Zaretsky, once a brawler and
The hetman3 of a gaming band,
Chieftain of rakes, a pub declaimer,
But now, benign and simple, he
Maintains a bachelor family;
A steadfast friend, a squire grown tamer,
He’s even honest – thus our age
Improves itself at every stage.4
5
Time was, he stood upon a pedestal,
Society flattered him with praise:
He was a maestro with a pistol
Who could at twelve yards hit an ace,
And once, engaged in actual battle,
Enraptured, he displayed his mettle
By falling from his Kalmuck steed
Into the mud at daring speed;
Drunk as a swine, this precious hostage
Surrendered to a Gallic squad,
A modern Regulus,5 honour’s god,
Prepared to yield again to bondage,
To drain on credit two or three
Carafes each morning chez Véry.6
6
To tease was once his recreation,
He’d dupe a fool or stupefy
A man of educated station,
In public gaze or on the sly,
Although some tricks he perpetrated
Did not remain uncastigated,
And sometimes, like a simple chap,
He’d fall himself into a trap.
He could dispute and be amusing,
Respond with answers, smart or dumb,
At times judiciously keep mum
Or be judiciously abusing,
Encourage two young friends to strife
And set them duelling for their life,
7
Alternatively reconcile them,
Arrange a breakfast for the three,
And, later, secretly revile them
With merry jokes and braggartry.
Sed alia tempora!7Audacity
(Like lover’s dream, another vanity)
Departs when lively youth has fled.
And my Zaretsky, as I said,
Lives like a sage, discovering solace
Where bird cherry, acacia climb;8
Sheltered from storms, he spends his time
In planting cabbages, like Horace,9
And breeding ducks and geese, is free
To teach his kids their ABC.
8
He was not stupid; and, despising
The heart in him, Eugene admired
The spirit of his judgements, prizing
The sound opinions he’d acquired.
Eugene was always pleased to meet him
And so was not surprised to greet him
When, in the morning, Eugene saw
His neighbour standing at the door.
With salutations done, Zaretsky
Broke off the chat that they’d begun
And, eyes a-twinkle with the fun,
Passed on to him a note from Lensky.
Onegin to the window went
And read the note the poet sent.
9
It was a gentlemanly letter,
A challenge or cartel10 he’d penned;
Polite and cold and to the matter
He sought a duel with his friend.
Eugene’s immediate reaction
To this demand for satisfaction
Was swift enough. Discussion spared,
He said he’d ‘always be prepared’.
Zaretsky rose without explaining,
Not wishing to prolong his stay,
For household business claimed the day,
He left forthwith; Eugene, remaining
Alone, encountering his soul,
Was not contented with his role.
10
Indeed, a strict examination
Before a secret, inner court
Engendered much self-accusation:
First, that he’d not the right to sport
Last evening in such casual fashion
With Lensky’s timid, tender passion;
Then… why not let a poet play
The fool at eighteen, while he may.
Eugene, who loved him as a brother,
Might well have proved, by seeking peace,
To be no ball of prejudice
That’s batted one way or another,
No fiery boy, no fighting kind,
But man of honour, with a mind.
11
He might have manifested feeling
Instead of bristling like a beast,
He should have set about the healing
Of Lensky’s heart. Such thoughts soon ceased.
‘Too late now, everything is settled,
Now this old duellist has meddled
In the affair, what’s left to do?
He’s vicious and a gossip, too.
The answer to his droll dominion
Should be contempt, of course, but then
The whispers, laughs of stupid men…’
And there it is – public opinion!11
Our idol, honour’s spring, which, wound,
Ensures our universe goes round.
12
Lensky, at home, with hatred blazing,
Awaits the answer fretfully;
His neighbour in the finest phrasing
Conveys it with solemnity.
This sets the jealous poet cheering;
The prankster might – so he’d been fearing –
Treat the occasion as a jest,
And by some ruse avert his breast
And duck the pistol by retreating.
These doubts resolved, tomorrow they
Must at the mill ere break of day
Embark upon their fateful meeting,
To raise the cock and, taking aim,
A temple or a thigh to claim.12
13
Detesting a coquette so cruel,
Still seething, Lensky sought to shun
A rendezvous before the duel,
He kept consulting watch and sun.
The wish to meet, though, was compelling,
Soon Lensky’s at the sisters’ dwelling.
