Куда, куда, куда вы удалились...

Куда, куда, куда вы удалились,
Весны моей златые дни?
Что день грядущий мне готовит?..
Его мой взор напрасно ловит:
В глубокой мгле таится он!
Нет нужды; прав судьбы закон!
Паду ли я, стрелой пронзенный,
Иль мимо пролетит она,
Все благо: бдения и сна
Приходит час определенный!
Благословен и день забот,
Благословен и тьмы приход!
Блеснет заутра луч денницы
И заиграет яркий день,
А я, быть может, я гробницы
Сойду в таинственную сень!
И память юного поэта
Поглотит медленная Лета.
Забудет мир меня; но ты!.. Ты, Ольга!..
Скажи, придешь ли, дева красоты,
Слезу пролить над ранней урной
И думать: он меня любил!
Он мне единой посвятил
Рассвет печальный жизни бурной!
Ах, Ольга, я тебя любил!
Тебе единой посвятил
Рассвет печальный жизни бурной!
Ах, Ольга, я тебя любил!
Сердечный друг, желанный друг.
Приди, приди!
Желанный друг, приди, я твой супруг!
Приди, я твой супруг,
Приди, приди!
Я жду тебя, желанный друг.
Приди, приди, я твой супруг!
Куда, куда, куда вы удалились,
Златые дни, златые дни моей весны?

THE DAY THAT PADFOOT DIED

THE DAY THAT PADFOOT DIED
31st of January MMXVIII, 
as the author, Sandra Dermark, turned 26
A Cathartic Afterthought on Life, the Universe, and Everything
as the author reminisces about her adolescence.


Long, long time ago...
I can still remember
all those things that used to make me smile...
That maybe if I had a chance
to spread bright colours, song and dance,
I'd make everyone happy for a while...
But one day in the bleak November,
that I distinctly still remember...
bad news on the doorstep...
couldn't take one more step...
I can't remember if I cried,
but I couldn't take that scene in stride...
for something touched me deep inside
the day... that Padfoot died.

I started singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Did you expect to come of age,
and change your part upon the stage,
if life's script would tell you so?
And... are you a prisoner on parole
or a husk of flesh without a soul?
Time without distractions, why is it real slow?
Well I know that nothing is the same,
and that status quo is always lame...
Thus came the moment of truth,
when I was the least ready in sooth...
I was a lonely teen left on her own,
always worlds away from the Iron Throne,
but I first knew I was all alone
the day... that Lars, José, and Ana died.

I started singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Now for three years I was left on my own,
with Maths for a Sisyphean stone...
but that's not how it used to be...
in those days I dreamt that Sirius Black
would storm in on his bike to take me back
and I would clasp his waist and feel real free...
And right then, the dowager Lestrange
had turned push to shove, to shock, to change...
I looked on, frozen, with dread...
in the hope that he wouldn't be dead!
And while weariness weighed down my heart,
I read like Lieutenant Bonaparte,
and I felt free as I drifted apart
the day... that Padfoot died.

I still was singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps on at this petty pace of sorrow
still, from day to day, till "not today!"
The Bastille had fallen; et voilà,
came all those Amis led by Enjolras,
rallying against the ancien régime from their café...
From the barricades, the tricolore
would flutter on for evermore...
Yet empty chairs by empty tables
they left, with each surname on a label!
And while Georgie cradled his brother Fred,
two left their orphan boy called Ted,
and my Potter-head felt heavy as lead
the day... les Amis, Moony, Tonks, and Fred died.

I kept on singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

Now as the world felt still half empty,
the day had come when I reached twenty:
those at Lützen slain encouraged me to win...
yet my loving elders would never see
their girl make it to University...
and she knew decay, one day, would dwell beneath her skin...
Yet, as I stood upon that stage,
I was full of joy, bereft of rage:
they all would listen to me as one...
a lot of Sandra in the sun!
And, in that golden afternoon,
in the youthful, long-lived sun of June,
I saw everyone entranced, in tune,
the day... my old self died.

I whispered, singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days all have been waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die...
This will be the day that I die..."

I met a lady who'd inspire
me to control this inward fire...
who, throughout five years, encouraged me...
And, for a lustrum, I found my niche
and life was no longer that pastiche...
the fruit of my harvest is this Translation degree!
I have hurt and healed, many times I've screamed,
and by night and day frequently I've dreamed...
Now all of those good friends have scattered,
and I pick up the pieces that shattered...
And from Pushkin I've learned, as I thrived,
that "THE GOOD DIE ERE THEY REACH FORTY-FIVE,
FOR MIDLIFE AIN'T WORTH STAYING ALIVE"
the day... Youth, Lensky, died.

And I stopped singing...
Bye, bye, you were such a cool guy...
I was so weary and so teary, and my throat was so dry...
The good old days are someday waving goodbye,
singing "this will be the day that I die..."

LIVING A THOUSAND LIVES

Here's another assignment I had to write on FutureLearn, this one about reading strategies and my own experience. I believe that fiction, whether literature or audiovisual media, should hold a mirror in front of reality, like, to take Shakespeare's most egregious example, the mirror the last of Banquo's descendants held in hand facing King James across the fourth wall.

Last month I went to see the live action version of the French fairytale film that inspired my passion for literature when I still lay in the cradle. It's not hard to see why my review of Beauty and the Beast on my blog (LA BELLE ET LA BÊTE - MMXVII) is so packed with excitement. 

Said review begins with the following paragraphs:

"The first we got to see in autumn last year were some celebrities' names and this crimson rose in a frosted dome (reminiscent of both B&tB and The Snow Queen); details that already got me excited and waiting for springtime. And it has truly felt like a long awaited springtime after an endless winter, to borrow a metaphor from the film itself!

Tale as old as time, true as it can be... I had been waiting until the musical version of the French fairytale that awoke my passion for literature should be brought to the live action format and hoped that said version would not disappoint me. It has not... rather, the whole film, which I have watched this evening, has taken my breath and heartbeat away. It's not a film, it's a MAGNUM OPUS. The setting, the songs, the costumes, the unexpected twists... And this is the reason why I have decided to consecrate a review to it right here and right now... detailing all the things I have adored about this version: loose ends cleared up, animated scenes brilliantly rendered into live action, and some Easter eggs one needs real passion for literature in general and the Bard in particular, like that of Belle and her Beast, to discover!

