To paint a Petersburg grand ball;
But then, by empty dreams deflected,
I lost my way and recollected
The feet of ladies known before.
In your slim tracks I'll stray no more,
#62038; charming feet and mad affliction!
My youth betrayed, it's time to show
More common sense if I'm to grow,
To mend my ways in deeds and diction,
And cleanse this Chapter Five at last
Of all digressions from the past.
41
Monotonous and mad procession,
Young life's own whirlwind, full of sound,
Each pair a blur in quick succession,
The rousing waltz goes whirling round.
His moment of revenge beginning,
Eugene, with secret malice grinning,
Approaches Olga . . . idly jests,
Then spins her round before the guests;
He stays beside her when she's seated,
Proceeds to talk of this and that;
Two minutes barely has she sat. . .
And then their waltzing is repeated!
The guests all stare in mute surprise;
Poor Lensky can't believe his eyes.
42
Now the mazurka's call is sounded.
Its thunder once could even rack
The greatest hall when it resounded,
And under heels parquet would crack;
The very windows shook like Hades.
But now it's changed: we're all like ladies;
And o'er the lacquered boards we glide.
But in small town and countryside
The old mazurka hasn't faltered;
It still retains its pristine joys:
Moustaches, leaps, heel-pounding noise
Remain the same; they've not been altered
By tyrant-fashion's high decrees,
The modern Russian's new disease.
(43) 44
My bold Buynov guides expertly
Tatyana to our hero's side,
And Olga too; Eugene alertly
Makes off with Lensky's future bride.
He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,
And bending, whispers her gallantly
Some common madrigal to please,
Then gives her hand a gentle squeeze;
She blushes in appreciation,
Her prim conceited face alight,
While Lensky rages at the sight.
Consumed with jealous indignation,
He waits till the mazurka's through,
Then asks her for the dance he's due.
45
But no, she can't. What explanation? . . .
Well, she's just promised his good friend
The next dance too. In God's creation!
What's this he hears? Could she intend? . . .
Can this be real? Scarce more than swaddler
And turned coquette! A fickle toddler!
Already has she mastered guile,
Already learned to cheat and smile!
The blow has left poor Lensky shattered;
And cursing woman's crooked course,
He leaves abruptly, calls for horse,
And gallops off. Now nothing mattered
A brace of pistols and a shot
Shall instantly decide his lot.
Chapter 6
La sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,
Nasce una gente, a cui l'morir non dole.*
Petrarch
1
Though pleased with the revenge he'd taken,
Onegin, noting Lensky'd left,
Felt all his old ennui awaken,
Which made poor Olga feel bereft.
She too now yawns and, as she dances,
Seeks Lensky out with furtive glances;
The endless dance had come to seem
To Olga like some dreadful dream.
But now it's over. Supper's heeded.
Then beds are made; the guests are all
Assigned their roomsfrom entrance hall
To servants' quarters. Rest is needed
By everyone. Eugene has fled
And driven home alone to bed.
2
All's quiet now. Inside the parlour,
The portly Mr. Pustyakv
Lies snoring with his portly partner.
Gvozdin, Buynov, Petushkv
And Flynov, who'd been reeling badly-
On dining chairs have bedded gladly;
While on the floor Triquet's at rest
In tattered nightcap and his vest.
The rooms of Olga and Tatyana
Are filled with girls in sleep's embrace.
Alone, beside the windowcase,
Illumined sadly by Diana,
Poor Tanya, sleepless and in pain,
Sits gazing at the darkened plain.
3
His unexpected reappearance,
That momentary tender look,
The strangeness of his interference
With Olgaall confused and shook
Tatyana's soul. His true intention
Remained beyond her comprehension,
And jealous anguish pierced her breast
As if a chilling hand had pressed
Her heart; as if in awful fashion
A rumbling, black abyss did yawn. . ..
'I'll die,' she whispers to the dawn,
'But death from him is sweet compassion.
Why murmur vainly? He can't give
The happiness for which I live.'
4
But forward, forward, #62038; my story!
A new persona has arrived:
Five versts or so from Krasnogory,
Our Lensky's seat, there lived and thrived
In philosophical seclusion
(And does so still, have no illusion)
Zartskyonce a rowdy clown,
Chief gambler and arch rake in town,
The tavern tribune and a liar
But now a kind and simple soul
Who plays an unwed father's role,
A faithful friend, a peaceful squire,
And man of honour, nothing less:
Thus does our age its sins redress!
5
Time was, when flunkies in high places
Would praise him for his nasty grit:
He could, it's true, from twenty paces,
Shoot pistol at an ace and hit;
And once, when riding battle station,
He'd earned a certain reputation
When in a frenzied state indeed
He'd plunged in mud from Kalmuk steed,
Drunk as a pig, and suffered capture
(A prize to make the French feel proud!).
Like noble Regulus,* he bowed,
Accepting hostage bonds with rapture
In hopes that he (on charge) might squeeze
Three bottles daily from Vry's.*
6
He used to banter rather neatly,
Could gull a fool, and had an eye
For fooling clever men completely,
For all to see, or on the sly;
Of course not all his pranks succeeded
Or passed unpunished or unheeded,
And sometimes he himself got bled
And ended up the dunce instead.
