And he did not enter the perky guild Of writers, of whom I cannot be critical, For the reason that I am of their circle