Из книги: Eugene Onegin
Chapter Six
La, sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi, Nasce una gente a cui 'l morir non dole. Petr.
I
Observing that Vladimir had vanished, Onegin, driven by boredom once again, Near Olga sank into deep thought, Content with his revenge. After him Olenka also yawned, Sought Lensky with her eyes, And the endless cotillion Wearied her like a heavy dream. But it was finished. They went for supper. Beds were made; for the guests Lodgings were assigned from the entrance hall To the very maids' quarters. All needed Peaceful sleep. My Onegin Alone went home to sleep.
II
All was quiet: in the drawing room Heavy Pustyakov snored With his heavy better half. Gvozdin, Buyanov, Petushkov And Flyanov, not entirely well, Had settled on chairs in the dining room, And on the floor monsieur Triquet, In a quilted jacket, in an old nightcap. The young ladies in Tatyana's And Olga's rooms were all embraced by sleep. Alone, sad beneath the window Illuminated by Diana's beam, Poor Tatyana could not sleep And gazed into the dark field.
III
By his unexpected appearance, The momentary tenderness of his eyes And his strange behavior with Olga To the depths of her soul She was pierced; she cannot Understand him at all; there troubles her A jealous anguish, As if a cold hand Squeezes her heart, as if an abyss Darkens and roars beneath her... "I shall perish," Tanya says, "But death from him is sweet. I do not murmur: why should I murmur? He cannot give me happiness."
IV
Forward, forward, my story! A new face calls to us. Five versts from Krasnogorie, Lensky's village, there lives And thrives even to this day In philosophical seclusion Zaretsky, once a rowdy, Chieftain of a gambling gang, Leader of rakes, tribune of taverns, But now a good and simple Bachelor family man, A reliable friend, peaceful landowner And even an honest man: Thus our age reforms itself!
V
It used to be, the flattering voice of society Praised his wicked courage in him: He, truly, could hit the ace With a pistol at five sazhens, And it must be said, that even in battle Once in true intoxication He distinguished himself, boldly from mud Falling from his Kalmyk horse, Drunk as a lord, and to the French Was taken prisoner: a precious pledge! A modern Regulus, god of honor, Ready again to surrender to bonds, So that every morning at Very's He might drain three bottles on credit.
VI
He used to jest amusingly, Knew how to fool a fool And brilliantly befool a clever man, Either openly or on the sly, Though even to him some tricks Did not pass without lesson, Though sometimes he himself into trouble Would fall, like a simpleton. He knew how to argue merrily, To answer sharply and dully, Sometimes calculatingly keep silent, Sometimes calculatingly quarrel, Set young friends against each other And place them at the barrier,
VII
Or force them to reconcile, So as to breakfast together three, And afterward secretly defame them With merry jest, with lies. Sed alia tempora! Daring (Like love's dream, another folly) Passes with lively youth. As I said, my Zaretsky, Beneath the shade of bird-cherries and acacias From storms hiding at last, Lives, like a true sage, Plants cabbage, like Horace, Raises ducks and geese And teaches children the alphabet.
VIII
He was not stupid; and my Eugene, Not respecting his heart, Loved both the spirit of his judgments, And sound sense about this and that. He with pleasure, it happened, Would meet with him, and thus not at all In the morning was he surprised, When he saw him. He after the first greeting, Interrupting the begun conversation, To Onegin, with a grin, Handed a note from the poet. To the window Onegin approached And to himself read it through.
IX
It was a pleasant, noble, Short challenge, or cartel: Courteously, with cold clarity Friend Lensky called him to a duel. Onegin with his first movement, Turning to the messenger of such an errand, Without unnecessary words Said that he was always ready. Zaretsky rose without explanations; He did not wish to remain longer, Having many affairs at home, And at once departed; but Eugene Alone with his soul Was displeased with himself.
X
And deservedly so: in strict examination, Summoning himself to secret judgment, He accused himself of much: First, he was already wrong, That over timid, tender love He had jested so carelessly yesterday evening. And second: let the poet Play the fool; at eighteen years It is forgivable. Eugene, Loving the youth with all his heart, Should have shown himself Not a plaything of prejudices, Not an ardent boy, a fighter, But a man with honor and reason.
XI
He could have revealed his feelings, And not bristled like a beast; He should have disarmed The young heart. "But now It's too late; time has flown... Besides—he thinks—into this affair An old duelist has interfered; He is malicious, he is a gossip, he is eloquent... Of course, there should be contempt As the price of his amusing words, But whispers, the laughter of fools..." And so public opinion! The spring of honor, our idol! And this is what the world revolves on!
