Right opposite Tattiana placed, She, than the morning moon more pale, More timid than a doe long chased, Lifts not her eyes which swimming fail. Anew the flames of passion start Within her; she is sick at heart; The two friends’ compliments she hears Not, and a flood of bitter tears With effort she restrains. Well nigh The poor girl fell into a faint, But strength of mind and self-restraint Prevailed at last. She in reply Said something in an undertone And at the table sat her down. XXXI To tragedy, the fainting fit, And female tears hysterical, Onéguine could not now submit, For long he had endured them all. Our misanthrope was full of ire, At a great feast against desire, And marking Tania’s agitation, Cast down his eyes in trepidation And sulked in silent indignation; Swearing how Lenski he would rile, Avenge himself in proper style. Triumphant by anticipation, Caricatures he now designed Of all the guests within his mind. XXXII Certainly not Eugene alone Tattiana’s trouble might have spied, But that the eyes of every one By a rich pie were occupied— Unhappily too salt by far; And that a bottle sealed with tar Appeared, Don’s effervescing boast,(59) Between the blanc-mange and the roast; Behind, of glasses an array, Tall, slender, like thy form designed, Zizi, thou mirror of my mind, Fair object of my guileless lay, Seductive cup of love, whose flow Made me so tipsy long ago! [Note 59: The _Donskoe Champanskoe_ is a species of sparkling wine manufactured in the vicinity of the river Don.] XXXIII From the moist cork the bottle freed With loud explosion, the bright wine Hissed forth. With serious air indeed, Long tortured by his lay divine, Triquet arose, and for the bard The company deep silence guard. Tania well nigh expired when he Turned to her and discordantly Intoned it, manuscript in hand. Voices and hands applaud, and she Must bow in common courtesy; The poet, modest though so grand, Drank to her health in the first place, Then handed her the song with grace. XXXIV Congratulations, toasts resound, Tattiana thanks to all returned, But, when Onéguine’s turn came round, The maiden’s weary eye which yearned, Her agitation and distress Aroused in him some tenderness. He bowed to her nor silence broke, But somehow there shone in his look The witching light of sympathy; I know not if his heart felt pain Or if he meant to flirt again, From habit or maliciously, But kindness from his eye had beamed And to revive Tattiana seemed. XXXV