Seeing those scenes come alive 
The old rose-seller revealing herself as a fairy, turning the prince into a beast and the courtiers into objects. Belle walking past the chickens and getting dissed by the other villagers. Belle taking her leave of her papa. The Beast capturing Maurice after he's picked that rose. Belle returning Romeo and Juliet to the priest (instead of Jack and the Beanstalk to the librarian!). Belle giving Gaston the axe. The triplets fawning over Gaston. Chip blowing bubbles for Belle. The Master and Belle at first mistrusting one another. Mme. de Garderobe decking Belle in uncomfortable court dress. Belle befriending Lumière, and the extravagant feast for both the lips and the eyes that he prepares for her. The Master saving a runaway Belle from a pack of wolves. Belle nursing the Master back to health. Belle and the Master enjoying the wintry garden, the library, finding a common interest in literature as a springboard for the fact that there's something there. The snowball fight in the royal gardens, Belle discarding her spoon and drinking soup from the plate like her beau. That dance, both lovers getting prepared for the ballroom; her golden gown and his cobalt blue overcoat. Gaston in scarlet mess uniform drowning his sorrows in the tavern and Lefou bragging about his accomplishments to all the others. Belle scrying into the mirror to find her papa in distress. The Master letting Belle go and regretting it, feeling as if she would betray him. Belle and Maurice locked in the Maison des Lunes carriage and finally escaping. The storming of the castle. Mme. de Garderobe singing her solo as she throws herself down a ledge. Gaston treacherously striking the Master down in the back, and then falling to his death from a parapet. The Master dying in Belle's arms, suddenly disenchanted, as well as all the objects... and that final dance that crowns it all. Seeing all of these scenes take place in live action is astounding, and besides it has also awakened old memories within me..."

What does all of this say about reading strategies and yours truly?

Close reading of texts rife with transparent immediacy has always been my favourite reading strategy since early childhood and even up to right now in my twenties.
I offered myself as a hostage to the Beast in exchange for my father's freedom. I shuddered when Mufasa did not even flinch after falling down that cliff. I carried on with Gerda searching for Kai across the wide world from south to north, with the Duchess of Norroway searching for her Duke as she wore out those heavy iron shoes, with Marco searching for his mum across the ocean and the pampas. And it felt to me that these young people had well deserved and earned their happy ending.
I have mourned for Romeo and Juliet, for Desdemona, Ophelia, Mercutio, Mufasa, Bambi's mum, Atreyu's horse, Sirius Black, Fred Weasley, Remus and Tonks and their unborn baby... When GoT came along as I reached my twenties, I was already prepared for Ygritte, Renly, and Oberyn surprisingly and violently passing away, and I did not feel as much grief as I feel shock.
I have seen and still see myself in Tyrion Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Luna Lovegood, Rainbow Dash, Cassio (Othello's lieutenant), Portia...
I have loved Jasper Whitlock and Finnick Odair, sitting on the fence with my kind-hearted favourite male characters as the world around me warred whether the gradually more insipid heroine should wind up with the boy next door or the troubled bad boy; I choose a third option in both cases, that of the gentlemanly blond who is only relegated to the role of "friend" as a major secondary character. Following my own heart and preferences instead of the trends. I don't give a hoot about trends.
I have always been a close reader and will always be. Because of the emotions that were, are, and will be aroused within me; no matter if I am elated because the clever princess in Story the Fourth of The Snow Queen has found Mr. Right and their kindness to a common stranger exemplifies how good people are (or rather can be), or in wrenching sorrow when Eugene Onegin and Apollo have violently killed their more-than-friends Vladimir Lensky and Hyacinthus respectively (by accident, in the springtime of youth, and by the hands of the ones they loved!), or if a shudder is running down my spine when the locusts in Gautier's rendition of the Eighth Plague get into people's mouths and nostrils and "on en respirait" (these locusts got breathed in).
It's these feelings that make it worthwhile. To sum it up quoting a certain young boy called Jojen Reed: WHO HAS NEVER READ LIVES ONLY ONE LIFE; A READER LIVES A THOUSAND LIVES.

APOLLO AND HYACINTH - DERMARK VERSION

Translated by Sandra Dermark
freely from Ovid's Metamorphoses
4th of November, MMXVI

