Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина - Владимир Набоков

XXI

   The verses chanced to be preserved;   I have them; here they are:   Whither, ah! whither are ye fled, 4 my springtime's golden days?   “What has the coming day in store for me?   In vain my gaze attempts to grasp it;   in deep gloom it lies hidden. 8 It matters not; fate's law is just.   Whether I fall, pierced by the dart, or whether   it flies by — all is right:   of waking and of sleep12 comes the determined hour;   blest is the day of cares,   blest, too, is the advent of darkness!

XXII

   “The ray of dawn will gleam tomorrow,   and brilliant day will scintillate;   whilst I, perhaps — I shall descend 4 into the tomb's mysterious shelter,   and the young poet's memory   slow Lethe will engulf;   the world will forget me; but thou, 8 wilt thou come, maid of beauty,   to shed a tear over the early urn   and think: he loved me,   to me alone he consecrated12 the doleful daybreak of a stormy life!...   Friend of my heart, desired friend, come,   come: I'm thy spouse!”

XXIII

   Thus did he write, “obscurely   and limply” (what we call romanticism —   though no romanticism at all 4 do I see here; but what is that to us?),   and finally, before dawn, letting sink   his weary head,   upon the fashionable word 8 “ideal,” Lenski dozed off gently;   but hardly had he lost himself   in sleep's bewitchment when the neighbor   entered the silent study12 and wakened Lenski with the call,   “Time to get up: past six already.   Onegin's sure to be awaiting us.”

XXIV

   But he was wrong: at that time Eugene   was sleeping like the dead.   The shadows of the night now wane, 4 and Vesper by the cock is greeted;   Onegin soundly sleeps away.   By now the sun rides high,   and shifting flurries 8 sparkle and spin; but still his bed   Onegin has not left,   still slumber hovers over him.   Now he awakes at last12 and draws apart the curtain's flaps;   looks — and sees that already   it is long since time to drive off.

XXV

   Quickly he rings — and his French valet,   Guillot, comes running in,   offers him dressing gown and slippers, 4 and hands him linen.   Onegin hastes to dress,   orders his valet to get ready   to drive together with him and to take 8 along with him also the combat case.   The racing sleigh is ready; in he gets;   flies to the mill. Apace they come.   He bids his valet carry after him12 Lepage's39 fell tubes   and has the horses moved away   into a field toward two oaklings.

XXVI

   On the dam leaning, Lenski had been waiting   impatiently for a long time;   meanwhile Zaretski, a rural mechanic, 4 with the millstone was finding fault.   Onegin with apologies came up.   “But where,” quoth with amazement   Zaretski, “where's your second?” 8 In duels classicist and pedant, he   liked method out of feeling and allowed   to stretch one's man not anyhow   but by the strict rules of the art12 according to all the traditions   of ancientry   (which we must praise in him).

XXVII

   “My second?” Eugene said.   “Here's he: my friend, Monsieur Guillot.   I don't foresee 4 objections to my presentation:   although he is an unknown man,   quite surely he's an honest chap.”   Zaretski bit his lip. Onegin 8 asked Lenski: “Well, are we to start?”   “Let's start if you are willing,” said   Vladimir. And they went   behind the mill.12 While, at a distance, our Zaretski and the “honest chap”   enter into a solemn compact,   the two foes stand with lowered eyes.

XXVIII

   Foes! Is it long since bloodthirst   turned them away from one another?   Is it long since they shared their hours of leisure, 4 meals, thoughts, and doings   in friendliness? Now, wickedly,   similar to hereditary foes,   as in a frightful, enigmatic dream, 8 in silence, for each other they   prepare destruction coolly....   Should they not burst out laughing while   their hand is not yet crimsoned?12 Should they not amiably part?...   But wildly beau-monde enmity   is of false shame afraid.

XXIX

   The pistols now have gleamed. The mallet clanks   against the ramrod. The balls go   into the polyhedral barrel, 4 and the cock clicks for the first time.   The powder in a grayish streamlet   now pours into the pan. The jagged,   securely screwed-in flint 8 anew is drawn back. Disconcerted   Guillot behind a near stump takes his stand.   The two foes shed their cloaks.   Zaretski paces off thirty-two steps12 with excellent accuracy; his friends   apart he places at the farthest mark,   and each takes up his pistol.

XXX

   “Now march.” The two foes, coolly,   not aiming yet,   with firm tread, slowly, steadily 4 traversed four paces,   four mortal stairs.   His pistol Eugene then,   not ceasing to advance, 8 gently the first began to raise.   Now they have stepped five paces more,   and Lenski, closing his left eye,   started to level also — but right then12 Onegin fired.... The clock of fate   has struck: the poet   in silence drops his pistol.

XXXI

   Softly he lays his hand upon his breast   and falls. His misty gaze   expresses death, not pain. 4 Thus, slowly, down the slope of hills,   shining with sparkles in the sun,   a lump of snow descends.   Deluged with instant cold, 8 Onegin hastens to the youth,   looks, calls him... vainly:   he is no more. The young bard has   found an untimely end!12 The storm has blown; the beauteous bloom   has withered at sunrise; the fire   upon the altar has gone out!...

XXXII

   Stirless he lay, and strange   was his brow's languid peace.   Under the breast he had been shot clean through; 4 steaming, the blood flowed from the wound.   One moment earlier   in this heart inspiration,   enmity, hope, and love had throbbed, 8 life effervesced, blood burned;   now, as in a deserted house,   all in it is both still and dark,   it has become forever silent.12 The window boards are shut. The panes with chalk   are whitened over. The chatelaine is gone.   But where, God wot. All trace is lost.

XXXIII

   With an insolent epigram   'tis pleasant to enrage a bungling foe;   pleasant to see how, bending stubbornly 4 his buttsome horns, he in the mirror   looks at himself involuntarily   and is ashamed to recognize himself;   more pleasant, friends, if, as the fool he is, 8 he howls out: It is I!   Still pleasanter — in silence to prepare   an honorable grave for him   and quietly at his pale forehead12 aim, at a gentlemanly distance;   but to dispatch him to his fathers   will hardly pleasant be for you.

XXXIV

   What, then, if by your pistol   be smitten a young pal   who with a saucy glance or repartee 4 or any other bagatelle   insulted you over the bottle,   or even himself, in fiery vexation,   to combat proudly challenged you? 8 Say: what sensation   would take possession of your soul   when, motionless upon the ground,   in front of you, with death upon his brow,12 he by degrees would stiffen,   when he'd be deaf   and silent to your desperate appeal?

XXXV