And pensive, spiritless again
before his darling Olga,
Vladimir cannot make himself remind her
4 of yesterday;
“I,” he reflects, “shall be her savior.
I shall not suffer a depraver
with fire of sighs and compliments
8 to tempt a youthful heart,
nor let a despicable, venomous
worm gnaw a lily's little stalk,
nor have a blossom two morns old
12 wither while yet half blown.”
All this, friends, meant:
I have a pistol duel with a pal.
XVIII
If he had known what a wound burned
the heart of my Tatiana! If Tatiana
had been aware, if she
4 could have known that tomorrow
Lenski and Eugene
were to compete for the tomb's shelter,
ah, then, perhaps, her love
8 might have united the two friends again!
But none, even by chance, had yet discovered
that passion.
Onegin about everything was silent;
12 Tatiana pined away in secret;
alone the nurse
might have known — but she was slow-witted.
XIX
All evening Lenski was abstracted,
now taciturn, now gay again;
but he who has been fostered by the Muse
4 is always thus; with knitted brow
he'd sit down at the clavichord
and play but chords on it;
or else, his gaze directing toward Olga,
8 he'd whisper, “I am happy, am I not?”
But it is late; time to depart. In him
the heart contracted, full of anguish;
as he took leave of the young maiden,
12 it seemed to break asunder.
She looks him in the face. “What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” And he makes for the porch.
XX
On coming home his pistols he inspected,
then back into their case
he put them, and, undressed,
4 by candle opened Schiller;
but there's one thought infolding him;
the sad heart in him does not slumber:
Olga, in beauty
8 ineffable, he sees before him.
Vladimir shuts the book,
takes up his pen; his verses —
full of love's nonsense — sound
12 and flow. Aloud
he reads them in a lyric fever,
like drunken D[elvig] at a feast.
XXI
The verses chanced to be preserved;
I have them; here they are:
Whither, ah! whither are ye fled,
4 my springtime's golden days?
“What has the coming day in store for me?
In vain my gaze attempts to grasp it;
in deep gloom it lies hidden.
8 It matters not; fate's law is just.
Whether I fall, pierced by the dart, or whether
it flies by — all is right:
of waking and of sleep
12 comes the determined hour;
blest is the day of cares,
blest, too, is the advent of darkness!
XXII
“The ray of dawn will gleam tomorrow,
and brilliant day will scintillate;
whilst I, perhaps — I shall descend
4 into the tomb's mysterious shelter,
and the young poet's memory
slow Lethe will engulf;
the world will forget me; but thou,
8 wilt thou come, maid of beauty,
to shed a tear over the early urn
and think: he loved me,
to me alone he consecrated
12 the doleful daybreak of a stormy life!...
Friend of my heart, desired friend, come,
come: I'm thy spouse!”
XXIII
Thus did he write, “obscurely
and limply” (what we call romanticism —
though no romanticism at all
4 do I see here; but what is that to us?),
and finally, before dawn, letting sink
his weary head,
upon the fashionable word
8 “ideal,” Lenski dozed off gently;
but hardly had he lost himself
in sleep's bewitchment when the neighbor
entered the silent study
12 and wakened Lenski with the call,
“Time to get up: past six already.
Onegin's sure to be awaiting us.”
XXIV
But he was wrong: at that time Eugene
was sleeping like the dead.
The shadows of the night now wane,
4 and Vesper by the cock is greeted;
Onegin soundly sleeps away.
By now the sun rides high,
and shifting flurries
8 sparkle and spin; but still his bed
Onegin has not left,
still slumber hovers over him.
Now he awakes at last
12 and draws apart the curtain's flaps;
looks — and sees that already
it is long since time to drive off.