Goes out of us when youth is dead
And my Zaretsky, as I've said,
Neath flow'ring cherries and acacias,
Secure at last from tempest's rage,
Lives out his life a proper sage,
Plants cabbages like old Horatius,
Breeds ducks and geese, and oversees
His children at their ABCs.
8
He was no fool; and consequently
(Although he thought him lacking heart),
Eugene would hear his views intently
And liked his common sense in part.
He'd spent some time with him with pleasure,
And so was not in any measure
Surprised next morning when he found,
Zaretsky had again called round;
The latter, hard upon first greeting,
And cutting off Eugene's reply,
Presented him, with gloating eye,
The poet's note about a 'meeting'.
Onegin, taking it, withdrew
And by the window read it through.
9
The note was brief in its correctness,
A proper challenge or
Politely, but with cold directness,
It called him out and did it well.
Onegin, with his first reaction,
Quite curtly offered satisfaction
And bade the envoy, if he cared,
To say that he was
Avoiding further explanation,
Zaretsky, pleading much to do,
Arose . . . and instantly withdrew.
Eugene, once left to contemplation
And face to face with his own soul,
Felt far from happy with his role.
10
And rightly so: in inquisition,
With conscience as his judge of right,
He found much wrong in his position:
First off, he'd been at fault last night
To mock in such a casual fashion
At tender love's still timid passion;
And why not let the poet rage!
A fool, at eighteen years of age,
Can be excused his rash intentions.
Eugene, who loved the youth at heart,
