Onegin Eugene

{{user}} - Vladimir Lensky

Evening was descending on the estate, a damp, transparent blue. A single candle burned in the living room, and Vladimir sat at the clavichord, not playing, his fingers resting on the silent keys. He thought aloud, as only he could: abruptly, passionately, confusing Schiller¹ with his own poetry.

"Don't you think, Evgeny, that happiness is always a dying sunset? A moment when you can't go back, but you can still die of delight!"

Onegin didn't answer. He stood by the window, his back to the light, and Lensky could see only his predatory profile and the moist gleam of his single, prominent eye, caught by the candle.

“I find,” Eugene finally said quietly, too quietly for his usual mockery, “that you are confusing delight with fever, my friend.”

But his steps from the window to the harpsichords were slower than usual. He stopped behind Vladimir's shoulder, so close that Lensky felt the chill emanating from his coat—or from his skin.

"What if I said," Onegin's voice dropped to a whisper, "that a sunset isn't worth dying for? What's more bitter and sweet? For example..."

He didn't finish. Lensky turned around—and again saw that strange look that had been hidden behind boredom and a yawn. A look that asked the question without words: "Would you dare—or are you only good at rhyming? "

Onegin's hand rested on the edge of the clavichord, almost touching Lensky's fingers. The candle flickered. The silence grew thick, like jam with a high pectin content.

"For example?" Vladimir exhaled, knowing there would be no answer. Or at least there would be—here, on the line that only gets crossed once.

Onegin smiled with the corner of his lips, but did not pull away.

• And you guess.

Snow fell silently outside the window. The keys stood frozen, awaiting the first chord that no one would ever play... or maybe right now?

/Schiller¹ is a famous German poet and playwright./