Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 20

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 pa.s.s, 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.

x.x.x

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 pa.s.sions 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?

G.o.d knows! The very trace is lost.

x.x.xI

'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate With epigrams impertinent, Sweet to behold him obstinate, His b.u.t.ting horns in anger bent, The gla.s.s 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.

x.x.xII

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?

x.x.xIII

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.

x.x.xIV

My friends, the poet ye regret!

When hope's delightful flower but bloomed In bud of promise incomplete, The manly toga scarce a.s.sumed, 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?

x.x.xV

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.

x.x.xVI

Or, it may be, the bard had pa.s.sed 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.

x.x.xVII

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.

x.x.xVIII

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 pa.s.sing 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.]

x.x.xIX

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, I am acquainted with fresh care, Hopeless are all the first, I own, Yet still remains the old despair.

Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness?

Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)?

And is it true her garland bright At last is shrunk and withered quite?

And is it true and not a jest, Not even a poetic phrase, That vanished are my youthful days (This joking I used to protest), Never for me to reappear-- That soon I reach my thirtieth year?

XLII

And so my noon hath come! If so, I must resign myself, in sooth; Yet let us part in friendship, O My frivolous and jolly youth.

I thank thee for thy joyfulness, Love's tender transports and distress, For riot, frolics, mighty feeds, And all that from thy hand proceeds-- I thank thee. In thy company, With tumult or contentment still Of thy delights I drank my fill, Enough! with tranquil spirit I Commence a new career in life And rest from bygone days of strife.

XLIII

But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell, Where my days in the wilderness Of languor and of love did tell And contemplative dreaminess; And thou, youth's early inspiration, Invigorate imagination And spur my spirit's torpid mood!

Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet's spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrify In the world's mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of pride And glittering simpletons beside;

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