It’s wretched (I trust you’ll agree),
Once scorned by the malicious,
To be condemned impartially,
As affected, strange and vicious,
A melancholy oddity,
A satanic monstrosity,
Or else that Demon of my verse.
Onegin (once more I rehearse
His story) having killed his friend,
Without an aim on which to fix,
Reaching the age of twenty-six,
Bored with leisure in the end,
Found, without rank, career, or wife,
Nothing to occupy his life.
He was pursued by a vexatious
Restlessness, an urge for change
(A feeling tortuous and tenacious:
Though some of us are born to range.)
He left his village and his land,
The fields, the woods, that silent stand,
Where the mute and blood-stained shade
Of Lensky haunted every glade;
Began an aimless wandering,
Stirred by a solitary emotion;
Till travel, with its tedious motion,
Became a bore, it seemed, unending.
From Griboedov took Chatzky’s cue,
Sped back towards the ball, anew.