Aleksandr Pushkin - Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

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."

Thus in a style obscure and stale , [67] The fact of the above words being italicised suggests the idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at some unfriendly critic.
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.
Oneguine waits on us, 'tis like."

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.

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 [68] Lepage—a celebrated gunmaker of former days.
To bring behind: the triple steeds
To two young oaks the coachman leads.

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).

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

'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.

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?