XII
Boiling with impatient enmity, The poet awaits an answer at home; And now the verbose neighbor Has brought the answer solemnly. Now what a holiday for the jealous one! He was afraid all along that the prankster Might laugh it off somehow, Devising a trick and turning His chest away from the pistol. Now doubts are resolved: They must to the mill Arrive tomorrow before dawn, Cock their pistols at each other And aim at thigh or temple.
XIII
Resolved to hate the coquette, Boiling Lensky did not want To see Olga before the duel, At the sun, at his watch he looked, Waved his hand at last— And found himself at the neighbors'. He thought to embarrass Olenka, To strike her with his arrival; Not at all: just as before, To meet the poor singer Olenka jumped from the porch, Like airy hope, Lively, carefree, cheerful, Well, exactly the same as she had been.
XIV
"Why did you disappear so early yesterday evening?" Was Olenka's first question. All feelings in Lensky grew clouded, And silently he hung his head. Jealousy and vexation vanished Before this clarity of gaze, Before this tender simplicity, Before this lively soul!.. He looks in sweet emotion; He sees: he is still loved; Already he, tormented by remorse, Is ready to beg her forgiveness, Trembles, finds no words, He is happy, he is almost well...
XV. XVI. XVII
And again pensive, melancholy Before his dear Olga, Vladimir has no strength To remind her of yesterday; He thinks: "I shall be her savior. I will not suffer that a corruptor With fire of sighs and praises Should tempt her young heart; That a contemptible, venomous worm Should gnaw at the lily's stem; That a two-morning flower Should wilt while still half-opened." All this meant, friends: With my friend I am dueling.
XVIII
If he had known what wound Burned my Tatyana's heart! If Tatyana had known, If she could have known, That tomorrow Lensky and Eugene Would dispute over the grave's canopy; Ah, perhaps her love Would have united the friends again! But this passion even by chance No one yet had revealed. Onegin about all was silent; Tatyana languished in secret; Only the nurse might have known, But she was not perceptive.
XIX
All evening Lensky was distracted, Now silent, now cheerful again; But he who is cherished by the muse Is always thus: frowning, He would sit at the clavichord And strike only chords on it, Then, directing his gaze at Olga, Would whisper: is it not true? I am happy. But it's late; time to go. It clenched In him, his heart full of anguish; Parting with the young maiden, It seemed to tear apart. She looks into his face. "What's wrong with you?" "Nothing." And to the porch.
XX
Arriving home, his pistols He examined, then placed Them again in the case and, undressed, By candlelight, opened Schiller; But one thought possesses him; In him his sad heart does not sleep: With inexplicable beauty He sees Olga before him. Vladimir closes the book, Takes up his pen; his verses, Full of amorous nonsense, Sound and flow. He reads them Aloud, in lyrical fervor, Like Delvig drunk at a feast.
XXI
The verses for the occasion have survived; I have them; here they are: "Where, where have you departed, The golden days of my spring? What does the coming day prepare for me? My gaze vainly tries to catch it, In deep gloom it hides. No matter; the law of fate is right. Whether I fall, pierced by an arrow, Or it flies past me, All is good: of waking and sleep The appointed hour comes; Blessed be the day of cares, Blessed be darkness's arrival!
XXII
Tomorrow's dawn will gleam And bright day will begin; But I, perhaps, I into the tomb Shall descend into mysterious shade, And the memory of the young poet Slow Lethe will consume, The world will forget me; but will you Come, maiden of beauty, To shed a tear over the early urn And think: he loved me, To me alone he dedicated The sad dawn of his stormy life!.. Dear friend, desired friend, Come, come: I am your husband!.."
XXIII
Thus he wrote obscurely and limply (What we call romanticism, Though there's no romanticism here at all I see; but what of it to us?) And finally before dawn, Bowing his weary head, On the fashionable word ideal Quietly Lensky dozed off; But only by sleep's enchantment Had he forgotten himself, when already his neighbor Enters the silent study And wakes Lensky with a call: "Time to get up: it's already seven o'clock. Onegin, surely, already awaits us."
XXIV
But he was mistaken: Eugene Was sleeping at this time the sleep of the dead. Already night's shadows thin And Vesper is met by the cock; Onegin sleeps soundly. Already the sun rolls high, And the drifting snowstorm Gleams and swirls; but the bed Eugene has not yet left, Still over him hovers sleep. At last he awoke And parted the curtain's folds; He looks—and sees that the time Long ago to leave the yard.
