Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

  Have entered never to return.

  The memory of the bard, a dream,

  Will be absorbed by Lethe's stream;

  Men will forget me, but my urn

  To 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 fell

  In the dawn of existence drear.

  Maid whom my heart desires alone,

  Approach, approach; I am thine own."

  XXI

  Thus in a style obscure and stale,(64)

  He wrote ('tis the romantic style,

  Though of romance therein I fail

  To see aught—never mind meanwhile)

  And about dawn upon his breast

  His weary head declined at rest,

  For o'er a word to fashion known,

  "Ideal," he had drowsy grown.

  But scarce had sleep's soft witchery

  Subdued him, when his neighbour stept

  Into the chamber where he slept

  And wakened him with the loud cry:

  "'Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike.

  Oneguine waits on us, 'tis like."

  [Note 64: The fact of the above words being italicised suggests the idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at some unfriendly critic.]

  XXII

  He was in error; for Eugene

  Was sleeping then a sleep like death;

  The pall of night was growing thin,

  To Lucifer the cock must breathe

  His song, when still he slumbered deep,

  The sun had mounted high his steep,

  A passing snowstorm wreathed away

  With pallid light, but Eugene lay

  Upon his couch insensibly;

  Slumber still o'er him lingering flies.

  But finally he oped his eyes

  And turned aside the drapery;

  He gazed upon the clock which showed

  He long should have been on the road.

  XXIII

  He rings in haste; in haste arrives

  His Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot,

  Who dressing-gown and slippers gives

  And linen on him doth bestow.

  Dressing as quickly as he can,

  Eugene directs the trusty man

  To accompany him and to escort

  A 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 contrived(65)

  To bring behind: the triple steeds

  To two young oaks the coachman leads.

  [Note 65: Lepage—a celebrated gunmaker of former days.]

  XXIV

  Lenski the foeman's apparition

  Leaning against the dam expects,

  Zaretski, village mechanician,

  In the meantime the mill inspects.

  Oneguine his excuses says;

  "But," cried Zaretski in amaze,

  "Your second you have left behind!"

  A duellist of classic mind,

  Method was dear unto his heart

  He would not that a man ye slay

  In a lax or informal way,

  But followed the strict rules of art,

  And ancient usages observed

  (For which our praise he hath deserved).

  XXV

  "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 be

  Behind the mill. Meantime ye see

  Zaretski and Monsieur Guillot

  In consultation stand aside—

  The foes with downcast eyes abide.

  XXVI

  Foes! Is it long since friendship rent

  Asunder 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 fear

  These friends cold-bloodedly draw near

  Mutual destruction to contrive.

  Cannot they amicably smile

  Ere crimson stains their hands defile,

  Depart in peace and friendly live?

  But fashionable hatred's flame

  Trembles at artificial shame.

  XXVII

  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-two

  Measured with great exactitude.

  At each extreme one takes his stand,

  A loaded pistol in his hand.

  XXVIII

  "Advance!"—

  Indifferent and sedate,

  The foes, as yet not taking aim,

  With measured step and even gait

  Athwart the snow four paces came—

  Four deadly paces do they span;

  Oneguine slowly then began

  To 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 immediately

  Oneguine fired—Alas! alas!

  The poet's hour hath sounded—See!

  He drops his pistol silently.

  XXIX

  He on his bosom gently placed

  His hand, and fell. His clouded eye

  Not agony, but death expressed.

  So from the mountain lazily

  The 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 bard

  For evermore had disappeared.

  The storm was hushed. The blossom fair

  Was withered ere the morning light—

  The altar flame was quenched in night.

  XXX

  Tranquil he lay, and strange to view

  The peace which on his forehead beamed,

  His breast was riddled through and through,

  The blood gushed from the wound and steamed

  Ere this but one brief moment beat

  That heart with inspiration sweet

  And 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.

  XXXI

  'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate

  With epigrams impertinent,

  Sweet to behold him obstinate,

  His butting horns in anger bent,

  The glass unwittingly inspect

  And blush to own himself reflect.

  Sweeter it is, my friends, if he

  Howl like a dolt: 'tis meant for me!

  But sweeter still it is to arrange

  For him
an honourable grave,

  At his pale brow a shot to have,

  Placed at the customary range;

  But home his body to despatch

  Can scarce in sweetness be a match.

  XXXII

  Well, if your pistol ball by chance

  The comrade of your youth should strike,

  Who by a haughty word or glance

  Or any trifle else ye like

  You o'er your wine insulted hath—

  Or even overcome by wrath

  Scornfully challenged you afield—

  Tell me, of sentiments concealed

  Which in your spirit dominates,

  When motionless your gaze beneath

  He lies, upon his forehead death,

  And slowly life coagulates—

  When deaf and silent he doth lie

  Heedless of your despairing cry?

  XXXIII

  Eugene, his pistol yet in hand

  And with remorseful anguish filled,

  Gazing on Lenski's corse did stand—

  Zaretski shouted: "Why, he's killed!"—

  Killed! at this dreadful exclamation

  Oneguine went with trepidation

  And the attendants called in haste.

  Most carefully Zaretski placed

  Within 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.

  XXXIV

  My friends, the poet ye regret!

  When hope's delightful flower but bloomed

  In bud of promise incomplete,

  The manly toga scarce assumed,

  He perished. Where his troubled dreams,

  And where the admirable streams

  Of 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?

  XXXV

  Perchance to benefit mankind,

  Or but for fame he saw the light;

  His lyre, to silence now consigned,

  Resounding through all ages might

  Have echoed to eternity.

  With worldly honours, it may be,

  Fortune the poet had repaid.

  It may be that his martyred shade

  Carried 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.

  XXXVI

  Or, it may be, the bard had passed

  A 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, clad

  In 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 bed

  Had finished life amid his sons,

  Doctors and women, sobs and groans.

  XXXVII

  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 near

  Where dwelt the Muses' worshipper,

  Two pines have joined their tangled roots,

  A rivulet beneath them shoots

  Its waters to the neighbouring vale.

  There the tired ploughman loves to lie,

  The reaping girls approach and ply

  Within its wave the sounding pail,

  And by that shady rivulet

  A simple tombstone hath been set.

  XXXVIII

  There, when the rains of spring we mark

  Upon the meadows showering,

  The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,(66)

  Of Volga fishermen doth sing,

  And the young damsel from the town,

  For summer to the country flown,

  Whene'er across the plain at speed

  Alone she gallops on her steed,

  Stops at the tomb in passing by;

  The tightened leathern rein she draws,

  Aside she casts her veil of gauze

  And reads with rapid eager eye

  The simple epitaph—a tear

  Doth in her gentle eye appear.

  [Note 66: In Russia and other northern countries rude shoes are made of the inner bark of the lime tree.]

  XXXIX

  And meditative from the spot

  She leisurely away doth ride,

  Spite of herself with Lenski's lot

  Longtime her mind is occupied.

  She muses: "What was Olga's fate?

  Longtime was her heart desolate

  Or 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 fail

  A true account and in detail.

  XL

  But not at present, though sincerely

  I 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 page

  My pen no longer finds delight,

  Other and colder thoughts affright,

  Sterner solicitudes engage,

  In worldly din or solitude

  Upon my visions such intrude.

  XLI

  Fresh aspirations I have known,