Canto VI

Having remarked Vladimir’s flight,Onéguine, bored to death again,By Olga stood, dejected quiteAnd satisfied with vengeance ta’en.Olga began to long likewiseFor Lenski, sought him with her eyes,And endless the cotillon seemedAs if some troubled dream she dreamed.’Tis done. To supper they proceed.Bedding is laid out and to allAssigned a lodging, from the hallUp to the attic, and all needTranquil repose. Eugene aloneTo pass the night at home hath gone.

All slumber. In the drawing-roomLoud snores the cumbrous PoustiakoffWith better half as cumbersome;Gvozdine, Bouyànoff, PétòushkoffAnd Fliànoff, somewhat indisposed,On chairs in the saloon reposed,Whilst on the floor Monsieur TriquetIn jersey and in nightcap lay.In Olga’s and Tattiana’s roomsLay all the girls by sleep embraced,Except one by the window placedWhom pale Diana’s ray illumes—My poor Tattiana cannot sleepBut stares into the darkness deep.

His visit she had not awaited,His momentary loving glanceHer inmost soul had penetrated,And his strange conduct at the danceWith Olga; nor of this appearedAn explanation: she was scared,Alarmed by jealous agonies:A hand of ice appeared to seizeHer heart: it seemed a darksome pitBeneath her roaring opened wide:“I shall expire,” Tattiana cried,“But death from him will be delight.I murmur not! Why mournfulness?He cannot give me happiness.”

Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story!A new acquaintance we must scan.There dwells five versts from Krasnogory,Vladimir’s property, a manWho thrives this moment as I write,A philosophic anchorite:Zaretski, once a bully bold,A gambling troop when he controlled,Chief rascal, pot-house president,Now of a family the head,Simple and kindly and unwed,True friend, landlord benevolent,Yea! and a man of honour, lo!How perfect doth our epoch grow!

Time was the flattering voice of fame,His ruffian bravery adored,And true, his pistol’s faultless aimAn ace at fifteen paces bored.But I must add to what I writeThat, tipsy once in actual fight,He from his Kalmuck horse did leapIn mud and mire to wallow deep,Drunk as a fly; and thus the FrenchA valuable hostage gained,A modern Regulus unchained,Who to surrender did not blenchThat every morn at Verrey’s costThree flasks of wine he might exhaust.

Time was, his raillery was gay,He loved the simpleton to mock,To make wise men the idiot playOpenly or ’neath decent cloak.Yet sometimes this or that deceitEncountered punishment complete,And sometimes into snares as wellHimself just like a greenhorn fell.He could in disputation shineWith pungent or obtuse retort,At times to silence would resort,At times talk nonsense with design;Quarrels among young friends he bredAnd to the field of honour led;

Or reconciled them, it may be,And all the three to breakfast went;Then he’d malign them secretlyWith jest and gossip gaily blent.Sed alia tempora. And bravery(Like love, another sort of knavery!)Diminishes as years decline.But, as I said, Zaretski mineBeneath acacias, cherry-trees,From storms protection having sought,Lived as a really wise man ought,Like Horace, planted cabbages,Both ducks and geese in plenty bredAnd lessons to his children read.

He was no fool, and Eugene mine,To friendship making no pretence,Admired his judgment, which was fine,Pervaded with much common sense.He usually was glad to seeThe man and liked his company,So, when he came next day to call,Was not surprised thereby at all.But, after mutual compliments,Zaretski with a knowing grin,Ere conversation could begin,The epistle from the bard presents.Onéguine to the window wentAnd scanned in silence its content.

It was a cheery, generousCartel, or challenge to a fight,Whereto in language courteousLenski his comrade did invite.Onéguine, by first impulse moved,Turned and replied as it behoved,Curtly announcing for the frayThat he was “ready any day.”Zaretski rose, nor would explain,He cared no longer there to stay,Had much to do at home that day,And so departed. But Eugene,The matter by his conscience tried,Was with himself dissatisfied.

In fact, the subject analysed,Within that secret court discussed,In much his conduct stigmatized;For, from the outset, ’twas unjustTo jest as he had done last eve,A timid, shrinking love to grieve.And ought he not to disregardThe poet’s madness? for ’tis hardAt eighteen not to play the fool!Sincerely loving him, EugeneAssuredly should not have beenConventionality’s dull tool—Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy,But man of sense and probity.

He might his motives have narrated,Not bristled up like a wild beast,He ought to have conciliatedThat youthful heart—“But, now at least,The opportunity is flown.Besides, a duellist well-knownHath mixed himself in the affair,Malicious and a slanderer.Undoubtedly, disdain aloneShould recompense his idle jeers,But fools—their calumnies and sneers”—Behold! the world’s opinion!Our idol, Honour’s motive force,Round which revolves the universe.

