The parquet cracked beneath the heel,

And jolting jarred the window-frames.

'Tis not so now. Like gentle dames

We glide along a floor of wax.

However, the mazurka lacks

Nought of its charms original

In country towns, where still it keeps

Its stamping, capers and high leaps.

Fashion is there immutable,

Who tyrannizes us with ease,

Of modern Russians the disease.

XLIII.

Bouyanoff, wrathful cousin mine,

Unto the hero of this lay

Olga and Tania led. Malign,

Oneguine Olga bore away.

Gliding in negligent career,

He bending whispered in her ear

Some madrigal not worth a rush,

And pressed her hand - the crimson blush

Upon her cheek by adulation

Grew brighter still. But Lenski hath

Seen all, beside himself with wrath,

And hot with jealous indignation,

Till the mazurka's close he stays,

Her hand for the cotillon prays.

XLIV.

She fears she cannot. - Cannot? Why? -

She promised Eugene, or she would

With great delight. - O God on high!

Heard he the truth? And thus she could -

And can it be? But late a child

And now a fickle flirt and wild,

Cunning already to display

And well-instructed to betray!