Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

He long should have been on the road.

XXIII

He rings in haste; in haste arrives

His Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot,

Who dressing-gown and slippers gives

And linen on him doth bestow.

Dressing as quickly as he can,

Eugene directs the trusty man

To accompany him and to escort

A box of terrible import.

Harnessed the rapid sledge arrived:

He enters: to the mill he drives:

Descends, the order Guillot gives,

The fatal tubes Lepage contrived(65)

To bring behind: the triple steeds

To two young oaks the coachman leads.

[Note 65: Lepage—a celebrated gunmaker of former days.]

XXIV

Lenski the foeman's apparition

Leaning against the dam expects,

Zaretski, village mechanician,

In the meantime the mill inspects.

Oneguine his excuses says;

"But," cried Zaretski in amaze,

"Your second you have left behind!"

A duellist of classic mind,

Method was dear unto his heart

He would not that a man ye slay

In a lax or informal way,

But followed the strict rules of art,

And ancient usages observed

(For which our praise he hath deserved).

XXV

"My second!" cried in turn Eugene,

"Behold my friend Monsieur Guillot;

To this arrangement can be seen,

No obstacle of which I know.

Although unknown to fame mayhap,

He's a straightforward little chap."

Zaretski bit his lip in wrath,

But to Vladimir Eugene saith:

"Shall we commence?"—"Let it be so,"

Lenski replied, and soon they be

Behind the mill. Meantime ye see

Zaretski and Monsieur Guillot

In consultation stand aside—

The foes with downcast eyes abide.

XXVI

Foes! Is it long since friendship rent

Asunder was and hate prepared?

Since leisure was together spent,

Meals, secrets, occupations shared?

Now, like hereditary foes,

Malignant fury they disclose,

As in some frenzied dream of fear

These friends cold-bloodedly draw near

Mutual destruction to contrive.

Cannot they amicably smile

Ere crimson stains their hands defile,

Depart in peace and friendly live?

But fashionable hatred's flame

Trembles at artificial shame.

XXVII

The shining pistols are uncased,

The mallet loud the ramrod strikes,

Bullets are down the barrels pressed,

For the first time the hammer clicks.

Lo! poured in a thin gray cascade,

The powder in the pan is laid,

The sharp flint, screwed securely on,

Is cocked once more. Uneasy grown,

Guillot behind a pollard stood;

Aside the foes their mantles threw,

Zaretski paces thirty-two

Measured with great exactitude.

At each extreme one takes his stand,

A loaded pistol in his hand.

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 pass,

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.

XXX

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 passions 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?

God knows! The very trace is lost.

XXXI

'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate

With epigrams impertinent,

Sweet to behold him obstinate,

His butting horns in anger bent,

The glass 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.

XXXII

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?

XXXIII

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