Impatient, boiling o’er with wrath,The bard his answer waits at home,But lo! his braggart neighbour hathTriumphant with the answer come.Now for the jealous youth what joy!He feared the criminal might tryTo treat the matter as a jest,Use subterfuge, and thus his breastFrom the dread pistol turn away.But now all doubt was set aside,Unto the windmill he must rideTo-morrow before break of day,To cock the pistol; barrel bendOn thigh or temple, friend on friend.

Resolved the flirt to cast away,The foaming Lenski would refuse,To see his Olga ere the fray—His watch, the sun in turn he views—Finally tost his arms in airAnd lo! he is already there!He deemed his coming would inspireOlga with trepidation dire.He was deceived. Just as beforeThe miserable bard to meet,As hope uncertain and as sweet,Olga ran skipping from the door.She was as heedless and as gay—Well! just as she was yesterday.

“Why did you leave last night so soon?”Was the first question Olga made,Lenski, into confusion thrown,All silently hung down his head.Jealousy and vexation tookTo flight before her radiant look,Before such fond simplicityAnd mental elasticity.He eyed her with a fond concern,Perceived that he was still beloved,Already by repentance movedTo ask forgiveness seemed to yearn;But trembles, words he cannot find,Delighted, almost sane in mind.

But once more pensive and distressedBeside his Olga doth he grieve,Nor enough strength of mind possessedTo mention the foregoing eve,He mused: “I will her saviour be!With ardent sighs and flatteryThe vile seducer shall not dareThe freshness of her heart impair,Nor shall the caterpillar comeThe lily’s stem to eat away,Nor shall the bud of yesterdayPerish when half disclosed its bloom!”—All this, my friends, translate aright:“I with my friend intend to fight!”

If he had only known the woundWhich rankled in Tattiana’s breast,And if Tattiana mine had found—If the poor maiden could have guessedThat the two friends with morning’s lightAbove the yawning grave would fight,—Ah! it may be, affection trueHad reconciled the pair anew!But of this love, e’en casually,As yet none had discovered aught;Eugene of course related nought,Tattiana suffered secretly;Her nurse, who could have made a guess,Was famous for thick-headedness.

Lenski that eve in thought immersed,Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now,But he who by the Muse was nursedIs ever thus. With frowning browTo the pianoforte he movesAnd various chords upon it proves,Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low:“I’m happy, say, is it not so?”—But it grew late; he must not stay;Heavy his heart with anguish grew;To the young girl he said adieu,As it were, tore himself away.Gazing into his face, she said:“What ails thee?”—“Nothing.”—He is fled.

At home arriving he addressedHis care unto his pistols’ plight,Replaced them in their box, undressedAnd Schiller read by candlelight.But one thought only filled his mind,His mournful heart no peace could find,Olga he sees before his eyesMiraculously fair arise,Vladimir closes up his book,And grasps a pen: his verse, albeitWith lovers’ rubbish filled, was neatAnd flowed harmoniously. He tookAnd spouted it with lyric fire—Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire.

Destiny hath preserved his lay.I have it. Lo! the very thing!“Oh! whither have ye winged your way,Ye golden days of my young spring?What will the coming dawn reveal?In vain my anxious eyes appeal;In mist profound all yet is hid.So be it! Just the laws which bidThe fatal bullet penetrate,Or innocently past me fly.Good governs all! The hour draws nighOf life or death predestinate.Blest be the labours of the light,And blest the shadows of the night.

“To-morrow’s dawn will glimmer gray,Bright day will then begin to burn,But the dark sepulchre I mayHave entered never to return.The memory of the bard, a dream,Will be absorbed by Lethe’s stream;Men will forget me, but my urnTo visit, lovely maid, return,O’er my remains to drop a tear,And think: here lies who loved me well,For consecrate to me he fellIn the dawn of existence drear.Maid whom my heart desires alone,Approach, approach; I am thine own.”

Thus in a style obscure and stale,He wrote (’tis the romantic style,Though of romance therein I failTo see aught—never mind meanwhile)And about dawn upon his breastHis weary head declined at rest,For o’er a word to fashion known,“Ideal,” he had drowsy grown.But scarce had sleep’s soft witcherySubdued him, when his neighbour steptInto the chamber where he sleptAnd wakened him with the loud cry:“’Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike.Onéguine waits on us, ’tis like.”

He was in error; for EugeneWas sleeping then a sleep like death;The pall of night was growing thin,To Lucifer the cock must breatheHis song, when still he slumbered deep,The sun had mounted high his steep,A passing snowstorm wreathed awayWith pallid light, but Eugene layUpon his couch insensibly;Slumber still o’er him lingering flies.But finally he oped his eyesAnd turned aside the drapery;He gazed upon the clock which showedHe long should have been on the road.

