Yevgeny Onegin (Pushkin Collection)

  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
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  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,