Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER SIX

Là sotto i giorni nubilosi i brevi Nasce una gente a cui ’l morir non dole.*

PETRARCH

1

Abandoned by the missing Lensky,

Once more Onegin languished, bored.

Olga was near, and he fell pensive,

Revenged, and happy at the thought.

But she was yawning too, now keener

To search the room and find Vladimir.

Meanwhile, the oft-repeated dance

Has sent her into a deep trance.

At last it’s over. Supper beckons.

Beds are made up for one and all,

Extending from the entrance hall

To the maids’ room. Everyone reckons

On sound sleep. But Onegin’s gone,

Off to his bed, driving alone.

2

Peace reigns within the parlour shortly.

Here snores the portly Pustyakóv

Next to his partner, no less portly.

Gvozdín, Buyánov, Petushkóv

And Flyánov (indisposed as ever)

Rest on hard dining chairs together.

Triquet lies on the floor; he’ll nap

In his bright shirt and old-style cap.

The young girls rooming with Tatyana

And Olga are all fast asleep,

Though, at the pane, in sadness deep,

Lonely, illumined by Diana,

Unsleeping Tanya sits, eyes wide,

Scanning the night-black countryside. 3

That brusque arrival, unexpected,

That momentary tender glance,

The strange way Olga was directed—

All this struck Tanya like a lance

Piercing the soul. He is a person

She cannot fathom, which is worsened

By jealous anguish deep inside

That hurts like a cold hand applied

To squeeze her heart, as if black, hellish

Torrents were roaring far below.

“I’ll perish,” Tanya said. “Although,

For him, it will feel good to perish.

Can I complain?… No… I confess—

He couldn’t bring me happiness.” 4

Enough’s enough. On with my story!

Another character is planned.

Some three miles on from Krasnogórye,

Where Lensky lives, there dwells a man

Who used to thrive, and thrives at present

In this philosophical desert:

Zaretsky, once inclined to rob

As hetman of a gambling mob.

A wastrel, now a pub persona,

Straightforward and most kind is he.

Unmarried, though père de famille,

A true friend, now a staid landowner.

He stands for honesty and health.

Thus does an age correct itself! 5

Society, full of flattering faces,

Approved his wild tricks quite a lot.

True, he could, at a dozen paces,

Hit aces with a pistol shot.

And once, out on the field, at random

He swung about with such abandon

That he fell off his Kalmyk horse

Into the mud (pie-eyed, of course),

And to the French he lost his liberty.

Some prize! They let him go—no fuss—

This honourable Regulus,

Though he’d have welcomed new captivity

To spend his mornings chez Véry,

In Paris, downing bottles three. 6

Once he had been a clever joker,

Foxing the fools by playing pranks

And fooling the non-mediocre

Openly or behind their backs,

Though even he suffered some sessions,

Which ended with him learning lessons.

There were times when he would collapse,

A booby caught in booby traps.

His tone when arguing was cheery,

He brought forth answers sharp and dumb,

And he could knowingly keep mum

Or knowingly refute some theory,

And he was good at goading friends

To duelling—and sticky ends— 7

Or he’d arrange a truce, and by it

A breakfast feast laid out for three,

And then malign them on the quiet

With jokes and fibs, amusingly.

But time is change. High jinks are jolly,

But like love’s dream (another folly),

They fade with every passing year.

Zaretsky, as I’ve said, lives here.

Under acacia and wild cherry,

Sheltered at last from nature’s rage,

This true philosopher and sage

Plants cabbages like Horace (very),

Breeding ducks, geese and, yes, indeed,

Small children, teaching them to read. 8

He was no fool. While always shrinking

From this man’s inner sentiments,

Yevgeny liked his way of thinking

And, in all things, his common sense.

It had been nice enough whenever

The two of them had come together,

So, next day, he felt no surprise

When this man came before his eyes.

Zaretsky said hello, though gently

Declined to pass the time of day,

Cast a sly look Onegin’s way

And handed him a note from Lensky.

He walked up to the window shelf

And read it through there to himself. 9

The note was dignified and civil,

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

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,

The urge to learn and toil, the blame

He might have felt for vice and shame,

The yearning dreams of something other,

Those tokens of a life beyond,

Those holy dreams of rhyme and song? 37

Could he have proved a benefactor,

Or maybe he was born for fame?

