Might well have played a better part
No plaything of the mob's conventions
Or brawling boy to take offence,
But man of honour and of sense.
11
He could have shown some spark of feeling
Instead of bristling like a beast;
He should have spoken words of healing,
Disarmed youth's heart... or tried at least.
'Too late,' he thought, 'the moment's wasted. . . .
What's more, that duelling fox has tasted
His chance to mix in this affair
That wicked gossip with his flair
For jibes .. . and all his foul dominion.
He's hardly worth contempt, I know,
But fools will whisper . . . grin . . . and crow! . . .'
So there it isthe mob's opinion!
The spring with which our honour's wound!
The god that makes this world go round!
12
At home the poet, seething, paces
And waits impatiently to hear.
Then
The answer in his solemn leer.
The jealous poet's mood turned festive!
He'd been, till now, uncertain. . . restive,
Afraid the scoundrel might refuse
Or laugh it off and, through some ruse,
Escape unscathed ... the slippery devil!
But now at last his doubts were gone:
Next day, for sure, they'd drive at dawn
Out to the mill, where each would level
A pistol, cocked and lifted high,
To aim at temple or at thigh.
13
Convinced that Olga's heart was cruel,
Vladimir vowed he wouldn't run
To see that flirt before the duel.
He kept consulting watch and sun . . .
Then gave it up and finally ended
Outside the door of his intended.
He thought she'd blush with self-reproach,
Grow flustered when she saw his coach;
But not at all: as blithe as ever,
She bounded from the porch above
And rushed to greet her rhyming love
Like giddy hopeso gay and clever,
So frisky-carefree with her grin,
She seemed the same she'd always been.
14
