Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 18

XLIV

She fears she cannot.--Cannot? Why?-- She promised Eugene, or she would With great delight.--O G.o.d on high!

Heard he the truth? And thus she could-- And can it be? But late a child And now a fickle flirt and wild, Cunning already to display And well-instructed to betray!

Lenski the stroke could not sustain, At womankind he growled a curse, Departed, ordered out his horse And galloped home. But pistols twain, A pair of bullets--nought beside-- His fate shall presently decide.

END OF CANTO THE FIFTH

CANTO THE SIXTH

The Duel

'La, sotto giorni nubilosi e brevi, Nasce una gente a cui 'l morir non duole.'

Petrarch

Canto The Sixth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1826: the two final stanzas were, however, written at Moscow.]

I

Having remarked Vladimir's flight, Oneguine, bored to death again, By Olga stood, dejected quite And satisfied with vengeance ta'en.

Olga began to long likewise For Lenski, sought him with her eyes, And endless the cotillon seemed As if some troubled dream she dreamed.

'Tis done. To supper they proceed.

Bedding is laid out and to all a.s.signed a lodging, from the hall(61) Up to the attic, and all need Tranquil repose. Eugene alone To pa.s.s the night at home hath gone.

[Note 61: Hospitality is a national virtue of the Russians. On festal occasions in the country the whole party is usually accommodated for the night, or indeed for as many nights as desired, within the house of the entertainer. This of course is rendered necessary by the great distances which separate the residences of the gentry. Still, the alacrity with which a Russian hostess will turn her house topsy-turvy for the accommodation of forty or fifty guests would somewhat astonish the mistress of a modern Belgravian mansion.]

II

All slumber. In the drawing-room Loud snores the c.u.mbrous Poustiakoff With better half as c.u.mbersome; Gvozdine, Bouyanoff, Petoushkoff And Flianoff, somewhat indisposed, On chairs in the saloon reposed, Whilst on the floor Monsieur Triquet In jersey and in nightcap lay.

In Olga's and Tattiana's rooms Lay all the girls by sleep embraced, Except one by the window placed Whom pale Diana's ray illumes-- My poor Tattiana cannot sleep But stares into the darkness deep.

III

His visit she had not awaited, His momentary loving glance Her inmost soul had penetrated, And his strange conduct at the dance With Olga; nor of this appeared An explanation: she was scared, Alarmed by jealous agonies: A hand of ice appeared to seize(62) Her heart: it seemed a darksome pit Beneath her roaring opened wide: "I shall expire," Tattiana cried, "But death from him will be delight.

I murmur not! Why mournfulness?

He _cannot_ give me happiness."

[Note 62: There must be a peculiar appropriateness in this expression as descriptive of the sensation of extreme cold. Mr. Wallace makes use of an identical phrase in describing an occasion when he was frostbitten whilst sledging in Russia. He says (vol. i. p. 33): "My fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to _grasp me in the region of the heart_, and I fell insensible."]

IV

Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story!

A new acquaintance we must scan.

There dwells five versts from Krasnogory, Vladimir's property, a man Who thrives this moment as I write, A philosophic anchorite: Zaretski, once a bully bold, A gambling troop when he controlled, Chief rascal, pot-house president, Now of a family the head, Simple and kindly and unwed, True friend, landlord benevolent, Yea! and a man of honour, lo!

How perfect doth our epoch grow!

V

Time was the flattering voice of fame, His ruffian bravery adored, And true, his pistol's faultless aim An ace at fifteen paces bored.

But I must add to what I write That, tipsy once in actual fight, He from his Kalmuck horse did leap In mud and mire to wallow deep, Drunk as a fly; and thus the French A valuable hostage gained, A modern Regulus unchained, Who to surrender did not blench That every morn at Verrey's cost Three flasks of wine he might exhaust.

VI

Time was, his raillery was gay, He loved the simpleton to mock, To make wise men the idiot play Openly or 'neath decent cloak.

Yet sometimes this or that deceit Encountered punishment complete, And sometimes into snares as well Himself just like a greenhorn fell.

He could in disputation s.h.i.+ne With pungent or obtuse retort, At times to silence would resort, At times talk nonsense with design; Quarrels among young friends he bred And to the field of honour led;

VII

Or reconciled them, it may be, And all the three to breakfast went; Then he'd malign them secretly With jest and gossip gaily blent.

_Sed alia tempora_. And bravery (Like love, another sort of knavery!) Diminishes as years decline.

But, as I said, Zaretski mine Beneath acacias, cherry-trees, From storms protection having sought, Lived as a really wise man ought, Like Horace, planted cabbages, Both ducks and geese in plenty bred And lessons to his children read.

VIII

He was no fool, and Eugene mine, To friends.h.i.+p making no pretence, Admired his judgment, which was fine, Pervaded with much common sense.

He usually was glad to see The man and liked his company, So, when he came next day to call, Was not surprised thereby at all.

But, after mutual compliments, Zaretski with a knowing grin, Ere conversation could begin, The epistle from the bard presents.

Oneguine to the window went And scanned in silence its content.

IX

It was a cheery, generous Cartel, or challenge to a fight, Whereto in language courteous Lenski his comrade did invite.

Oneguine, by first impulse moved, Turned and replied as it behoved, Curtly announcing for the fray That he was "ready any day."

Zaretski rose, nor would explain, He cared no longer there to stay, Had much to do at home that day, And so departed. But Eugene, The matter by his conscience tried, Was with himself dissatisfied.

X

In fact, the subject a.n.a.lysed, Within that secret court discussed, In much his conduct stigmatized; For, from the outset, 'twas unjust To jest as he had done last eve, A timid, shrinking love to grieve.

And ought he not to disregard The poet's madness? for 'tis hard At eighteen not to play the fool!

Sincerely loving him, Eugene a.s.suredly should not have been Conventionality's dull tool-- Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy, But man of sense and probity.

XI

He might his motives have narrated, Not bristled up like a wild beast, He ought to have conciliated That youthful heart--"But, now at least, The opportunity is flown.

Besides, a duellist well-known Hath mixed himself in the affair, Malicious and a slanderer.

Undoubtedly, disdain alone Should recompense his idle jeers, But fools--their calumnies and sneers"-- Behold! the world's opinion!(63) Our idol, Honour's motive force, Round which revolves the universe.

[Note 63: A line of Griboyedoff's. (Woe from Wit.)]

XII

Impatient, boiling o'er with wrath, The bard his answer waits at home, But lo! his braggart neighbour hath Triumphant with the answer come.

Now for the jealous youth what joy!

He feared the criminal might try To treat the matter as a jest, Use subterfuge, and thus his breast From the dread pistol turn away.