Part 7

The family of Kharlikoff, Came with Monsieur Triquet, a prig, Who arrived lately from Tamboff, In spectacles and chestnut wig. Like a true Frenchman, couplets wrought In Tania’s praise in pouch he brought, Known unto children perfectly: _Reveillez-vouz, belle endormie_. Among some ancient ballads thrust, He found them in an almanac, And the sagacious Triquet back To light had brought them from their dust, Whilst he “belle Nina” had the face By “belle Tattiana” to replace.

XXVIII

Lo! from the nearest barrack came, Of old maids the divinity, And comfort of each country dame, The captain of a company. He enters. Ah! good news to-day! The military band will play. The colonel sent it. Oh! delight! So there will be a dance to-night. Girls in anticipation skip! But dinner-time comes. Two and two They hand in hand to table go. The maids beside Tattiana keep— Men opposite. The cross they sign And chattering loud sit down to dine.

XXIX

Ceased for a space all chattering. Jaws are at work. On every side Plates, knives and forks are clattering And ringing wine-glasses are plied. But by degrees the crowd begin To raise a clamour and a din: They laugh, they argue, and they bawl, They shout and no one lists at all. The doors swing open: Lenski makes His entrance with Onéguine. “Ah! At last the author!” cries Mamma. The guests make room; aside each takes His chair, plate, knife and fork in haste; The friends are called and quickly placed.

XXX

Right opposite Tattiana placed, She, than the morning moon more pale, More timid than a doe long chased, Lifts not her eyes which swimming fail. Anew the flames of passion start Within her; she is sick at heart; The two friends’ compliments she hears Not, and a flood of bitter tears With effort she restrains. Well nigh The poor girl fell into a faint, But strength of mind and self-restraint Prevailed at last. She in reply Said something in an undertone And at the table sat her down.

XXXI

To tragedy, the fainting fit, And female tears hysterical, Onéguine could not now submit, For long he had endured them all. Our misanthrope was full of ire, At a great feast against desire, And marking Tania’s agitation, Cast down his eyes in trepidation And sulked in silent indignation; Swearing how Lenski he would rile, Avenge himself in proper style. Triumphant by anticipation, Caricatures he now designed Of all the guests within his mind.

XXXII

Certainly not Eugene alone Tattiana’s trouble might have spied, But that the eyes of every one By a rich pie were occupied— Unhappily too salt by far; And that a bottle sealed with tar Appeared, Don’s effervescing boast,(59) Between the blanc-mange and the roast; Behind, of glasses an array, Tall, slender, like thy form designed, Zizi, thou mirror of my mind, Fair object of my guileless lay, Seductive cup of love, whose flow Made me so tipsy long ago!

[Note 59: The _Donskoe Champanskoe_ is a species of sparkling wine manufactured in the vicinity of the river Don.]

XXXIII

From the moist cork the bottle freed With loud explosion, the bright wine Hissed forth. With serious air indeed, Long tortured by his lay divine, Triquet arose, and for the bard The company deep silence guard. Tania well nigh expired when he Turned to her and discordantly Intoned it, manuscript in hand. Voices and hands applaud, and she Must bow in common courtesy; The poet, modest though so grand, Drank to her health in the first place, Then handed her the song with grace.

XXXIV

Congratulations, toasts resound, Tattiana thanks to all returned, But, when Onéguine’s turn came round, The maiden’s weary eye which yearned, Her agitation and distress Aroused in him some tenderness. He bowed to her nor silence broke, But somehow there shone in his look The witching light of sympathy; I know not if his heart felt pain Or if he meant to flirt again, From habit or maliciously, But kindness from his eye had beamed And to revive Tattiana seemed.

XXXV

The chairs are thrust back with a roar, The crowd unto the drawing-room speeds, As bees who leave their dainty store And seek in buzzing swarms the meads. Contented and with victuals stored, Neighbour by neighbour sat and snored, Matrons unto the fireplace go, Maids in the corner whisper low; Behold! green tables are brought forth, And testy gamesters do engage In boston and the game of age, Ombre, and whist all others worth: A strong resemblance these possess— All sons of mental weariness.

