have entertained great respect and admiration. He was an officer in the Hussars of the Guard, and a noted "dandy" and man about town. The poet on one occasion addressed the following impromptu to his friend's portrait: "Within him daily see the the fires of punch and war, Upon the fields of Mars a gallant warrior, A faithful friend to friends, of ladies torturer, But ever the Hussar."] XIV Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels To cool the cutlets' seething grease, When the sonorous Breguet tells Of the commencement of the piece. A critic of the stage malicious, A slave of actresses capricious, Oneguine was a citizen Of the domains of the side-scene. To the theatre he repairs Where each young critic ready stands, Capers applauds with clap of hands, With hisses Cleopatra scares, Moina recalls for this alone That all may hear his voice's tone. XV Thou fairy-land! Where formerly Shone pungent Satire's dauntless king, Von Wisine, friend of liberty, And Kniajnine, apt at copying. The young Simeonova too there With Ozeroff was wont to share Applause, the people's donative. There our Katenine did revive Corneille's majestic genius, Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out His comedies, a noisy rout, There Didelot became glorious, There, there, beneath the side-scene's shade The drama of my youth was played.(10) [Note 10:
Denis Von Wisine (1741–92), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy "The Brigadier," procured him the favour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the "Minor" (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, "Die now, Denis!" In fact, his subsequent performances were not of equal merit.
Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine (1742–91), a clever adapter of French tragedy.
Simeonova, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine.
Ozeroff, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. "Oedipus in Athens," "Fingal," "Demetrius Donskoi," and "Polyxena," are the best known of his tragedies.
Katenine translated Corneille's tragedies into Russian.
Didelot, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.] XVI My goddesses, where are your shades? Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? Are ye replaced by other maids Who cannot conjure former joys? Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia's Terpsichore review Again in her ethereal dance? Or will my melancholy glance On the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass direct Where I can no more recollect?— A careless looker-on estranged In silence shall I sit and yawn And dream of life's delightful dawn? XVII The house is crammed. A thousand lamps On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, Impatiently the gallery stamps, The curtain now they slowly raise. Obedient to the magic strings, Brilliant, ethereal, there springs Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding; With one foot resting on its tip Slow circling round its fellow swings And now she skips and now she springs Like down from Aeolus's lip, Now her lithe form she arches o'er And beats with rapid foot the floor. [Note: Istomina—A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, with whom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love.] XVIII Shouts of applause! Oneguine passes Between the stalls, along the toes; Seated, a curious look with glasses On unknown female forms he throws. Free scope he yields unto his glance, Reviews both dress and countenance, With all dissatisfaction shows. To male acquaintances he bows, And finally he deigns let fall Upon the stage his weary glance. He yawns, averts his countenance, Exclaiming, "We must change 'em all! I long by ballets have been bored, Now Didelot scarce can be endured!" XIX Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout Across the stage still madly sweep, Whilst the tired serving-men without Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep. Still the loud stamping doth not cease, Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze, Still everywhere, without, within, The lamps illuminating shine; The steed benumbed still pawing stands And of the irksome harness tires, And still the coachmen round the fires(11) Abuse their masters, rub their hands: But Eugene long hath left the press To array himself in evening dress. [Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in front of the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, considering the state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovial time of it. But in this, as in other cases, "habit" alleviates their lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity.] XX Faithfully shall I now depict, Portray the solitary den Wherein the child of fashion strict Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again? All that industrial London brings For tallow, wood and other things Across the Baltic's salt sea waves, All which caprice and affluence craves, All which in Paris eager taste, Choosing a profitable trade, For our amusement ever made And ease and fashionable waste— Adorned the apartment of Eugene, Philosopher just turned eighteen. XXI China and bronze the tables weight, Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows, And, joy of souls effeminate, Phials of crystal scents enclose. Combs of all sizes, files of steel, Scissors both straight and curved as well, Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes Both for the nails and for the tushes. Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12) Could not conceive how serious Grimm Dared calmly cleanse his nails 'fore him, Eloquent raver all-surpassing— The friend of liberty and laws In this case quite mistaken was. [Note 12: "Tout le monde sut qu'il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyait rien, je commencai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouve des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expres, ouvrage qu'il continua fierement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau."
Confessions de J. J. Rousseau] XXII The most industrious man alive May yet be studious of his nails; What boots it with the age to strive? Custom the despot soon prevails. A new Kaverine Eugene mine, Dreading the world's remarks malign, Was that which we are wont to call A fop, in dress pedantical. Three mortal hours per diem he Would loiter by the looking-glass, And from his dressing-room would pass Like Venus when, capriciously, The goddess would a masquerade Attend in male attire arrayed. XXIII On this artistical retreat Having once fixed your interest, I might to connoisseurs repeat The style in which my hero dressed; Though I confess I hardly dare Describe in detail the affair, Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat, To Russ indigenous are not; And also that my feeble verse— Pardon I ask for such a sin— With words of foreign origin Too much I'm given to intersperse, Though to the Academy I come And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13) [Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the reign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff.] XXIV But such is not my project now, So let us to the ball-room haste, Whither at headlong speed doth go Eugene in hackney carriage placed. Past darkened windows and long streets Of slumbering citizens he fleets, Till carriage lamps, a double row, Cast a gay lustre on the snow, Which shines with iridescent hues. He nears a spacious mansion's gate, By many a lamp illuminate, And through the lofty windows views Profiles of lovely dames he knows And also fashionable beaux. XXV Our hero stops and doth alight, Flies past the porter to the stair, But, ere he mounts the marble flight, With hurried hand smooths down his hair. He enters: in the hall a crowd, No more the music thunders loud, Some a mazurka occupies, Crushing and a confusing noise; Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash, The feet of graceful ladies fly, And following them ye might espy Full many a glance like lightning flash, And by the fiddle's rushing sound The voice of jealousy is drowned. XXVI In my young days of wild delight On balls I madly used to dote, Fond declarations they invite Or the delivery of a note. So hearken, every worthy spouse, I would your vigilance arouse, Attentive be unto my rhymes And due precautions take betimes. Ye mothers also, caution use, Upon your daughters keep an eye, Employ your glasses constantly, For otherwise—God only knows! I lift a warning voice because I long have ceased to offend the laws. XXVII Alas! life's hours which swiftly fly I've wasted in amusements vain, But were it not immoral I Should dearly like a dance again. I love its furious delight, The crowd and merriment and light, The ladies, their fantastic dress, Also their feet—yet ne'ertheless Scarcely in Russia can ye find Three pairs of handsome female feet; Ah! I still struggle to forget A pair; though desolate my mind, Their memory lingers still and seems To agitate me in my dreams. XXVIII When, where, and in what desert land, Madman, wilt thou from memory raze Those feet? Alas! on what far strand Do ye of spring the blossoms graze? Lapped in your Eastern luxury, No trace ye left in passing by Upon the dreary northern snows, But better loved the soft repose Of splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet cause The thirst for fame and man's applause, My country and an exile's lot; My joy in youth was fleeting e'en