Olga, he thought, would be upset
And agitated when they met;
But not a bit of it: on spying
The desolate bard, as in the past
She skipped down from the porch as fast
As giddy hope, towards him flying,
Light-hearted, free of care, serene –
In fact, as she had always been.
14
‘Last night, why did you leave so early?’
Was what his Olen’ka first said.
His senses clouded, and he merely,
Without replying, hung his head.
Vexation, jealousy were banished,
Before her shining look they vanished,
Before her soft simplicity,
Before her soul’s vivacity!
He gazes with sweet feeling, heartened
To see that he’s still loved; and longs
Already, burdened by his wrongs,
To ask her whether he’ll be pardoned,
He trembles, can’t think what to say,
He’s happy, almost well today…
[15, 16]13
17
Pensive again, again dejected,
Vladimir, under Olga’s sway,
Is not sufficiently collected
To speak to her of yesterday;
‘I,’ he reflects, ‘will be her saviour.
I shall not suffer that depraver
To tempt a maiden’s innocence
With fiery sighs and compliments;
Nor let a worm with venom slither
A lily’s stalklet to enfold,
Nor see a flower two days old,
Half-opened still, condemned to wither.’
All this, friends, signified: I shall
Soon fire a bullet at my pal.
18
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If he had known what wound was burning
My dear Tatiana’s heart! If she
Had been aware, in some way learning,
If she’d been able to foresee
That Lensky, Eugene would be vying
To find a grave for one to lie in;
Who knows, her love perhaps might then
Have reconciled the friends again!
But no one had as yet discovered,
Even by chance, their angry feud.
On everything Eugene was mute,
Tatiana quietly pined and suffered;
The nurse might just have known of it,
But she, alas, was slow of wit.
19
All evening Lensky was abstracted,
Now taciturn, now gay. Somehow,
A person by the Muse protected,
Is always thus: with knitted brow,
To the clavier he’d wander, playing
A string of chords, no more assaying,
Or whisper, seeing Olga near,
‘I’m happy, am I not, my dear?’
But it was late, his heart was aching,
He must depart, yet as he bade
Goodbye to her, his youthful maid,
His heart was on the point of breaking.
She looks at him: ‘What is it?’ ‘Oh,
It’s nothing, Olga, I must go.’
20
Arriving home, he first inspected
His pistols, ready for the fight,
Put them away, undressed, reflected
On Schiller’s verse by candlelight.
But by one thought he’s overtaken,
His melancholy does not slacken:
He sees before him Olga full
Of beauty inexplicable.
Vladimir closes Schiller’s verses,
Takes up his pen and writes his own –
Nonsense to which a lover’s prone;
It sings and flows. And he rehearses
His lines aloud, by fervour seized,
Like drunken Delvig14 at a feast.
21
By chance his verse can still be read now,
I have it, ready for your gaze:15
‘Whither, ah whither are you fled now,
My springtime’s ever-golden days?
What is the coming day’s decision?
Alas, it lies beyond my vision,
Enshrouded in the deepest night.
No matter, fate’s decree is right.
Whether I’m pierced by an arrow
Or whether it should miss – all’s well:
A predetermined hour will tell
If we’re to wake or sleep tomorrow:
Blest are the cares that day contrives,
Blest is the darkness that arrives!
22
‘When daybreak comes with rays ascending
And sparkling day dispels the gloom,
Then I, perhaps – I’ll be descending
Into the mystery of the tomb,
Slow Lethe will engulf for ever
My young poetical endeavour;
I’ll be forgot, but you’ll return
To weep on my untimely urn,
And, maid of beauty, in your sorrow,
You will reflect: he loved me, sworn
To me alone in his sad dawn,
Bereft now of its stormy morrow!…
Come, heartfelt friend, come, longed-for friend,
I’ll be your husband to the end.’
23
And so he wrote obscurely, limply
(Romantic16 is the term we’ve coined,
Though what’s Romantic here I simply
Have no idea; and what’s the point?),
And finally, as night was ending,
His head towards his shoulder bending,
Vladimir dozed, while lingering still
Upon the modish word ideal;
But scarcely lost in sleep’s enchantment,
He does not hear his neighbour, who
Enters the silent study to
Awaken him with a commandment:
‘Time to get up, past six, we’re late,
Onegin will not want to wait.’