XXV
He rings more quickly. Running in To him comes his servant, the Frenchman Guillot, Offers dressing gown and slippers And hands him linen. Onegin hurries to dress, Orders the servant to prepare To ride with him and with him To take also the combat case. The racing sleigh is ready. He sat down, flies to the mill. They rushed up. He orders the servant Lepâge's fateful barrels To carry behind him, and the horses To move into the field toward two small oaks.
XXVI
Leaning on the dam, Lensky Had long impatiently waited; Meanwhile, the village mechanic, Zaretsky was condemning the millstone. Onegin comes with apologies. "But where," said with amazement Zaretsky, "where is your second?" In duels a classicist and pedant, He loved method from feeling, And to stretch out a man He permitted—not just anyhow, But in strict rules of art, According to all traditions of antiquity (Which we must praise in him).
XXVII
"My second?" said Eugene, "Here he is: my friend, monsieur Guillot. I foresee no objections To my introduction; Though he's an unknown man, But certainly, an honest fellow." Zaretsky bit his lip. Onegin asked Lensky: "Well, shall we begin?" "Let us begin, if you please," Said Vladimir. And they went Beyond the mill. While in the distance Our Zaretsky and the honest fellow Entered into important negotiations, The enemies stand, eyes cast down.
XXVIII
Enemies! How long since from each other Has their thirst for blood divided them? How long since they the hours of leisure, Table, thoughts and affairs Shared in friendship? Now maliciously, Like hereditary enemies, As in a terrible, incomprehensible dream, They for each other in silence Prepare destruction cold-bloodedly... Should they not laugh, while Their hands are not yet bloodied, Should they not part amicably?.. But wildly worldly enmity Fears false shame.
XXIX
Now the pistols have gleamed, The hammer clinks on the ramrod. Into the faceted barrel go the bullets, And the hammer clicked for the first time. Now powder in a grayish stream Is poured onto the pan. The serrated, Reliably screwed-in flint Is cocked once more. Behind the nearest stump Stands embarrassed Guillot. The two enemies throw off their cloaks. Zaretsky thirty-two paces Measured with excellent precision, Led the friends to the extreme mark, And each took his pistol.
XXX
"Now approach." Cold-bloodedly, Not yet aiming, the two enemies With firm gait, quietly, evenly Crossed four paces, Four mortal steps. His pistol then Eugene, Without ceasing to advance, Began first quietly to raise. Five more paces they stepped, And Lensky, squinting his left eye, Also began to aim—but just then Onegin fired... The appointed Hour struck: the poet Silently drops his pistol.
XXXI
On his chest he quietly lays his hand And falls. His misty gaze Portrays death, not torment. Thus slowly down the mountain slope, Sparkling in the sun, Falls a mass of snow. Drenched with instant cold, Onegin rushes to the youth, Looks, calls to him... in vain: He is no more. The young singer Has found an untimely end! The storm breathed, the beautiful flower Withered at morning's dawn, The fire on the altar went out!..
XXXII
Motionless he lay, and strange Was the languid peace of his brow. Through the chest he was shot clean through; Smoking, from the wound blood flowed. One moment ago In this heart beat inspiration, Enmity, hope and love, Life played, blood boiled; Now, as in a house deserted, All in it is quiet and dark; It has fallen silent forever. The shutters are closed, the windows with chalk Are whitened. The mistress is absent. And where, God knows. The trace is lost.
XXXIII
It is pleasant with a bold epigram To enrage a blundering enemy; Pleasant to see how he, stubbornly Bending his butting horns, Involuntarily looks in the mirror And is ashamed to recognize himself; More pleasant if he, friends, Howls foolishly: this is me! Still more pleasant in silence To prepare for him an honest grave And quietly aim at his pale brow At a noble distance; But to send him to his fathers Will hardly be pleasant for you.
XXXIV
What if with your pistol A young friend is struck down, Who with an immodest glance, or answer, Or with some other trifle Has offended you over a bottle, Or even himself in ardent vexation Has proudly challenged you to combat, Tell me: will your soul Be seized by what feeling, When motionless, on the ground Before you with death on his brow, He gradually grows stiff, When he is deaf and silent To your desperate call?