He rings in haste; in haste arrivesHis Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot,Who dressing-gown and slippers givesAnd linen on him doth bestow.Dressing as quickly as he can,Eugene directs the trusty manTo accompany him and to escortA box of terrible import.Harnessed the rapid sledge arrived:He enters: to the mill he drives:Descends, the order Guillot gives,The fatal tubes Lepage contrivedTo bring behind: the triple steedsTo two young oaks the coachman leads.

Lenski the foeman’s apparitionLeaning against the dam expects,Zaretski, village mechanician,In the meantime the mill inspects.Onéguine his excuses says;“But,” cried Zaretski in amaze,“Your second you have left behind!”A duellist of classic mind,Method was dear unto his heartHe would not that a man ye slayIn a lax or informal way,But followed the strict rules of art,And ancient usages observed(For which our praise he hath deserved).

“My second!” cried in turn Eugene,“Behold my friend Monsieur Guillot;To this arrangement can be seen,No obstacle of which I know.Although unknown to fame mayhap,He’s a straightforward little chap.”Zaretski bit his lip in wrath,But to Vladimir Eugene saith:“Shall we commence?”—“Let it be so,”Lenski replied, and soon they beBehind the mill. Meantime ye seeZaretski and Monsieur GuillotIn consultation stand aside—The foes with downcast eyes abide.

Foes! Is it long since friendship rentAsunder was and hate prepared?Since leisure was together spent,Meals, secrets, occupations shared?Now, like hereditary foes,Malignant fury they disclose,As in some frenzied dream of fearThese friends cold-bloodedly draw nearMutual destruction to contrive.Cannot they amicably smileEre crimson stains their hands defile,Depart in peace and friendly live?But fashionable hatred’s flameTrembles at artificial shame.

The shining pistols are uncased,The mallet loud the ramrod strikes,Bullets are down the barrels pressed,For the first time the hammer clicks.Lo! poured in a thin gray cascade,The powder in the pan is laid,The sharp flint, screwed securely on,Is cocked once more. Uneasy grown,Guillot behind a pollard stood;Aside the foes their mantles threw,Zaretski paces thirty-twoMeasured with great exactitude.At each extreme one takes his stand,A loaded pistol in his hand.

“Advance!”—Indifferent and sedate,The foes, as yet not taking aim,With measured step and even gaitAthwart the snow four paces came—Four deadly paces do they span;Onéguine slowly then beganTo raise his pistol to his eye,Though he advanced unceasingly.And lo! five paces more they pass,And Lenski, closing his left eye,Took aim—but as immediatelyOnéguine fired—Alas! alas!The poet’s hour hath sounded—See!He drops his pistol silently.

He on his bosom gently placedHis hand, and fell. His clouded eyeNot agony, but death expressed.So from the mountain lazilyThe avalanche of snow first bends,Then glittering in the sun descends.The cold sweat bursting from his brow,To the youth Eugene hurried now—Gazed on him, called him. Useless care!He was no more! The youthful bardFor evermore had disappeared.The storm was hushed. The blossom fairWas withered ere the morning light—The altar flame was quenched in night.

Tranquil he lay, and strange to viewThe peace which on his forehead beamed,His breast was riddled through and through,The blood gushed from the wound and steamedEre this but one brief moment beatThat heart with inspiration sweetAnd enmity and hope and love—The blood boiled and the passions strove.Now, as in a deserted house,All dark and silent hath become;The inmate is for ever dumb,The windows whitened, shutters close—Whither departed is the host?God knows! The very trace is lost.

’Tis sweet the foe to aggravateWith epigrams impertinent,Sweet to behold him obstinate,His butting horns in anger bent,The glass unwittingly inspectAnd blush to own himself reflect.Sweeter it is, my friends, if heHowl like a dolt: ’tis meant for me!But sweeter still it is to arrangeFor him an honourable grave,At his pale brow a shot to have,Placed at the customary range;But home his body to despatchCan scarce in sweetness be a match.

Well, if your pistol ball by chanceThe comrade of your youth should strike,Who by a haughty word or glanceOr any trifle else ye likeYou o’er your wine insulted hath—Or even overcome by wrathScornfully challenged you afield—Tell me, of sentiments concealedWhich in your spirit dominates,When motionless your gaze beneathHe lies, upon his forehead death,And slowly life coagulates—When deaf and silent he doth lieHeedless of your despairing cry?

Eugene, his pistol yet in handAnd with remorseful anguish filled,Gazing on Lenski’s corse did stand—Zaretski shouted: “Why, he’s killed!”—Killed! at this dreadful exclamationOnéguine went with trepidationAnd the attendants called in haste.Most carefully Zaretski placedWithin his sledge the stiffened corse,And hurried home his awful freight.Conscious of death approximate,Loud paws the earth each panting horse,His bit with foam besprinkled o’er,And homeward like an arrow tore.