24
But he was wrong: Eugene unheeding
Still sleeps a sleep that nought can mar.
Night’s shades already are receding,
The cock salutes the morning star,
Onegin sleeps on at his leisure,
The sun climbs high into the azure,
A passing snowstorm overhead
Glitters and whirls. But from his bed
Our dormant hero has not started,
Sleep hovers still before his eyes.
At last he wakes, prepares to rise,
The curtains of his bed he’s parted;
He looks outside – and sees, alack,
He should have started some time back.
25
He rings: his valet, French and chipper,
Reaches his chamber in a flash,
Guillot brings dressing-gown and slipper,
And hands him linen with panache.
Onegin hurries with his dressing,
Informs his man that time is pressing,
That he must take the duelling-case,
That they must leave, that they must race.
The sleigh is ready; Eugene, seated,
Flies to the mill, the horses strain.
He tells his valet to retain
Lepage’s fatal tubes17 till needed,
And have the horses moved to where
Two oaklings stand, and leave them there.
26
Leaning upon the dam stood Lensky
Who’d waited there impatiently,
While rural engineer Zaretsky
Surveyed the millstone critically.
Eugene arrives and makes excuses.
‘That’s very well, but where the deuce is
Your second, then?’ Zaretsky cried.
In duels he took a pedant’s pride,
Methodical by intuition:
To stretch out someone on the ground
Any old how was quite unsound,
One must obey a strict tradition
And follow rules of ancient days
(For which we should accord him praise).
27
‘My second? Yes, let me present him,
He’s here: Monsieur Guillot, my friend,
I do not see what should prevent him,
He’s someone I can recommend.
Although he’s not a well-known figure,
He is an honest guy and eager.’
Zaretsky bit his lip, appalled.
Onegin then to Lensky called:
‘Shall we not start now?’ ‘If you’re willing,’
Vladimir said. Behind the mill
They went. At some remove, meanwhile,
Zaretsky solemnly is sealing
A contract with the ‘honest guy’.
The two foes stand with lowered eye.
28
How long since they from one another
Were parted by a thirst to kill?
How long since, each to each a brother,
They’d shared their leisure time, a meal
And thoughts? But now with grim impatience,
As in a feud of generations
Or frightful dream that makes no sense
Each, cool and silent, must commence
To wreak the other one’s destruction…
Should they not stop and laugh instead
Before their hands have turned blood red,
Should they not spurn the duel’s seduction?…
But what the world cannot abide
Are bogus shame and lack of pride.
29
The pistols glistened; soon the mallets
Resoundingly on ramrods flicked,
Through cut-steel barrels went the bullets,
The cock has for the first time clicked.
A greyish powder was decanted
Into the pan, and the indented,
Securely screwed-in flint raised high
Once more. Behind a stump nearby
Guillot was standing, disconcerted.
The foes cast off their cloaks, meanwhile
Zaretsky measured off in style
Thirty-two steps and then diverted
His friends towards the farthest pace,
Each took his pistol to the place.18
30
‘Now march,’ came the command. And readily,
As if the two had never met,
The erstwhile comrades slowly, steadily
Advanced four steps, not aiming yet,
Four fatal steps the two had taken.
And then, advancing still, Onegin
Raised by degrees his pistol first.
Five further paces they traversed.
And likewise Lensky calculated,
Closed his left eye, as he took aim –
But, with a sudden burst of flame,
Onegin fired… the moment fated
Had struck: the poet, with no sound,
Let drop his pistol to the ground.
31
His hand upon his breast he presses
Softly, and falls, as, misty-eyed,
His gaze not pain, but death expresses.
Thus, slowly, on a mountain-side
A mound of snow, already teetering,
Descends with sunny sparkles glittering.
Onegin, shuddering, swiftly flies
To where the young Vladimir lies,
He looks and calls… but there’s no power
Can bring him back. The youthful bard
Has met an end untimely. Hard
The storm has blown, the finest flower
Has withered at the morning’s dawn,
The fire upon the altar’s gone.
32
He lay inert; uncanny-seeming,
A languid peace showed on his brow.
Beneath his breast the blood flowed, steaming,
The shot had gone right through him. How
One moment earlier inspiration
And love and hate, and aspiration
Had in this heart vibrated, churned,
Eugene Onegin Page 14