XXXV
In anguish of heart's remorse, Clutching the pistol in his hand, Eugene looks at Lensky. "Well, what? He's killed," the neighbor decided. Killed!.. By this terrible exclamation Struck, Onegin with a shudder Withdraws and calls for people. Zaretsky carefully lays On the sleigh the frozen corpse; He carries home the terrible cargo. Sensing the dead man, the horses snort And struggle, with white foam Moisten the steel bits, And flew like an arrow.
XXXVI
My friends, you pity the poet: In the bloom of joyful hopes, Not yet having fulfilled them for the world, Barely out of infant clothes, He withered! Where is the ardent agitation, Where the noble striving Of feelings and thoughts young, Lofty, tender, daring? Where are love's stormy desires, And thirst for knowledge and labor, And fear of vice and shame, And you, cherished dreams, You, phantom of unearthly life, You, visions of holy poetry!
XXXVII
Perhaps he for the good of the world Or at least for glory was born; His silenced lyre A resounding, unceasing sound In the ages might have raised. The poet, Perhaps, on the steps of the world A high step awaited. His martyred shade, Perhaps, carried away with it A holy mystery, and for us Perished a life-giving voice, And beyond the grave's boundary Will not reach it the hymn of ages, The blessing of generations.
XXXVIII. XXXIX
But perhaps it is also so: the poet An ordinary fate awaited. The years of youth would have passed: In him the soul's ardor would have cooled. In much he would have changed, Parted with the muses, married, In the country, happy and a cuckold, Would have worn a quilted dressing gown; Would have learned life in reality, Would have had gout at forty years, Drank, ate, was bored, grew fat, declined. And finally in his bed Would have died among children, Weeping women and doctors.
XL
But whatever it may be, reader, Alas! the young lover, The poet, pensive dreamer, Is killed by a friendly hand! There is a place: to the left of the village, Where lived the nursling of inspiration, Two pines by roots grew together; Beneath them wound in streams The brook of the neighboring valley. There the plowman loves to rest, And reapers to immerse in the waves Come with ringing pitchers; There by the brook in thick shade A simple monument is set.
XLI
Beneath it (when begins to drip Spring rain on the grain of the fields) The shepherd, weaving his motley bast shoe, Sings of Volga fishermen; And a young townswoman, Spending summer in the country, When headlong on horseback she Rides across the fields alone, Stops her horse before it, Pulling the leather rein taut, And, turning back the veil from her hat, With fleeting eyes reads The simple inscription—and a tear Clouds her tender eyes.
XLII
And at a walk she rides in the open field, Immersed in reveries; Her soul long involuntarily Is filled with Lensky's fate; And she thinks: "What became of Olga? Did her heart long suffer, Or soon did the time of tears pass? And where now is her sister? And where is the fugitive from people and society, Of fashionable beauties the fashionable enemy, Where is that gloomy eccentric, The killer of the young poet?" In time I shall give you A detailed account of everything,
XLIII
But not now. Though I heartily Love my hero, Though I'll return to him, of course, But now I have no time for him. Years incline toward stern prose, Years chase away playful rhyme, And I—with a sigh I confess— Pursue it more lazily. My pen no longer has the desire To mar flying sheets; Other, cold dreams, Other, strict cares Both in the noise of society and in quiet Trouble the sleep of my soul.
XLIV
I have known the voice of other desires, I have known a new sorrow; For the first I have no hopes, And my old sorrow I miss. Dreams, dreams! where is your sweetness? Where, the eternal rhyme to it, youth? Can it really be at last Withered, withered its wreath? Can it be truly and in actual fact Without elegiac devices The spring of my days has rushed past (What I jokingly repeated till now)? And can there really be no return for it? Can it be I'll soon be thirty years old?
XLV
Yes, my noon has come, and I must Admit it, I see. But so be it: let us part amicably, O my light youth! I thank you for the pleasures, For sadness, for dear torments, For noise, for storms, for feasts, For all, for all your gifts; I thank you. Through you, Amid troubles and in quiet, I have enjoyed... and fully; Enough! With a clear soul I now embark on a new path To rest from past life.
XLVI
Let me look back. Farewell then, shelter, Where my days flowed in seclusion, Filled with passions and idleness And dreams of a pensive soul. And you, young inspiration, Stir my imagination, Revive the heart's drowsiness, To my corner fly more often, Let not the poet's soul grow cold, Grow hardened, grow callous And finally turn to stone In the deadening intoxication of society, In this whirlpool, where with you I Am bathing, dear friends!