Part 23 (2/2)

He lay inert; uncanny-seeming, A languid peace showed on his brow.

Beneath his breast the blood flowed, steaming, The shot had gone right through him. How One moment earlier inspiration And love and hate, and aspiration Had in this heart vibrated, churned, How life had revelled, blood had burned; But now, as in a house forsaken, All it contains is dark and still, A home forever silent, chill, The windows shuttered, chalked and vacant, The mistress vanished from the place To G.o.d knows where, without a trace.

33.

It's pleasant with a verse to chasten A dunderheaded clown and foe, Pleasant to watch the fellow hasten With b.u.t.ting horns descending low To view his image in a mirror And turn from it in shame and horror; More pleasant, friends, if he howls out: 'Oh look, that's me there!' like a lout; Still pleasanter with quiet persistence To plan a grave that lauds his name And at his pallid brow take aim From proper gentlemanly distance; It's hardly pleasant, though, you'll find To send him off to meet his kind.

34.

What happens if your young companion Is slaughtered by your pistol shot For some presumptuous glance, opinion Or repartee worth not a jot, Insulting you while you were drinking, Or if, in fiery pique, not thinking, He calls you proudly to a duel, Tell me the feelings that would rule Your soul, when without motion lying In front of you upon the earth, Upon his brow the hue of death, He slowly stiffens, ossifying, When to your desperate appeal He is insensitive and still?

35.

With sharpening contrition growing, Gripping the pistol in his hand, Onegin watched Vladimir's going.

'Well then, he's dead, you understand,'

p.r.o.nounced the neighbour. Dead! Onegin, Crushed by the utterance, walks off, quaking, To call his people.19 Straightaway, Zaretsky gently on the sleigh Settles the frozen corpse, escorting The dreadful treasure to its home.

Sensing the corpse, the horses foam, Wetting the steel bit, chafing, snorting, But when they're ready to depart, They fly as swiftly as a dart.

36.

My friends, you're sorry for the poet: Amid the bloom of hope, desire From which the world will never profit, And scarcely out of child's attire, Gone! Where's the ardent agitation, Where is the n.o.ble aspiration Of youthful feeling, youthful thought, Audacious, tender, highly wrought?

Where, too, is love's acclaimed impatience, The thirst for knowledge, thirst for work, The dread where vice and shame may lurk, And you, most cherished ruminations, You, phantoms of unearthly life, You, dreams with sacred verses rife!

37.

Perhaps he was for good intended Or at the very least for fame; His silenced lyre might have extended Its sound through centuries to come With ringing music. There awaited Perhaps a special niche created For him at an exalted site.

Perhaps his martyred shade in flight Carried away a holy secret, Remaining with him, and the joys Are lost of an uplifting voice, While from beyond the gravestone's remit No hymn will rush to where he's laid, Nor peoples come to bless his shade.

[38]20.

39.

But then again the poet's portion Might well have been quite commonplace.

The years of youth give way to caution, Slowing the soul's impetuous pace.

Of poetry he might have wearied, And, parting from the Muses, married; A happy squire, with cuckold's crown, Wearing a quilted dressing gown; He might have learned life's true dimension, At forty he'd have had the gout, Drunk, eaten, moped, declined, got stout And died according to convention As children thronged and women cried And village quacks stood by his side.

40.

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