You, sweet prince, would the Sun-God have enshrin'd
in the skies, if they'd given you 'nough time;
yet still, you last forever, and as long
as Springtime comes on warm Aries's fleece,
your first green shoots pierce the last winter snow.
In my own country, in the harshest North,
through dark and dire, dreary winter nights,
your potted flower graces every hall,
blooming while windows frost, 'tis cold outside,
as part of Sweden's Yuletide scent and grace.
He loved you more than any other lad
or maid, and left his oracle and choir
of nine, just to frequent that winding stream
where you refreshed yourself; arrows and bows,
lyre and violin, all lay pell-mell,
as he followed you through the craggy peaks
of your realm, and sang in your campfire's light.
You were allowed to ride his pegasi,
white stallions, and play his string instruments,
as he taught you so both could play duets,
staying entranced, so closely, chest to chest,
until the storm of music sank to sleep,
and sing with him of Zeus and Ganymede,
for history repeats itself indeed.
E'en the sun-car, the day's light, he left 
entrusted to the boldest, strongest Muse,
and it was mid-way in the cloudless sky
on that May day when tragedy would strike
amidst the pleasures of southron late spring,
even though both of you were unaware.
Two snow-white shirts the lovers cast aside,
for exercise and mid-day heat would sure
flush them up, and make cloth stick to their skin:
the raven-haired lad, aged sixteen, looked fair
as a maiden; no dark hair on his chest,
or limbs, or upper lip, a stripling lithe,
in conversation well-spoken and true,
so full of liveliness and loveliness,
his frame like a white lily, slender, fair,
flexible, and resistant, all at once;
a rarity of a young royal child
whose violet eyes and honest smile like stars
were always shining with the same true light,
and whose lily visage was slightly flushed
with young hot blood by his fair lover's sight;
while his golden young adult paramour,
-as dashing as the stripling prince was lithe-
with locks of sunlight and skin dark as bronze,
gray-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb,
fire in his eyes, and every muscle strong
just as if chiselled: taller, dashing, bold,
infatigable, svelte, flexible, bright,
and, in that noble chest, stalwart and fine,
now throbbed for the young prince a heart of gold...
Their eyes sparkled with confidence and joy,
as the lithe stripling leapt over the net
and seized his racket: often had he led
to his crowned parents' famous tennis court
the Sun-God, whom he loved with all his heart
(for their favourite pastime was that game),
as the blond Phoebus, right across the net,
got his racket and ball, each in one hand,
trading the warm-up for an earnest match.
He throws, he hits... the ball is in the air,
a speck of light in the cloudless May sky!
The boy prince saunters forth... he hits the ball...
and, like a shooting star careening forth,
it flies across the court, right back, once more!
Both deftly wield their rackets, quick and strong,
running now to the left, now to the right,
a backhand, forehand, a hop, skip, or jump,
developing new skills and strategies,
successful, deftly, unexpectedly;
both of them caring for nought but to win,
deftly commanding rackets, eyes, and feet,
sending the ball careening back and forth,
always a shooting star in daylight's blue:
they're equals, one another's Waterloo,
and tension rises as the scales of score
tilt, ever slightly, to balance once more.
'Tis like a fencing match without cold steel,
confrontation of equal skill and zeal,
war without tears; no better can they feel.
As it often occurs when things are thus,
hours turn to instants on the wings of joy,
and now's the match point that will break the tie!
The Leader of the Muses, you shall know,
is ambidextrous: as skilled with the left
as with the right hand. Hitherto, he'd played
right-handed, yet, at this decisive point,
to win by catching his partner off-guard,
he now changes his racket to the left:
how will the lad face a sinistral serve?
In the excitement of this match, one's eyes
follow the ball, and one's dominant arm
commands the racket: he's forgotten sure,
and thus, he'll be put to a harder test!
The golden blond's serve thrids the sky once more;
right then, the stripling, eyes fixed on the ball,
flushed rose-red, yet hell-bent to win the match,
leaps up, racket in hand, with eager haste...
too early! Ere the lad can strike the ball,
it strikes him in the left side of the head,
right where the life-blood throbs into the brain,
above the ear; he reels just as if drunk,
yet pale and ice-cold, shutting weary eyes,
as the Sun-God, equally cold and pale,
dropping the fatal racket at his feet,
leaps o'er the net and takes you in his arms,
as a bridegroom would carry his bride home,
yet this resembles more a Pietà:
as blood springs from your left ear on his hands,
no longer warm, yet branding liquid guilt
(once, this young hot blood throbbed, and boiled, and raised
youthful intense passions... instants ago...),
the Leader of the Muses tries to kiss
warm air into your lungs and you to life,
pouring a soothing cool drink down your throat,
yet, after feeling neither breath nor pulse
(the heart, the lungs, the arteries all still,
not throbbing e'en the faintest in response),
he realizes that his serve and ball
have breached your head as cannon-shot a wall:
he cannot save your life: your dainty hands'
ten lily-fingers suddenly relax,
the right one leaves, at last, the racket's grip;
all strength's receded from your sinking limbs;
the final kiss dies on those ice-cold lips
of wax or driven snow, so quietly;
as that breached keep of your young intellect,
your head, droops tilting softly to the right,
like wilted lily's calyx on its stem.
Extreme exhaustion plunges reason's light
into most painful weakness, darkest depths;
our spirits are bound to the throbbing blood,
whereof a lot, gushed out in a sore wound,
tears out, in surging stream, not only strength
and sense, but even reason, wit, and life.
It's still and cold within your noble chest,
that once had throbbed with heartbeats, breaths, and love
for the one who's just quenched spring-youth's hot blood
and made those fiery passions fade away.
Where's every youthful impulse, rêverie?
It faded as your spirit was set free.
Whither departed is the spark of life?
To fields of light, bereft of earthly strife.
"Farewell, sweet prince, fair bloom cut short in spring!
I see the wound I've wrought myself, my crime!
I kissed you, then I killed you, though by chance,
yet my sinister hand will always stain
that blood that clotted in your clever brain;
what my left-handed racket's wrought for pain!
But what's my guilt? 'Twas just a tennis match,
a pastime... neither is my guilt of love,
since there's no limit to its worldwide reach:
two of the same gender may become one.
Though it happened by chance, against my will,
'tis pitiful that I thus you should kill,
such dreadful consequence of my own skill!
Thus, more shameful today's affair appears,
turning my light to eternal dusk and tears.
And may I not have had eternity
to give my life, to die upon a kiss!
Yet 'tis th'unwritten law of destiny:
you will be in my heart and in my songs,
to whose lyrics this left hand'll strum the lyre,
accompanied by maiden Muses' choir,
and, as spring flower with the sweetest scent,
you will remind others of my lament."
As golden Phoebus sings this threnody,
the blood gushed from the ear of his sweetheart
has reached the ground, and purple lilies grow
in a cluster just like an ear of corn,
like that sceptre of lilies in the tale
by Oscar Wilde, though not whiter than pearls;
rather, the wistful violet of your eyes.
'Tis not enough: the Sun-God mournfully
graces each petal with your monogram,
that of you two: a painful signature.
Rack'd with a suffering he's never felt
before --ne'er such a deadly, searing pain
from which there's no escape, had struck his heart--,
more struck by this than any other love,
thus broken-hearted, shedding tears of light,
kindling the air with heat like ne'er before,
to leave the stage of such a tragic scene,
he summons back his sun-car, and picks up
the frozen reins, sits on the frosted seat,
and steers the pale, ice-laced wheels of the sun
westward again, into ominous clouds
that thus unleash springtime downpours and storms.
For seven years he'd neither smile nor sing;
ask the Muses themselves, they know, of course.
The tennis court a garden has become;
the net is gone, and wildflowers of spring
dot, jewel-like, the multicoloured lawn,
where, over your eternal resting place
--next to a marble sun-god, tall and fair,
with a racket in his sinister hand,
on whose pedestal they chiselled your name--
your clusters of lilac flowers still grow,
their sweet, entrancing scent still laced with woe.



