Its hatreds, hopes, and loves still beat,
Its blood ran hot with life's own heat.
But now, as in a house deserted,
Inside itall is hushed and stark,
Gone silent and forever dark.
The window boards have been inserted,
The panes chalked white. The owner's fled;
But where, God knows. All trace is dead.
33
With epigrams of spite and daring
It's pleasant to provoke a foe;
It's pleasant when you see him staring
His stubborn, thrusting horns held low
Unwillingly within the mirror,
Ashamed to see himself the clearer;
More pleasant yet, my friends, if he
Shrieks out in stupid shock: that's me!
Still pleasanter is mute insistence
On granting him his resting place
By shooting at his pallid face
From some quite gentlemanly distance.
But once you've had your fatal fun,
You won't be pleased to see it done.
34
And what would be your own reaction
If with your pistol you'd struck down
A youthful friend for some infraction:
A bold reply, too blunt a frown,
Some bagatelle when you'd been drinking;
Or what if he himself, not thinking,
Had called you out in fiery pride?
Well, tell me: what would you . . . inside
Be thinking of... or merely feeling,
Were your good friend before you now,
Stretched out with death upon his brow,
His blood by slow degrees congealing,
Too deaf and still to make reply
To your repeated, desperate cry?
35
In anguish, with his heart forsaken,
The pistol in his hand like lead,
Eugene stared down at Lensky, shaken.
His neighbour spoke: 'Well then, he's dead.'
The awful word, so lightly uttered,
Was like a blow. Onegin shuddered,
Then called his men and walked away.
Zaretsky, carefully, then lay
The frozen corpse on sleigh, preparing
To drive the body home once more.
Sensing the dreadful load they bore,