My friends, the poet ye regret!When hope’s delightful flower but bloomedIn bud of promise incomplete,The manly toga scarce assumed,He perished. Where his troubled dreams,And where the admirable streamsOf youthful impulse, reverie,Tender and elevated, free?And where tempestuous love’s desires,The thirst of knowledge and of fame,Horror of sinfulness and shame,Imagination’s sacred fires,Ye shadows of a life more high,Ye dreams of heavenly poesy?

Perchance to benefit mankind,Or but for fame he saw the light;His lyre, to silence now consigned,Resounding through all ages mightHave echoed to eternity.With worldly honours, it may be,Fortune the poet had repaid.It may be that his martyred shadeCarried a truth divine away;That, for the century designed,Had perished a creative mind,And past the threshold of decay,He ne’er shall hear Time’s eulogy,The blessings of humanity.

Or, it may be, the bard had passedA life in common with the rest;Vanished his youthful years at last,The fire extinguished in his breast,In many things had changed his life—The Muse abandoned, ta’en a wife,Inhabited the country, cladIn dressing-gown, a cuckold glad:A life of fact, not fiction, led—At forty suffered from the gout,Eaten, drunk, gossiped and grown stout:And finally, upon his bedHad finished life amid his sons,Doctors and women, sobs and groans.

But, howsoe’er his lot were cast,Alas! the youthful lover slain,Poetical enthusiast,A friendly hand thy life hath ta’en!There is a spot the village nearWhere dwelt the Muses’ worshipper,Two pines have joined their tangled roots,A rivulet beneath them shootsIts waters to the neighbouring vale.There the tired ploughman loves to lie,The reaping girls approach and plyWithin its wave the sounding pail,And by that shady rivuletA simple tombstone hath been set.

There, when the rains of spring we markUpon the meadows showering,The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,Of Volga fishermen doth sing,And the young damsel from the town,For summer to the country flown,Whene’er across the plain at speedAlone she gallops on her steed,Stops at the tomb in passing by;The tightened leathern rein she draws,Aside she casts her veil of gauzeAnd reads with rapid eager eyeThe simple epitaph—a tearDoth in her gentle eye appear.

And meditative from the spotShe leisurely away doth ride,Spite of herself with Lenski’s lotLongtime her mind is occupied.She muses: “What was Olga’s fate?Longtime was her heart desolateOr did her tears soon cease to flow?And where may be her sister now?Where is the outlaw, banned by men,Of fashionable dames the foe,The misanthrope of gloomy brow,By whom the youthful bard was slain?”—In time I’ll give ye without failA true account and in detail.

But not at present, though sincerelyI on my chosen hero dote;Though I’ll return to him right early,Just at this moment I cannot.Years have inclined me to stern prose,Years to light rhyme themselves oppose,And now, I mournfully confess,In rhyming I show laziness.As once, to fill the rapid pageMy pen no longer finds delight,Other and colder thoughts affright,Sterner solicitudes engage,In worldly din or solitudeUpon my visions such intrude.

Fresh aspirations I have known,I am acquainted with fresh care,Hopeless are all the first, I own,Yet still remains the old despair.Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness?Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)?And is it true her garland brightAt last is shrunk and withered quite?And is it true and not a jest,Not even a poetic phrase,That vanished are my youthful days(This joking I used to protest),Never for me to reappear—That soon I reach my thirtieth year?

And so my noon hath come! If so,I must resign myself, in sooth;Yet let us part in friendship, OMy frivolous and jolly youth.I thank thee for thy joyfulness,Love’s tender transports and distress,For riot, frolics, mighty feeds,And all that from thy hand proceeds—I thank thee. In thy company,With tumult or contentment stillOf thy delights I drank my fill,Enough! with tranquil spirit ICommence a new career in lifeAnd rest from bygone days of strife.

But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell,Where my days in the wildernessOf languor and of love did tellAnd contemplative dreaminess;And thou, youth’s early inspiration,Invigorate imaginationAnd spur my spirit’s torpid mood!Fly frequent to my solitude,Let not the poet’s spirit freeze,Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry,Eventually petrifyIn the world’s mortal revelries,Amid the soulless sons of prideAnd glittering simpletons beside;

Amid sly, pusillanimousSpoiled children most degenerateAnd tiresome rogues ridiculousAnd stupid censors passionate;Amid coquettes who pray to GodAnd abject slaves who kiss the rod;In haunts of fashion where each dayAll with urbanity betray,Where harsh frivolity proclaimsIts cold unfeeling sentences;Amid the awful emptinessOf conversation, thought and aims—In that morass where you and IWallow, my friends, in company!