XXXVI

Eight rubbers were already played, Eight times the heroes of the fight Change of position had essayed, When tea was brought. ’Tis my delight Time to denote by dinner, tea, And supper. In the country we Can count the time without much fuss— The stomach doth admonish us. And, by the way, I here assert That for that matter in my verse As many dinners I rehearse, As oft to meat and drink advert, As thou, great Homer, didst of yore, Whom thirty centuries adore.

XXXVII

I will with thy divinity Contend with knife and fork and platter, But grant with magnanimity I’m beaten in another matter; Thy heroes, sanguinary wights, Also thy rough-and-tumble fights, Thy Venus and thy Jupiter, More advantageously appear Than cold Onéguine’s oddities, The aspect of a landscape drear. Or e’en Istomina, my dear, And fashion’s gay frivolities; But my Tattiana, on my soul, Is sweeter than thy Helen foul.

XXXVIII

No one the contrary will urge, Though for his Helen Menelaus Again a century should scourge Us, and like Trojan warriors slay us; Though around honoured Priam’s throne Troy’s sages should in concert own Once more, when she appeared in sight, Paris and Menelaus right. But as to fighting—’twill appear! For patience, reader, I must plead! A little farther please to read And be not in advance severe. There’ll be a fight. I do not lie. My word of honour given have I.

XXXIX

The tea, as I remarked, appeared, But scarce had maids their saucers ta’en When in the grand saloon was heard Of bassoons and of flutes the strain. His soul by crash of music fired, His tea with rum no more desired, The Paris of those country parts To Olga Petoushkova darts: To Tania Lenski; Kharlikova, A marriageable maid matured, The poet from Tamboff secured, Bouyànoff whisked off Poustiakova. All to the grand saloon are gone— The ball in all its splendour shone.

XL

I tried when I began this tale, (See the first canto if ye will), A ball in Peter’s capital, To sketch ye in Albano’s style.(60) But by fantastic dreams distraught, My memory wandered wide and sought The feet of my dear lady friends. O feet, where’er your path extends I long enough deceived have erred. The perfidies I recollect Should make me much more circumspect, Reform me both in deed and word, And this fifth canto ought to be From such digressions wholly free.

[Note 60: Francesco Albano, a celebrated painter, styled the “Anacreon of Painting,” was born at Bologna 1578, and died in the year 1666.]

XLI

The whirlwind of the waltz sweeps by, Undeviating and insane As giddy youth’s hilarity— Pair after pair the race sustain. The moment for revenge, meanwhile, Espying, Eugene with a smile Approaches Olga and the pair Amid the company career. Soon the maid on a chair he seats, Begins to talk of this and that, But when two minutes she had sat, Again the giddy waltz repeats. All are amazed; but Lenski he Scarce credits what his eyes can see.

XLII

Hark! the mazurka. In times past, When the mazurka used to peal, All rattled in the ball-room vast, The parquet cracked beneath the heel, And jolting jarred the window-frames. ’Tis not so now. Like gentle dames We glide along a floor of wax. However, the mazurka lacks Nought of its charms original In country towns, where still it keeps Its stamping, capers and high leaps. Fashion is there immutable, Who tyrannizes us with ease, Of modern Russians the disease.

XLIII

Bouyànoff, wrathful cousin mine, Unto the hero of this lay Olga and Tania led. Malign, Onéguine Olga bore away. Gliding in negligent career, He bending whispered in her ear Some madrigal not worth a rush, And pressed her hand—the crimson blush Upon her cheek by adulation Grew brighter still. But Lenski hath Seen all, beside himself with wrath, And hot with jealous indignation, Till the mazurka’s close he stays, Her hand for the cotillon prays.

XLIV

She fears she cannot.—Cannot? Why?— She promised Eugene, or she would With great delight.—O God 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, Onéguine, 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 Assigned a lodging, from the hall(61) Up to the attic, and all need Tranquil repose. Eugene alone To pass 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 cumbrous Poustiakoff With better half as cumbersome; Gvozdine, Bouyànoff, Pétòushkoff And Fliànoff, 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 shine 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 friendship 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. Onéguine 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. Onéguine, 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 analysed, 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 Assuredly 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 Griboyédoff’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. But now all doubt was set aside, Unto the windmill he must ride To-morrow before break of day, To cock the pistol; barrel bend On thigh or temple, friend on friend.

