But whom to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end? And who’ll be kind enough to measure Our words and deeds as we intend? - Alexander Pushkin

There yet remains but one concluding tale,
And then this chronicle of mine is ended—
Fulfilled, the duty God ordained to me,
A sinner. Not without purpose did the Lord
Put me to witness much for many years
And educate me in the love of books.
One day some indefatigable monk
Will find my conscientious, unsigned work;
Like me, he will light up his ikon-lamp
And, shaking from the scroll the age-old dust,
He will transcribe these tales in all their truth.

"Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him, trembling violently. "Where have you been?" she asked in a frightened whisper. "In the bedchamber of the Countess. She is dead," was the calm reply. "My God! What are you saying?" cried the girl. "Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death." The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa's mind. Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired. The poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the death of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded her in silence. "You are a monster!" exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes. "I didn't intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded.

O flowers, country, love, inaction,
O fields! I am your devotee!
I always note with satisfaction
Onegin’s difference from me,
Lest somewhere a sarcastic reader
Or publisher or such-like breeder
Of complicated calumny
Discerns my physiognomy
And shamelessly repeats the fable
That I have crudely versified
Myself like Byron, bard of pride,
As if we were no longer able
To write a poem and discuss
A subject not concerning us.