COMMENTARIES
1. This poem is a completely Dermarkian web of intertextualities; one clearly sees beyond Ovid and early modern Italian translators to rococo art (the painting by Tiepolo, meant for a gay tennis-playing German count; in which the homoerotic Pietà is overlooked by a hefty marble satyr with an ironic grin, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat and Jabba the Hutt), but also, first and foremost, by the untimely death of Pushkin's alter ego Vladimir Lensky (which somehow foretold the author's own demise in a duel to the death as a gunfight), also to a certain degree by the death of the pearl fisher in Oscar Wilde's A House of Pomegranates (when it comes to the ear bleeding and the cluster of lilies), as well as to the fate of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell in a certain sense... and of course to Shakespeare, and not only in the pentameter form in which I have deftly retold this tale and plan to retell more Metamorphoses (one may spot references to Othello's regret and despair after killing Desdemona, to Hamlet's death in a tricked fencing match, and, more obliquely, to Henry V [breached fortifications, tennis balls turned to cannonballs]). But it all began with the Gustav Schwab retelling of this tragic tale when I was 7, 8, or 9.

2. Before Marino and dell'Anguillara, it was through Tiepolo I discovered the update of giving our violet-eyed pretty boy and his sun-god paramour rackets instead of discuses or shot put, turning Hyacinth into a jeu-de-paume-playing early modern royal child. The idea of a violinist Apollo popped up in the same historical time frame of the early modern belle infidèle translations of the classics. When I first saw the Tiepolo picture, something that moved me to the core, in Art class at 16 (I was the same age as the young deceased in the poem!), we also played tennis at Phys Ed classes.
3. In Ovid's Metamorphoses, Apollo is ambidextrous (like, for instance, Gunnar in Njál's Saga or Hector in the Trojan cycle), as seen in the tale of the donkey ears of Midas. This ambidexterity seems to correlate to the sexual orientation of all three characters ("ambidextrous" is also used across languages as a euphemism for "bisexual"). While Giambattista Marino (Adonis, Canto XIX) has him bring on the manslaughter of Hyacinth right-handed, I have opted for a sinistral serve as the killing blow, which would have been completely unexpected and meant to throw Hyacinth off guard. If the teenage prince had sauntered in a certain direction, the ball would have struck him on the left, on the heart side, as Marino and dell'Anguillara precise. The latter translator/reteller, furthermore, stresses the young man's too impulsive action of leaping ahead of the ball to strike it in time as a reason for his untimely death as well.
4. While Marino's Hyacinth, portrayed visually by Tiepolo one century later, is blond, I made him dark-haired, inspired by other retellings and illustrations, and to contrast with his tan-skinned golden blond lover. The image he conjures in the reader's mind's eye is reminiscent of CLAMP anime Byronic hero Lelouch Lamperouge.
5. The finale with the tragic tennis court turned flower garden is taken from Giambattista Marino, but it also has its parallels in the retelling by Francesc "Neilabbott" Gómez Guillamón, in which the stadium where the discus/shot put contest was held is turned by the sun-god into a sacred grove/shrine, something like a godswood.
6. Potted hyacinths on the table and/or inside the windowsill are a staple of the Swedish Christmas. In fact, the whole poem has the air of it being told to young Swedes on a winter evening before cups of a hot drink, while the flowering hyacinths fill the air in the room with their scent and the snow swirls outside, beyond the frosted windowpanes.

LENSKY DUEL SCENE ON FILM

LENSKY'S DEATH... WRITTEN BY PUSHKIN

DEDICATED TO VLADIMIR LENSKY

a sensitive and imaginative young poet 

of provincial Russia, 

reared at German universities,

a worshipper of Sturm und Drang,

socially awkward,
(the extroverted and blond Olga, his childhood friend,

was, fittingly, his fiancée),

with curly black hair,

happy and innocent...

a true Romantic

Sei er immer erinnert

 XXIX

     Pistols are out, they gleam, the hammer
     thumps as the balls are pressed inside
     faceted muzzles by the rammer;
     with a first click, the catch is tried.
     Now powder's greyish stream is slipping
     into the pan. Securely gripping,
     the jagged flint's pulled back anew.
     Guillot, behind a stump in view,
     stands in dismay and indecision.
     And now the two opponents doff
     their cloaks; Zaretsky's measured off
     thirty-two steps with great precision,
     and on their marks has made them stand;
     each grips his pistol in his hand.
    
        XXX

     ``Now march.'' And calmly, not yet seeking
     to aim, at steady, even pace
     the foes, cold-blooded and unspeaking,
     each took four steps across the space,
     four fateful stairs. Then, without slowing
     the level tenor of his going,
     Evgeny quietly began
     to lift his pistol up. A span
     of five more steps they went, slow-gaited,
     and Lensky, left eye closing, aimed --
     but just then Eugene's pistol flamed...
     The clock of doom had struck as fated;
     and the poet, without a sound,
     let fall his pistol on the ground.

        XXXI

     Vladimir drops, hand softly sliding
     to heart. And in his misted gaze
     is death, not pain. So gently gliding
     down slopes of mountains, when a blaze
     of sunlight makes it flash and crumble,
     a block of snow will slip and tumble.
     Onegin, drenched with sudden chill,
     darts to the boy, and looks, and still
     calls out his name... All unavailing:
     the youthful votary of rhyme
     has found an end before his time.
     The storm is over, dawn is paling,
     the bloom has withered on the bough;
     the altar flame's extinguished now.
   

        XXXII

     He lay quite still, and strange as dreaming
     was that calm brow of one who swooned.
     Shot through below the chest -- and streaming
     the blood came smoking from the wound.
     A moment earlier, inspiration
     had filled this heart, and detestation
     and hope and passion; life had glowed
     and blood had bubbled as it flowed;
     but now the mansion is forsaken;
     shutters are up, and all is pale
     and still within, behind the veil
     of chalk the window-panes have taken.
     The lady of the house has fled.
     Where to, God knows. The trail is dead.

        XXXIII

     With a sharp epigram it's pleasant
     to infuriate a clumsy foe;
     and, as observer, to be present
     and watch him stubbornly bring low
     his thrusting horns, and as he passes
     blush to descry in looking-glasses
     his foolish face; more pleasant yet
     to hear him howl: ``that's me!'' You'll get
     more joy still when with mute insistence
     you help him to an honoured fate
     by calmly aiming at his pate
     from any gentlemanly distance;
     but when you've managed his despatch
     you won't find that quite so much catch...
   

        XXXIV

     What if your pistol-shot has smitten
     a friend of yours in his first youth
     because some glance of his has bitten
     your pride, some answer, or in truth
     some nonsense thrown up while carousing,
     or if himself, with rage arousing,
     he's called you out -- say, in your soul
     what feelings would assume control
     if, motionless, no life appearing,
     death on his brow, your friend should lie,
     stiffening as the hours go by,
     before you on the ground, unhearing,
     unspeaking, too, but stretched out there
     deaf to the voice of your despair?