XIII

Resolved the flirt to cast away, The foaming Lenski would refuse, To see his Olga ere the fray— His watch, the sun in turn he views— Finally tost his arms in air And lo! he is already there! He deemed his coming would inspire Olga with trepidation dire. He was deceived. Just as before The miserable bard to meet, As hope uncertain and as sweet, Olga ran skipping from the door. She was as heedless and as gay— Well! just as she was yesterday.

XIV

“Why did you leave last night so soon?” Was the first question Olga made, Lenski, into confusion thrown, All silently hung down his head. Jealousy and vexation took To flight before her radiant look, Before such fond simplicity And mental elasticity. He eyed her with a fond concern, Perceived that he was still beloved, Already by repentance moved To ask forgiveness seemed to yearn; But trembles, words he cannot find, Delighted, almost sane in mind.

XV

But once more pensive and distressed Beside his Olga doth he grieve, Nor enough strength of mind possessed To mention the foregoing eve, He mused: “I will her saviour be! With ardent sighs and flattery The vile seducer shall not dare The freshness of her heart impair, Nor shall the caterpillar come The lily’s stem to eat away, Nor shall the bud of yesterday Perish when half disclosed its bloom!”— All this, my friends, translate aright: “I with my friend intend to fight!”

XVI

If he had only known the wound Which rankled in Tattiana’s breast, And if Tattiana mine had found— If the poor maiden could have guessed That the two friends with morning’s light Above the yawning grave would fight,— Ah! it may be, affection true Had reconciled the pair anew! But of this love, e’en casually, As yet none had discovered aught; Eugene of course related nought, Tattiana suffered secretly; Her nurse, who could have made a guess, Was famous for thick-headedness.

XVII

Lenski that eve in thought immersed, Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now, But he who by the Muse was nursed Is ever thus. With frowning brow To the pianoforte he moves And various chords upon it proves, Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low: “I’m happy, say, is it not so?”— But it grew late; he must not stay; Heavy his heart with anguish grew; To the young girl he said adieu, As it were, tore himself away. Gazing into his face, she said: “What ails thee?”—“Nothing.”—He is fled.

XVIII

At home arriving he addressed His care unto his pistols’ plight, Replaced them in their box, undressed And Schiller read by candlelight. But one thought only filled his mind, His mournful heart no peace could find, Olga he sees before his eyes Miraculously fair arise, Vladimir closes up his book, And grasps a pen: his verse, albeit With lovers’ rubbish filled, was neat And flowed harmoniously. He took And spouted it with lyric fire— Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire.

XIX

Destiny hath preserved his lay. I have it. Lo! the very thing! “Oh! whither have ye winged your way, Ye golden days of my young spring? What will the coming dawn reveal? In vain my anxious eyes appeal; In mist profound all yet is hid. So be it! Just the laws which bid The fatal bullet penetrate, Or innocently past me fly. Good governs all! The hour draws nigh Of life or death predestinate. Blest be the labours of the light, And blest the shadows of the night.

XX

“To-morrow’s dawn will glimmer gray, Bright day will then begin to burn, But the dark sepulchre I may Have entered never to return. The memory of the bard, a dream, Will be absorbed by Lethe’s stream; Men will forget me, but my urn To visit, lovely maid, return, O’er my remains to drop a tear, And think: here lies who loved me well, For consecrate to me he fell In the dawn of existence drear. Maid whom my heart desires alone, Approach, approach; I am thine own.”

XXI

Thus in a style _obscure_ and _stale_,(64) He wrote (’tis the romantic style, Though of romance therein I fail To see aught—never mind meanwhile) And about dawn upon his breast His weary head declined at rest, For o’er a word to fashion known, “Ideal,” he had drowsy grown. But scarce had sleep’s soft witchery Subdued him, when his neighbour stept Into the chamber where he slept And wakened him with the loud cry: “’Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike. Onéguine waits on us, ’tis like.”

[Note 64: The fact of the above words being italicised suggests the idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at some unfriendly critic.]

XXII

He was in error; for Eugene Was sleeping then a sleep like death; The pall of night was growing thin, To Lucifer the cock must breathe His song, when still he slumbered deep, The sun had mounted high his steep, A passing snowstorm wreathed away With pallid light, but Eugene lay Upon his couch insensibly; Slumber still o’er him lingering flies. But finally he oped his eyes And turned aside the drapery; He gazed upon the clock which showed 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. Onéguine 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