He loved good merry disputations,
Could answer keenly, be obtuse,
Put silence cunningly to use,
Or cunningly start altercations;
Could get two friends prepared to fight,
Then lead them to the duelling site;
7
Or else he'd patch things up between them
So he might lunch with them as guest,
And later secretly demean them
With nasty gossip or a jest. . . .
Sed alia temporal Such sporting
(With other capers such as courting)
Goes out of us when youth is dead
And my Zaretsky, as I've said,
Neath flow'ring cherries and acacias,
Secure at last from tempest's rage,
Lives out his life a proper sage,
Plants cabbages like old Horatius,
Breeds ducks and geese, and oversees
His children at their ABCs.
8
He was no fool; and consequently
(Although he thought him lacking heart),
Eugene would hear his views intently
And liked his common sense in part.
He'd spent some time with him with pleasure,
And so was not in any measure
Surprised next morning when he found,
Zaretsky had again called round;
The latter, hard upon first greeting,
And cutting off Eugene's reply,
Presented him, with gloating eye,
The poet's note about a 'meeting'.
Onegin, taking it, withdrew
And by the window read it through.
9
The note was brief in its correctness,
A proper challenge or cartel:
Politely, but with cold directness,
It called him out and did it well.
Onegin, with his first reaction,
Quite curtly offered satisfaction
And bade the envoy, if he cared,
To say that he was quite prepared.
Avoiding further explanation,
Zaretsky, pleading much to do,
Arose . . . and instantly withdrew.
Eugene, once left to contemplation
And face to face with his own soul,
Felt far from happy with his role.
10
And rightly so: in inquisition,
With conscience as his judge of right,
He found much wrong in his position:
First off, he'd been at fault last night
To mock in such a casual fashion
At tender love's still timid passion;
And why not let the poet rage!
A fool, at eighteen years of age,
Can be excused his rash intentions.
Eugene, who loved the youth at heart,
Might well have played a better part
No plaything of the mob's conventions
Or brawling boy to take offence,
But man of honour and of sense.
11
He could have shown some spark of feeling
Instead of bristling like a beast;
He should have spoken words of healing,
Disarmed youth's heart... or tried at least.
'Too late,' he thought, 'the moment's wasted. . . .
What's more, that duelling fox has tasted
His chance to mix in this affair
That wicked gossip with his flair
For jibes .. . and all his foul dominion.
He's hardly worth contempt, I know,
But fools will whisper . . . grin . . . and crow! . . .'
So there it isthe mob's opinion!
The spring with which our honour's wound!
The god that makes this world go round!
12
At home the poet, seething, paces
And waits impatiently to hear.
Then in his babbling neighbour races,
The answer in his solemn leer.
The jealous poet's mood turned festive!
He'd been, till now, uncertain. . . restive,
Afraid the scoundrel might refuse
Or laugh it off and, through some ruse,
Escape unscathed ... the slippery devil!
But now at last his doubts were gone:
Next day, for sure, they'd drive at dawn
Out to the mill, where each would level
A pistol, cocked and lifted high,
To aim at temple or at thigh.
13
Convinced that Olga's heart was cruel,
Vladimir vowed he wouldn't run
To see that flirt before the duel.
He kept consulting watch and sun . . .
Then gave it up and finally ended
Outside the door of his intended.
He thought she'd blush with self-reproach,
Grow flustered when she saw his coach;
But not at all: as blithe as ever,
She bounded from the porch above
And rushed to greet her rhyming love
Like giddy hopeso gay and clever,
So frisky-carefree with her grin,
She seemed the same she'd always been.
14
'Why did you leave last night so early?'
Was all that Olga, smiling, said.
P
oor Lensky's muddled mind was swirling,
And silently he hung his head.
All jealousy and rage departed
Before that gaze so openhearted,
Before that soft and simple trust,
Before that soul so bright and just!
With misty eyes he looks on sweetly
And sees the truth: she loves him yet!
Tormented now by deep regret,
He craves her pardon so completely,
He trembles, hunts for words in vain:
He's happy now, he's almost sane. . . .
(15-16) 17
Once more in solemn, rapt attention
Before his darling Olga's face,
Vladimir hasn't heart to mention
The night before and what took place;
'It's up to me,' he thought, 'to save her.
I'll never let that foul depraver
Corrupt her youthful heart with lies,
With fiery praise . . . and heated sighs;
Nor see that noxious worm devour
My lovely lily, stalk and blade;
Nor watch this two-day blossom fade
When it has yet to fully flower.'
All this, dear readers, meant in fine:
I'm duelling with a friend of mine.
18
Had Lensky known the deep emotion
That seared my Tanya's wounded heart!
Or had Tatyana had some notion
Of how these two had grown apart,
Or that by morn they'd be debating,
For which of them the grave lay waiting!
Ah, then, perhaps, the love she bore
Might well have made them friends once more!
But no one knew her inclination
Eugene Onegin Page 15
