But thou, fair maiden, wilt thou come!
To shed a tear in desolation
And think at my untimely grave:
He loved me and for me he gave
His mournful life in consecration! . . .
Beloved friend, sweet friend, I wait,
Oh, come, Oh, come, I am thy mate!'
23
He wrote thus
(We say 'romantically'although,
That's not romanticism, surely;
And if it is, who wants to know?)
But then at last, as it was dawning,
With drooping head and frequent yawning,
Upon the modish word 'ideal'
Vladimir gently dozed for real;
But sleep had hardly come to take him
Off to be charmed by dreams and cheered,
When in that silent room appeared
His neighbour, calling out to wake him:
'It's time to rise! Past six . . . come on!
I'll bet Onegin woke at dawn.'
24
But he was wrong; that idle sinner
Was sleeping soundly even then.
But now the shades of night grow thinner,
The cock hails Vesper once again;
Yet still Onegin slumbers deeply.
But now the sun climbs heaven steeply,
And gusting snowflakes flash and spin,
But still Onegin lies within
And hasn't stirred; still slumber hovers
Above his bed and holds him fast.
But now he slowly wakes at last,
Draws back the curtains and his covers,
Looks outand sees with some dismay,
He'd better leave without delay.
25
He rings in haste and, with a racket,
His French valet, Guillot, runs in
With slippers and a dressing jacket,
And fresh new linen from the bin.
Onegin, dressing in a flurry,
Instructs his man as well to hurry:
They're leaving for the duelling place,
Guillot's to fetch the pistol case.
The sleigh's prepared; his pacing ceases;
He climbs aboard and off they go.
They reach the mill. He bids Guillot