        XXXV

     Giving his pistol-butt a squeezing,
     Evgeny looks at Lensky, chilled
     at heart by grim remorse's freezing.
     ``Well, what?'' the neighbour says, ``he's killed.''
     Killed!... At this frightful word a-quiver,
     Onegin turns, and with a shiver
     summons his people. On the sleigh
     with care Zaretsky stows away
     the frozen corpse, drives off, and homing
     vanishes with his load of dread.
     The horses, as they sense the dead,
     have snorted, reared, and whitely foaming
     have drenched the steel bit as they go
     and flown like arrows from a bow.
   

        XXXVI

     My friends, the bard stirs your compassion:
     right in the flower of joyous hope,
     hope that he's had no time to fashion
     for men to see, still in the scope
     of swaddling clothes -- already blighted!
     Where is the fire that once ignited,
     where's the high aim, the ardent sense
     of youth, so tender, so intense?
     and where is love's tempestuous yearning,
     where are the reveries this time,
     the horror of disgrace and crime,
     the thirst for work, the lust for learning,
     and life celestial's phantom gleams,
     stuff of the poet's hallowed dreams!

        XXXVII

     Perhaps to improve the world's condition,
     perhaps for fame, he was endowed;
     his lyre, now stilled, in its high mission
     might have resounded long and loud
     for aeons. Maybe it was fated
     that on the world's staircase there waited
     for him a lofty stair. His shade,
     after the martyr's price it paid,
     maybe bore off with it for ever
     a secret truth, and at our cost
     a life-creating voice was lost;
     to it the people's blessing never
     will reach, and past the tomb's compound
     hymns of the ages never sound.
     

        XL

     Reader, whatever fate's direction,
     we weep for the young lover's end,
     the man of reverie and reflection,
     the poet struck down by his friend!
     Left-handed from the habitation
     where dwelt this child of inspiration,
     two pines have tangled at the root;
     beneath, a brook rolls its tribute
     toward the neighbouring valley's river.
     The ploughman there delights to doze,
     girl reapers as the streamlet flows
     dip in their jugs; where shadows quiver
     darkly above the water's lilt,
     a simple monument is built.

  Amidst the hills, down in that valley,
     let's go where, winding all the time
     across green meadows, dilly-dally,
     a brook flows through a grove of lime.
     There sings the nightingale, spring's lover,
     the wild rose blooms, and in the covert
     the source's chattering voice is heard;
     and there a tombstone says its word
     where two old pinetrees stand united:
     ``This is Vladimir Lensky's grave
     who early died as die the brave'' --
     the headpiece-text is thus indited --
     the year, his age, then: ``may your rest,
     young poet, be for ever blest!''

 There was a pine-branch downward straying
     towards the simple urn beneath;
     time was when morning's breeze was swaying
     over it a mysterious wreath:
     time was, in evening hours of leisure,
     by moonlight two young girls took pleasure,
     closely embraced, in wending here,
     to see the grave, and shed a tear.

Walking her horse in introspection
across the plain's enormous room,
what holds her in profound reflection,
despite herself, is Lensky's doom;
``Olga,'' she thinks, ``what fate befell her?
her heartache, did it long compel her,
or did her grief soon find repair?
and where's her sister now? and where,
flown from society as we know it,
of modish belles the modish foe,
where did that glum eccentric go,
the one who killed the youthful poet?''
All in good time, on each point I
will give you a complete reply.

     Today... the sad memorial's lonely,
     forgot. Its trodden path is now
     choked up. There's no wreath on the bough;
     grey-haired and weak, beneath it only
     the shepherd, as he used to do,
     sings as he plaits a humble shoe.

   
     Poor Lensky! Set aside for weeping,
     or pining, Olga's hours were brief.
     Alas for him! there was no keeping
     his sweetheart faithful to her grief.
     Another had the skill to ravish
     her thoughts away, knew how to lavish
     sweet words by which her pain was banned --
     a Lancer wooed and won her hand,
     a Lancer -- how she deified him!
     and at the altar, with a crown,
     her head in modesty cast down,
     already there she stands beside him;
     her eyes are lowered, but ablaze,
     and on her lips a light smile plays.


     Poor Lensky! where the tomb is bounded
     by dull eternity's purlieus,
     was the sad poet not confounded
     at this betrayal's fateful news?
     Or, as by Lethe's bank he slumbered,
     perhaps no more sensations lumbered
     the lucky bard, and as he dozed
     the earth for him grew dumb and closed?...
     On such indifference, such forgetting
     beyond the grave we all must build --
     foes, friends, and loves, their voice is stilled.
     Only the estate provides a setting
     for angry heirs, as one, to fall
     into an unbecoming brawl.
   

     Presently Olga's ringing answer
     inside the Larins' house fell mute.
     Back to his regiment the Lancer,
     slave of the service, was en route.
     Weltered in tears, and sorely smarting,
     the old dame wept her daughter's parting,
     and in her grief seemed fit to die;
     but Tanya found she couldn't cry:
     only the pallor of heart-breaking
     covered her face. When all came out
     onto the porch, and fussed about
     over the business of leave-taking,
     Tatyana went with them, and sped
     the carriage of the newly-wed.

ANOTHER TRANSLATION

 XXIX. 

 Now already the pistols glint, 

 The hammer grates against the ramrod,  

In the etched barrel the bullets lodge,  

And for the first time the gun is cocked.  

Now powder in a greyish stream  

Is set on the plate. The toothed flint  

Now firmly screwed in and locked  

Is raised again. By a nearby tree  

Stands Guillot, confused uncannily.  

The enemies discard their cloaks.  

Zaretsky measures paces thirty two  

With precise haughtiness and much ado.  

Then leads to the extreme mark each friend, 

 And each took his pistol, for to make an end. 

 XXX. 

 "Now approach!" Then grimly, acidly,  

As yet not aiming, the enemies  

With steady stride, determinedly  

Quietly the first four paces made,  

Four fatal steps of mortality.  

His pistol then Yevgeny slowly  

Brought up, while softly, steadily,  

Advancing, the first of the two;  

Still five more paces each one took,  

And Lensky squinting with his left eye,  

Took aim also ― but suddenly  

Onegin's gun rang out... the hour,  

The appointed hour has struck. His gun 

The poet drops silently, a setting sun. 

