Onegin never said a word,
While secretly Tatyana languished.
The nurse may well have known all right,
But she, alas, was not too bright. 19
All evening Lensky was distracted,
Silent and jovial by turns.
But men for whom the muse is active
Are always like that. Frowning, stern,
He ranged the keyboard seeing whether
He could find chords that ran together.
Then, giving Olga a close scan,
He whispered, “I’m a happy man.”
It’s late now. Time to go. The tension
Strains tightly at his anguished heart,
And, thinking these things as he parts
From the young girl, he feels it wrenching.
She watches his face, one to one.
“What’s wrong?” “Oh, nothing.” And he’s gone. 20
Back home again, he went to handle
His pistols, took them from their case,
Then put them back. Undressed by candle,
He opened Schiller for a space,
Though there was one thought that obsessed him.
His heart ached, pain that never left him.
Olga appeared; he was disarmed
Beyond words by her lovely charms.
Those pages—he no longer needs them.
He writes his poems, which, awash
With all kinds of romantic tosh,
Sing out and flow along. He reads them
Aloud and lyrically sung,
Like Delvig at a party, drunk. 21
By chance his lines have been held on to.
I have them here. They go like this:
Oh, tell me where, where have you gone to,
You golden days of springtime bliss?
What lies in store for me tomorrow?
Vainly my eyes attempt to follow,
But all is hidden, dark as night.
No matter, though. Fate’s laws are right.
If I fall by the arrow stricken,
Or if the arrow hurtles past—
All’s well. Our sleep and waking last
As long as our fixed span is reckoned.
Blest are our days, if sore oppressed;
The coming dark is also blest.
22
The morning star will dawn tomorrow,
And bright day will see off the gloom,
While I perchance may then be swallowed
Into the darkness of the tomb.
The languid Lethe will devour
The memory of a young bard’s hour.
I’ll be forgotten by the world,
But you may stand here, lovely girl,
And mourn this urn brought here untimely,
Thinking, “He loved me. I alone
Received his sad life at its dawn
In all its storminess.” Come, find me,
My heart’s desire, come to my tomb.
Friend of my soul, I am your groom. 23
His writing was “obscure” and “flaccid”
(In the Romanticism class,
Though I see little that’s romantic
In such style—but we’ll let that pass).
Thus, when the dawn was just appearing
And Lensky’s head was nodding, weary,
The modish word “ideal” came past
And sent him off to sleep at last.
But hardly had he lost his balance
In sleep’s enchanting welcome, when
Zaretsky broached his silent den
And roused young Lensky with a challenge.
“Time you were up. It’s after six.
Onegin will be waiting. Quick!” 24
But he was not right in this matter.
Yevgeny’s sound asleep. There are
Some signs that night is on the scatter,
And cockcrow greets the morning star.
Onegin, fast asleep, lies leaden
While a young sun climbs up the heaven.
A snowstorm passes overhead
In a bright swirl, but still the bed
Pulls on Yevgeny, unalerted.
Sleep hovered… Suddenly it broke,
And now at long last he awoke,
Reaching to pull aside the curtain.
He looks and sees. Time? Yes, it is.
He should have left long before this. 25
He rings the bell. In runs his valet,
A Frenchman called Monsieur Guillot.
Slippers and dressing gown he carries;
He presents linen comme il faut.
Onegin dresses hell for leather,
Guillot gets all the things together,
Ready to drive, bringing the brace
Of duelling pistols in their case.
The racing sleigh, brought forward, beckons.
He’s in and off… They reach the mill
At speed. He checks his man, who will
Make sure Le Page’s deadly weapons
Come with them. Off the horses go
To find where two young oak trees grow. 26
There at the dam wall lingered Lensky,
Impatient. Things were at a halt.
His man, an expert, diligently
Studied the millstones, finding fault.
Onegin comes, apologetic.
Zaretsky lodges an objection.
“Where is your second?” he insists,
A pedant and traditionalist
Who viewed disaster with revulsion.
He would not have a man laid out
Haphazardly, for this would flout
The strict rules of established culture,
Time-honoured since the ancient days—
For which the man deserves our praise. 27
“You what?” Yevgeny said. “My second?
He’s here—my friend, Monsieur Guillot.
There should be no complaints, I reckon,
If he stands in to help me. No,
He’s not a very well-known person,
But he’s a good chap. Many worse than
He is.” Zaretsky, though, demurred,
Until Onegin gave the word:
“Well, shall we start?” “Why not?” said Lensky.
And so, down past the mill they walked.
Zaretsky and the “good chap” talked
Together at a distance, tensely,
Seeking agreement. Terms were set.
The enemies’ eyes never met. 28
Yes, enemies. Their new displeasure
Was bloodlust, parting them for naught.
Have they not shared long hours of leisure,
Their food, activities and thoughts
As friends? Now they’re exuding
The bitterness of foes long-feuding.
It’s like a nightmare, weird and ill.
As they get ready all is still.
They make cold-blooded plans for murder.
Could they not laugh and make things good
Before their hands are stained with blood,
And part as friends, going no further?
No. Noble foes must not lose face,
Though what they dread is false—disgrace. 29
Out come the pistols (how they dazzle!),
The ramrods plunge, the mallets knock,
The leaden balls roll down the channels,
The triggers click, the guns are cocked.
The greyish powder streams out, steady,
Into the pan, while, waiting ready,
The solid, jagged, screwed-down flint
Stands primed. Guillot can just be glimpsed
Lurking behind a stump, much worried.
The two foes cast their cloaks aside.
Zaretsky walks thirty-two strides
With an exactitude unhurried,
Then leads each friend to his far place.
They draw their pistols from the case. 30
“Begin now!” And the two foes coolly
Walked forward, not yet taking aim.
With soft and steady tread they duly
Completed four steps… On they came…
Four lethal strides with calm prevailing
Between the two men… Then Yevgeny,
Advancing still, was the first one
To raise a gently levelled gun.
Then—five more steps along the journey…