XX
At home he took out pistols To check them up, then put them back
Into the box; he now bristles; Undressed, he took some Shiller’s work.
To read... but thoughts yet make him wonder His heart is sad but doesn’t slumber,
With unaccountable charms He sees his Olga in his arms...
Vladimir has the book to close; He takes a pen: his verse has got
A lot of pretty loving rot; He it declaims; the sound flows
Away in lirical a heat, He cites like Delvig, drunk at feast. {22}
XXI
By chance his verse yet anyhow Is kept by me; you read this rhyme;
‘Where are, where are withdrawn you now The golden days of life my prime?
What does next day for me prepare?
In vain I try to be aware,
The depth of mist can it conceal, Of fate right law will it reveal
But shall I fall by shaft through pierced Or will it pass beside, will slip?
All’s good: for vigil and for sleep Will come the hour well geared;
Are blessed the troubles of the day, Is blessed the darkness of the gravel
XXII
By rays of day will shine the morning And brightly will be playing clay,
But I, it may be, not adoring Will see the secrets of the grave,
The memory of bard, yet youthful, Will sink into oblivion truthful,
The world will me forget, but you My charming girl, will ever you
Some tears shed at urn my early: ‘He tell in love with me,’ to thinks
To me alone could he bring His dawn of life, such sad and stormy!’
My hearty friend, my friend beloved, You come, I’m husband yours by love!"
XXIII
His verse is sluggish and obscure (It’s called romanticism by us;
To see it here even poor I cannot; does it bother us?)
At last before the dawn of morning His tired head on table’s falling
At the ideal, fashioned word, A stilly dream my Lensky had.
But as soon as in charms of dreaming He lost himself - his neighbour comes
To silent room of bard, alarms And wakens Lensky by appealing:
‘It’s seven soon, it’s time to wake, Onegin, may be, has to wait’.
He was mistaken: sleeping fair Onegin then for world was dead,
The shades of night are now rare And Vesper’s met by cock ahead.
Onegin is deep sleep just having; The sun is now high in heaven,
And flitting quickly snow-storm Is shining, whirling. But at all
From bed Onegin wasn’t moving, The dream yet flies about him.
At last he fast awakes from dream, Apart the flaps of curtain’s moving
He looks and sees: the time is high Away from yard for mill to fly.
XXV
He hurries up to ring.
His servant Guillot from France, is running in,
He offers necessary service And dressing-gown puts on him.
Onegin’s quick to dress. Already His sernant’s ordered to be ready
Together go and with him To take the box with fighting thing.
The sledge for race is now ready, In it he’s flying to the mill;
Has come; to servant says he will Lepage’s fatal barrels steady {23}
With him be keeping, and the sledge To park in field not far from hedge.
XXVI