Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

But who is that among the chosen, That figure standing mute and frozen, That stranger no one seems to know? Before him faces come and go Like spectres in a bleak procession. What is it—martyred pride, or spleen That marks his face? … Is that Eugene?! That figure with the strange expression? Can that be he? It is, I say. ’But when did fate cast him our way? 8 ’Is he the same, or is he learning? Or does he play the outcast still? In what new guise is he returning? What role does he intend to fill? Childe Harold? Melmoth for a while? Cosmopolite? A Slavophile? A Quaker? Bigot?—might one ask? Or will he sport some other mask? Or maybe he’s just dedicated, Like you and me, to being nice? In any case, here’s my advice: Give up a role when it’s outdated. He’s gulled the world … now let it go.’ ’You know him then?’ ‘Well, yes and no.’