His silenced lyre might have been active

In thunderous and unbroken strains

For years to come. He could have risen

To occupy a high position

Within society’s pantheon.

His martyred spirit, moving on,

Perhaps took with it something sacred

And secret, something now destroyed,

Creative words lost in the void,

Sent to the grave, and separated

For ever from the hymns of time

And praise from some dynastic line. [38] 39

Or maybe not. The poet’s story

Might have been commonplace and trite,

His young years lost in a furore

Of early flames not long alight.

He would have greatly changed and hurried

To drop the poems and get married,

Live, cuckolded, far from the town,

Happy in quilted dressing gown.

He’d have known life’s goodness and badness:

At forty gout, then food and drink,

Boredom and fatness, powers ashrink,

Only to die on his own mattress;

Amongst his children he would croak,

Doctors and weeping womenfolk. 40

But this is make-believe, dear reader.

Alas, poor Lensky, in the end,

Once poet, thinker and daydreamer,

Has been shot dead by his good friend.

There on the left, outside the village,

Where once he lived, where life was thrilling,

Two pines have intertwined their roots

Above meandering little brooks

That feed the stream down in the valley

Where shepherds love to halt and kip

And women reapers come to dip

The echoing pitchers that they carry,

There by the stream in deepest shade

A simple headstone has been laid. 41

Nearby, as April showers bespangle

The green fields, leaving them to soak,

A shepherd plaits his lime-bark sandals,

Singing of Volga fisherfolk.

And if a young girl, a newcomer

Down from the city for the summer

Gallops out as and when she feels,

Riding alone across the fields,

She may well halt her horse there, side on

Reining him in, and after that,

Raising a light veil from her hat,

She’ll set her soft, swift-moving eyes on

Lensky’s plain text, and they will brim

With tender, moving tears for him. 42

She’ll amble on through open pasture

With many ideas to contemplate,

Crestfallen, sick at heart, long after

Because of Lensky and his fate.

“So, what did Olga do?” she wonders.

“How long did her poor heart stay sundered?

Or did her tears abate somehow?

And where is Olga’s sister now?

And he, who left the world behind him

(Of stylish belles the stylish foe),

Where did that gloomy oddball go?

The man who killed, where shall we find him?”

These details I shall soon rehearse

For you, my friends, chapter and verse. 43

But not now. Though I am sincerely

Fond of my hero, and although

I shall return to him soon, really

I’m in no mood for him just now.

The years pass, and harsh prose is beckoning,

With giddy rhymes no longer reckoning,

And I (says he with a deep sigh)

Shall not pursue them—no, not I.

My quill has lost its old-time yearning

To spatter fleeting sheets with ink.

I now have colder thoughts to think

And concepts new, more brightly burning,

Which blight (in company or alone)

The gentle slumber of my soul. 44

I know new voices and new yearnings,

And sorrows new I also know,

But these desires are hopeless journeys,

And sorrows old—I miss them so.

O dreams, my dreams! Where is your sweetness?

Whence comes your (hackneyed rhyme!) your fleetness?

Must I at last confront the truth—

The faded garland of my youth?

Can it be true that in reality,

As fancy elegies might say,

My springtime days have flown away,

As I once said with jocularity?

Can those days never be resumed,

And am I to turn thirty soon? 45

And so my life has reached its zenith—

Something I cannot now deny.

Still, let us part as friends, not enemies,

My free-and-easy youth and I!

Thanks for the pleasures and enjoyment,

The disappointments and sweet torments.

For all the clamour, banquets, storms,

For all your gifts in each new form

I really must express my gratitude.

In all things, bringing storm or lull,

I have enjoyed you to the full.

Enough! With clear mind and new attitude

From my old life I take a rest

And set forth on another quest. 46

My favourite haunts I now look back on,

Where I spent long, sequestered days,

Days filled with idleness and passion,

My spirit in a wistful haze.

Young inspiration, do not soften,

Trouble my enterprise more often,

Fly to me when I sit apart

And agitate my sleeping heart,

Let not my poet’s soul be captured

To end up atrophied and tough,

Steadily petrified, made rough

By the smart world and all its rapture,

In this sad slough wherein we lie

Wallowing, my friends, you and I.

* Where skies are overcast and days are short / Is born a race that feels no pain in death. (Italian.)