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

   “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;
   Onéguine 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
   Onéguine 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
   Onéguine 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.

   XXXIV

   My friends, the poet ye regret!
   When hope’s delightful flower but bloomed
   In bud of promise incomplete,
   The manly toga scarce assumed,
   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?

   XXXV

   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.

   XXXVI

   Or, it may be, the bard had passed
   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.

   XXXVII

   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.

   XXXVIII

   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 passing 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.]

   XXXIX

   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;

   XLIV

   Amid sly, pusillanimous
   Spoiled children most degenerate
   And tiresome rogues ridiculous
   And stupid censors passionate;
   Amid coquettes who pray to God
   And abject slaves who kiss the rod;
   In haunts of fashion where each day
   All with urbanity betray,
   Where harsh frivolity proclaims
   Its cold unfeeling sentences;
   Amid the awful emptiness
   Of conversation, thought and aims—
   In that morass where you and I
   Wallow, my friends, in company!

   END OF CANTO THE SIXTH