 XXXI.  

He puts his hand upon his breast,  

Quietly, and falls. A darkening mist  

Betrays cold death, not just a wound,  

Slowly he falls, as from a hill's slant side  

Shining and sparkling in the sun,  

Tumbles a snowy block of ice.  

Struck by a chill, silent and numb,  

Onegin runs up to the youth's side,  

Looks at him, calls... All is in vain.  

He is no more. The youthful singer  

Has found a harsh, untimely doom.  

The storm is blown out, the glorious bloom  

Has faded in the morning's rays,  

Extinguished is the altar's blaze !...

XXXII.  

Motionless he lies, both strange and eerie  

Is the languid torpor of his face.  

His chest was opened with a gaping gully,  

Steaming, the blood flowed out apace.  

Yet but one instant formerly  

Within this heart the poet's frenzy  

Had beaten, hope, love, enmity,  

Full life had blossomed, blood had seethed;  

And now, as a deserted mansion,  

All is shut off, silent, and still;  

All there is quiet that once had breathed.  

Closed are the shutters, windows barred,  

And whitened. No master's face  

Appears. But where? God knows. There is no trace. 

 XXXIII.  

Pleasant it is with a sharp remark  

To enrage an occasional enemy,  

Pleasant to see him stubbornly,  

Bending his horned physiognomy  

To look unwillingly in the glass,  

And shudder to see his stupid face.  

More pleasant still, if he, my friends  

Calls out in folly as he bends:  

"It's me !" But pleasantest of all  

In silence to arrange his goodly burial,  

And quietly to aim at his pale head  

Across the measured duel's space;  

But to send him off to Hades' hall  

Will not be pleasant for you at all. 

XXXIV.  

And what if, by your pistol's shot,  

Wounded, a young friend lies, and sinking,  

For some unthinking look or hot  

Retort, or other thing most trifling,  

Which offended you as you sat drinking,  

Or else, if in his spiteful rage,  

He proudly challenged you to a duel,  

Say then, in your secret soul,  

What feeling overwhelms you then  

When on the ground before you stretched,  

Death on his forehead, lies the poor wretch,  

His body in rigor mortis stiffening;  

When to your heartfelt, desperate call,  

His deaf, dumb mouth replies not at all. 

 XXXV.  

Gripped by the pangs of deep remorse,  

His hand still clutching his pistol tightly,  

Yevgeny looks down on dead Lensky.  

"Well", says Zaretsky, "he's dead of course."  

Dead ! ... With this stark, terrible pronouncement  

Quite stricken, Onegin, shuddering,  

Turns round and calls aid from the servant.  

Zaretsky carefully puts in his sleigh  

The stone cold corpse from where it lay,  

And carries the dreadful burden home.  

Smelling a corpse, the horses snorting  

Kick up their feet, covering with foam  

The steel bright harness and the bits, 

Flying as fast as an arrow flits. 

XXXVI.  

My friends, perhaps for the poet you weep:  

Cut off in the flower of happy hopes,  

Not yet having brought them all from sleep,  

Scarce having left his childish clothes,  

He fades. Where now is the burning passion,  

Where is the noble vast ambition,  

In thought and feeling, the young emotion,  

Lofty and tender, seeking an ocean  

To roam in? Where are love's storms?  

The thirst for knowledge and for toil?  

The fear of vice and of shame's despoil?  

And you, alluring, clear ideals,  

You, phantom of a life unearthly,  

You, dreams of sanctified poesy! 

 XXXVII.  

Perhaps for the world's improvement or  

For fame at least he was created.  

His now for ever silent lyre  

Resounding song could have inspired  

For age on age. The poet's fame  

Perhaps upon Parnassus' steps  

Would mount on high. Alas, alas, 

Perhaps his suffering, gibbering ghost  

Carried away with it the lost  

And holy secret, and for us  

Gone for ever is the life-giving voice,  

And beyond the grave's dark terminus  

No hymn can reach, or people's praises,  

Or the eternal thanksgiving of all ages. 

 XL.  

But what must be must be, dear reader.  

Alas, the young and tender lover,  

The poet, meditative dreamer,  

Was slain by the hand of his young friend. 

There is a spot, as you leave the village 

Where lived the lofty inspired poet,  

Where two pines intertwine their roots;  

Beneath them meandering rivulets  

Moisten a nearby valley's brakes. 

And there the shepherd loves to rest,  

And reapers come their thirst to slake, 

Their clinking jugs in the waters dipping.  

There by the stream in the thick glades  

A simple memorial stands in the shades. 

Near hills, which lie in half a circle, 

We'll make our way to where a stream  

Around a meadow runs and gurgles,  

To a river, through a wood of limes.  

There the nightingale, the Spring's lover,  

Sings all night long; the wild thyme blows,  

And sounds of waters sweetly hover ―  

There is the poet's memorial stone,  

In the shade of two old crooked pines,  

And to the traveller the inscription shows:  

"Vladimir Lensky the poet lies here,  

Who early found the grave's release 

At such and such age, in such and such year,  

Rest, youthful poet, rest in peace". 

On a sloping pine branch, downward bending  

Often an early morning breeze  

Over the peaceful gravestone wending 

Rocked to and fro a silent wreath.  

And often, when the sky was darkened,  

Arm in arm two friends came here, 

And in the moonlight sat and hearkened,  

Embraced each other, and shed a tear.  

Then slowly back to the open country 
She paces, plunged in reverie; 
For long her soul unconsciously 
Broods on the fate of the mortal Lensky; 
She thinks " What then became of Olga? 
Was it for long her heart was torn, 
Or did the time of tears forlorn 
Pass quickly by? And where's her sister? 
And where lives that outcast wanderer, 
Modish hater of modish beauties, 
Where now is that gloomy, freakish man, 
The young poet's untimely slaughterer? 
An account of all that passed I'll try 
To give in detail, but by and by. 

But now... forgotten lies the stone;  

The pathway there is overgrown,  

And the branch of its old wreath is bare.  

Alone in its shade, wrinkled with care,  

The same old shepherd sings, and sits 

Plaiting his shoes with wooden strips. 

My poor Lensky. Not long did Olga  

Grieving for you, weep for your fate.  

Alas! Young girls keep faith no longer,  

Their sorrow has an uncertain date.  

