The Duel

‘La, sotto giorni nubilosi e brevi,

Nasce una gente a cui ‘l morir non duole.’

— Petrarch

[Mikhailovskoe, 1826: the two final stanzas were, however, written at Moscow.]
I

Having remarked Vladimir’s flight,

Oneguine, 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 hall61

Up to the attic, and all need

Tranquil repose. Eugene alone

To pass the night at home hath gone.

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, Bouyanoff, Petoushkoff

And Flianoff, 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 seize62

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.”

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.

Oneguine 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.

Oneguine, 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.

63 A line of Griboyedoff’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.

Oneguine waits on us, ’tis like.”

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 o............