A cartel (challenge), brief, polite,
All clear and cold and on the level.
Called out by his friend, he must fight.
Onegin turned to him on impulse,
The bearer of a note so simple,
And spoke without a wasted word.
“Ready as always,” the man heard.
Zaretsky rose, without explaining,
Not keen to linger there alone,
And having much to do at home,
He left at once, leaving Yevgeny
Communing singly with his soul,
Feeling dissatisfied, not whole.
10
And so he should. Searching, relentless,
His secret inner court will hear
Him charged with multiple offences…
Charge One: He had been wrong to jeer
At timid, tender love so easily
And so off-handedly that evening.
Charge Two: The poet might have been
An ass, but this, at just eighteen,
Could be excused. Judge whose fault this is:
Yevgeny deeply loved the youth,
And should have proved to be, in truth,
No mere plaything of prejudices,
No fiery, strapping lad, but an
Honourable and thinking man.
11
He could have spoken out (so easy!)
Instead of bristling like a beast.
He should have set about appeasing
That young heart, at the very least.
It’s too late now. Things have developed.
“Besides,” he thought, “we have that fellow,
The expert duellist, in touch.
He’s a bad man who talks too much…
Contempt, of course, from the beginning,
Should have condemned the way he spoke.
But whispers… sniggers… stupid folk…”
We’re talking of Public Opinion!
Our idol’s base and honour’s ground—
This is what makes the world go round!
12
Seething with rage and hatred, Lensky
Waits. A reply is what he wants.
The windbag now returns; Zaretsky
Comes solemnly with the response
That brings joy to a jealous party!
He had been worried that this smarty
Might find some way out with a jest,
Some ruse designed to save his breast
By turning down the pistols, scorning.
But doubts are banished now; they will
Drive out and meet beside the mill
At break of day tomorrow morning,
Cock weapons, and aim low or high
At one another’s brow or thigh.
13
Set to detest a flirt so cruel,
Still seething, Lensky meant to shun
His Olga and await the duel…
He watched the clock, and watched the sun…
Then he gave in, and off he sallied,
Soon to be found outside the Larins’,
Hoping to catch her unawares
And shake her just by being there.
But no such thing… For, just as earlier,
She met poor Lensky from his horse
By skipping down from off the porch
Like giddy hope (but even girlier).
Youthful, exuberant, carefree,
Exactly as before was she.
14
“Why did you leave the ball so early?”
Olga immediately said,
Sending his feelings hurly-burly.
Silent, Vladimir hung his head,
His rage and envy now bedevilled
By the bright glance that Olga levelled,
By her ingenuous, gentle hold,
By all that sprightliness of soul!…
He looks at her—sweet warmth is with him—
Seeing she loves him still (of course),
And, overcome with deep remorse,
He almost asks her to forgive him.
Shaking, he cannot say a word.
He’s happy, very nearly cured. …
[15, 16] 17
Cast down again, once more the dreamer,
With dear, sweet Olga facing him,
There is no strength left in Vladimir
To hark back—it would be too grim.
His thoughts are: “I shall be her saviour.
I won’t allow his vile behaviour
To tempt her young heart in this wise
With passion, flattery and sighs.
Disgusting worms shall not go gnawing
Beneath the lily’s tender stem.
Plants will not last two days and then
Lose their fresh flowerlets half-showing.
Which means, of course, that in the end
I have to shoot out with my friend.”
18
If only he had known the drama
Of Tanya’s burning heartache there,
If only news had reached Tatyana,
If only she had been aware
That next day Lensky and Yevgeny
Would duel to the death, then maybe
Her love might just have brought the men
Into a partnership again.
But, no, the story of her anguish
Was, as it happened, left unheard.
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…
Lensky began to do the same,
Squinting his left eye, taking aim…
Onegin fired… The hour determined
Had struck. The poet made no sound.
His pistol tumbled to the ground.
31
One hand across his breastbone resting,
He fell. But this was death, not pain;
His misted eyes gave out the message.
In this way, thick snows, having lain
Solid beneath the sparkling sunshine,
Slide slowly down the hillside sometimes.
Immediately Onegin ran
In a cold sweat to the young man.
He looked, he called him… All for nothing.
He’s gone. The bard, Onegin’s friend,
Has come to an untimely end!
The storm has petered out. The blossom
Has wilted in the morning light,
And, lo, the altar flame has died.
32
He lay quite still, his forehead seeming
Unusual, languidly at rest,
Blood oozing from a wound still steaming,
A bullet hole below the breast.
Just now his heart had been full, racing
With the strong force of inspiration,
With love and hope and enmity,
Beating with life, blood coursing free;
Now he looks like a house deserted,
Where all is quiet, all is dark,
The silence permanent and stark,
The shutters closed, the windows dirtied
With chalk. The mistress of this place
Has gone away and left no trace.
33
It’s fun to deal in witty sallies
And irritate a foolish foe;
It’s fun to see the poor chap rally,
Tilting his horns to have a go.
It’s fun when he sees his reflection
As something shameful for rejecting,
And funnier still, my friends, when he
&
nbsp; Is fool enough to roar, “That’s me!”
But the most fun comes from insisting
On plans for a noble death, somehow
Fixating on the man’s pale brow,
And aiming coolly from a distance.
But sending him to kingdom come—
Surely you won’t find that much fun.
34
Imagine this: you with your pistol
Have murdered someone, a young friend,
Because some glare, some silly whisper
Or wrong response chanced to offend
Your feelings while you drank together,
Or maybe in his wild displeasure
He took offence and challenged you—
What is there left for you to do,
And will your soul feel any different
To see him stretched out on the ground
With death depicted on his brow,
And even now his body stiffening,
As he lies deaf and dumb down there,
Scorning your cries of wild despair?
35
Feeling the qualms of guilt intensely,
Gripping his pistol still, with dread,
Yevgeny glances down at Lensky.
“That’s it,” Zaretsky says. “He’s dead.”
“He’s dead?” The ghastly phrase, now uttered,
Shatters Onegin’s calm. He shudders
And walks off, calling to his men.
With utmost care Zaretsky then
Puts the cold body on the sledge back,
A burden of the direst sort.
Scenting a corpse, the horses snort,
Restively stamping as they edge back
And wetting their steel bits with foam.
Then arrow-like they fly off home.
36
My friends, you’re sorry for the poet,
Lost in the bloom of hope and joy,
Without a future, ne’er to know it,
So recently a little boy,
Now gone. Where is his raging ardour,
The noble striving ever harder,
The thoughts and sentiments of youth,
Bold, towering with tender truth?
Where are the longings of this lover,
Yevgeny Onegin (Pushkin Collection) Page 13