Another came and took her fancy,  

Another who swamped her very soul  

With love's sweet lore and flattery.  

A Cossack who bewitched her utterly;  

A Cossack she loves with love unending.  

And now beneath the altar standing,  

With modest grace under the wedding crown,  

She stands and blushes, her eyes cast down,  

Her head is bowed, her heartbeat skips,  

And a light smile flutters upon her lips. 

Alas poor Lensky ! In the grave's remoteness  

In the bourn of silent eternity,  

Was the mournful singer cast down, no less,  

By the fateful news of this treachery?  

Or else, over Lethe soundly sleeping,  

Does the poet in blissful forgetfulness  

Sleep on, undisturbed by anything?  

Is the world for him both closed and dumb?...  

So be it ! Impartial oblivion  

Awaits us all where the grave extends  

Its shade. Enemies, lovers, friends  

Are suddenly silent. But the estate  

Awakes a throng of troublesome boors,  

The indecent quarrels of inheritors.

And soon the ringing voice of Olga  

In the Larins' home is heard no more.  

The Cossack a slave to his army life  

Must take to the regiment his new found wife.  

Her face half swimming in bitter tears,  

The old mother, with her daughter parting 

It seems was scarcely less than breathing.  

But Tanya could not bring herself to cry;  

Only a pallor wan and deathly  

Covered her face with melancholy.  

When all went out on the porch for blessing,  

With all the kissing, fussing, pressing  

Around the carriage of the young pair,  

Tatyana went with them and said a prayer. 

ANOTHER TRANSLATION

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.



XXVIII


"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; 

Oneguine 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 

Oneguine fired—Alas! alas! 

The poet's hour hath sounded—See! 

He drops his pistol silently.



XXIX


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.



XXX


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.



XXXI


'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.



XXXII


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?



XXXIII


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 

Oneguine 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.



XXXIV


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?



XXXV


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.






XXXVII


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.




Let us proceed unto a rill, 

Which in a hilly neighbourhood 

Seeks, winding amid meadows still, 

The river through the linden wood. 

The nightingale there all night long, 

Spring's paramour, pours forth her song 

The fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, 

And lo! where lies a marble tomb 

And two old pines their branches spread— 

"Vladimir Lenski lies beneath, 

Who early died a gallant death," 

Thereon the passing traveller read: 

"The date, his fleeting years how long— 

Repose in peace, thou child of song."

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.






VII


Time was, the breath of early dawn 

Would agitate a mystic wreath 

Hung on a pine branch earthward drawn 

Above the humble urn of death. 

Time was, two maidens from their home 

At eventide would hither come, 

And, by the light the moonbeams gave, 

Lament, embrace upon that grave. 

But now—none heeds the monument 

Of woe: effaced the pathway now: 

There is no wreath upon the bough: 

Alone beside it, gray and bent, 

As formerly the shepherd sits 

And his poor basten sandal knits.



VIII


My poor Vladimir, bitter tears 

Thee but a little space bewept, 

Faithless, alas! thy maid appears, 

Nor true unto her sorrow kept. 

Another could her heart engage, 

Another could her woe assuage 

By flattery and lover's art— 

A lancer captivates her heart! 

A lancer her soul dotes upon: 

Before the altar, lo! the pair, 

Mark ye with what a modest air

She bows her head beneath the crown;

Behold her downcast eyes which glow, 

Her lips where light smiles come and go!





IX


My poor Vladimir! In the tomb, 

Passed into dull eternity, 

Was the sad poet filled with gloom, 

Hearing the fatal perfidy? 

Or, beyond Lethe lulled to rest, 

Hath the bard, by indifference blest, 

Callous to all on earth become— 

Is the world to him sealed and dumb? 

The same unmoved oblivion 

On us beyond the grave attends, 

The voice of lovers, foes, and friends, 

Dies suddenly: of heirs alone 

Remains on earth the unseemly rage, 

Whilst struggling for the heritage.



X


Soon Olga's accents shrill resound 

No longer through her former home; 

The lancer, to his calling bound, 

Back to his regiment must roam. 

The aged mother, bathed in tears, 

Distracted by her grief appears 

When the hour came to bid good-bye— 

But my Tatiana's eyes were dry. 

Only her countenance assumed 

A deadly pallor, air distressed; 

When all around the entrance pressed, 

To say farewell, and fussed and fumed 

Around the carriage of the pair— 

Tatiana gently led them there.

XXX



« Maintenant avancez-vous. » Avec sang-froid, sans se viser encore, d’un pied lent et ferme, les deux ennemis font quatre pas, quatre degrés vers la mort. Onéguine, continuant à s’avancer, lève le premier et lentement son pistolet. Ils font encore cinq pas, et Lenski, fermant l’œil gauche, se met à viser aussi. Soudain, Onéguine tire… L’heure fatale a sonné ; le poëte laisse échapper son arme en silence,



XXXI



Pose doucement sa main sur sa poitrine, et tombe. Ce n’est pas la souffrance, c’est la mort qu’exprime son œil déjà voilé. Ainsi, glissant avec lenteur sur le flanc d’une colline, et jetant de pâles étincelles sous les rayons du soleil, s’écroule un bloc de neige au printemps. Glacé d’un froid subit, Onéguine s’élance vers l’adolescent. Il se penche sur son corps, il l’appelle ; en vain. Le poëte est mort. Cette jeune vie a trouvé sa fin. L’orage a soufflé, la fleur s’est flétrie dès l’aurore ; le feu s’est éteint sur l’autel.



XXXII



Il était étendu, immobile ; et étrange était la paisible langueur de son front. La balle avait traversé sa poitrine, et le sang s’échappait en fumant de la blessure. Une minute avant, fermentaient dans ce cœur l’enthousiasme, la haine, l’espérance et l’amour ; la vie y bouillonnait en flots ardents. À présent, comme dans une maison abandonnée, tout y est tranquille et sombre ; tout y est muet pour jamais. Les volets sont fermés, les fenêtres mêmes sont blanchies à la chaux ; la maîtresse est partie. Où est-elle allée ? nul ne le sait.




