Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin [best books to read for teens TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexander Pushkin
Book online «Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin [best books to read for teens TXT] 📗». Author Alexander Pushkin
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.
“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;
Onegin 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
Onegin fired—Alas! alas!
The poet’s hour hath sounded—See!
He drops his pistol silently.
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.
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.
’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.
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?
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
Onegin 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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
There, when the rains of spring we mark
Upon the meadows showering,
The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,77
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.
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.
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
Comments (0)