XXXIII



Il est agréable, par une épigramme insolente, de mettre hors de lui un ennemi pris au dépourvu ; il est agréable de voir comment, penchant avec obstination ses lourdes cornes, il jette un regard de travers dans le miroir qu’on lui présente et craint de s’y reconnaître ; il est encore plus agréable de l’entendre beugler bêtement : « C’est moi. » Il y a même un certain plaisir à lui préparer une sépulture honorable en visant avec soin son front pâli, à une distance voulue entre gentilshommes. Mais qui trouverait des charmes à le renvoyer définitivement auprès de ses ancêtres ?



XXXIV



Que dire alors si votre arme a frappé un jeune ami qui vous aurait offensé, devant une bouteille, par un regard provoquant ou une brusque réponse, ou quelque autre misère, ou même qui vous aurait appelé au combat dans un élan de dépit ? Dites, quel sentiment s’emparera de votre âme, quand, là, sur la terre, immobile à vos pieds et l’empreinte de la mort sur les traits, il se contracte et se roidit peu à peu ? Quand il reste sourd, inerte, à votre appel désespéré ?

 XXXV



Déchiré de remords, sa main pressant convulsivement le pistolet, Onéguine regardait Lenski. « Eh bien, quoi ? il est tué ; » décida le voisin. Il est tué ! Foudroyé par cette exclamation terrible, Onéguine s’éloigne en frémissant et appelle ses valets. Zaretski pose soigneusement sur le traîneau le corps déjà glacé ; il va apporter à la maison ce fardeau sinistre. Flairant un cadavre, les chevaux renâclent et se cabrent ; ils blanchissent d’écume leur mors d’acier, et partent comme la flèche.



XXXVI



Ô mes amis, vous prenez pitié du poëte. Dans la fleur de ses joyeuses espérances, n’ayant pas encore eu le temps de rien achever, à peine sorti des langes de l’enfance, il est tombé. Où sont les agitations ardentes, les élans généreux, les sentiments et les pensées jeunes, élevés, tendres, hardis ? Où sont les désirs infinis de l’amour, et la soif de la science et du travail, et la terreur du mal et de la honte ? Et vous, illusions mystérieuses, vous, apparitions d’une vie qui n’est point celle de la terre, vous, rêves de la sainte poésie ?






XXXVII



Il était né peut-être pour le bien du monde, au moins pour la gloire. Sa lyre, soudainement muette, aurait pu prolonger dans les siècles un son toujours grandissant. Peut-être, s’il eût monté les degrés de la vie, un haut degré l’attendait. Son ombre de martyr a peut-être emporté avec elle un secret sacré. Une voix vivifiante a péri pour nous ; et, au delà de la muette limite du tombeau, n’arriveront pas jusqu’à elle l’hymne solennel des siècles et les bénédictions de la postérité.

XXXIX



Quoi qu’il en fût advenu, ô lecteur, hélas ! le jeune amoureux, le poëte, le rêveur mélancolique a péri par la main d’un ami. Il est un endroit, non loin du village qu’habitait le nourrisson de la muse ; deux pins ont entrelacé leurs racines ; les eaux du ruisseau de la vallée voisine sont venues y former un petit lac ; le laboureur aime à reposer sur ses bords, et les moissonneuses viennent plonger dans les ondes froides leurs cruches sonores. Là, sous l’ombre épaisse, on a posé une simple pierre.




Allons là-bas où, venu des collines couchées en demi-cercle, le ruisseau coule en serpentant vers la rivière, à travers la prairie verte et le bois de tilleuls. Là, le rossignol, amant du printemps, chante toute la nuit. L’églantine y fleurit, et l’on y entend le murmure des eaux. Plus loin, se voit une pierre funéraire sous l’ombre de deux pins blanchis de vieillesse. Là, une inscription dit aux passants : « Ci-gît Vladimir Lenski, mort trop tôt de la mort des âmes hardies, en telle année, à tel âge. Repose en paix, poëte adolescent. »




Naguère le vent du matin balançait une couronne mystérieuse suspendue à la branche de pin inclinée sur l’humble monument ; naguère deux amies venaient là, le soir, et, assises aux rayons de la lune, elles pleuraient en se tenant embrassées. 



Puis elle s’éloigne au pas, plongée dans de longues réflexions. Involontairement soucieuse du destin de Lenski, elle se demande ce qu’est devenue Olga. Son cœur a-t-il longtemps saigné ? ou bien le temps des larmes a-t-il passé vite ? Et sa sœur, qu’est-elle devenue ? Et lui, cet original farouche, ce fuyard des hommes et du monde, cet ennemi à la mode des beautés à la mode, le meurtrier du jeune poëte, où est-il ? À ces questions je donnerai avec le temps une réponse détaillée ;



Et maintenant… le triste monument est oublié. L’herbe a poussé sur le sentier qu’on avait frayé à l’entour. Il n’y a plus de couronne à la branche. Seul, le berger, vieux et cassé, y chante comme autrefois en tissant sa pauvre chaussure.





Pauvre Lenski ! le chagrin d’Olga ne la fit pas pleurer longtemps. Hélas ! toute jeune fille est infidèle à sa douleur. Un autre sut attirer son attention et endormir sa souffrance par d’amoureuses flatteries. Ce fut un uhlan. Un uhlan fut choisi par son âme. Et déjà, elle se tient devant l’autel, la tête pudiquement baissée sous sa couronne, le feu du bonheur dans ses yeux qui ne se lèvent point et un léger sourire errant sur ses lèvres.










Pauvre Lenski ! Dans son tombeau, enveloppé de la sourde éternité, s’est-il troublé à la fatale nouvelle de cette trahison ? Ou bien, penché sur le Léthé, somnolent et heureux de son insensibilité, le poëte n’est-il plus touché de rien, et le monde entier est-il muet et fermé devant lui ? Oui, l’oubli et l’indifférence nous attendent tous au delà du tombeau. La voix des ennemis, des amis, des amantes, cesse à l’instant même, et si nous pouvions entendre quelque chose, ce serait le chœur hargneux de nos héritiers qui se livrent à des querelles indécentes.











La voix sonore d’Olga cessa bientôt aussi de retentir dans la famille des Larine. Le uhlan, esclave de son service, fut obligé de partir avec elle pour le régiment. La maman, disant adieu à sa fille, répandit des torrents de larmes et sembla cesser de vivre. Mais Tania ne put pas pleurer. Seulement son triste visage se couvrit d’une pâleur mortelle. Quand toute la famille se pressait sur le perron et autour de la voiture des jeunes époux pour leur adresser le dernier adieu, Tatiana vint aussi les reconduire.