XLV
Of Veuve Clicquot or of Moët
the blesséd wine
in a chilled bottle for the poet
4 is brought at once upon the table.
It sparkles Hippocrenelike;25
with its briskness and froth
(a simile of this and that)
8 it used to captivate me: for its sake
my last poor lepton I was wont
to give away — remember, friends?
Its magic stream engendered
12 no dearth of foolishness,
but also lots of jokes, and verses,
and arguments, and merry dreams!
But with its noisy froth
it plays false to my stomach,
and nowadays sedate Bordeaux
4 already I've preferred to it.
For Ay I'm no longer fit,
Ay is like
a mistress, brilliant, volatile, vivacious,
8 and whimsical, and shallow.
But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend
who in grief and misfortune
is always, everywhere, a comrade,
12 ready to render us a service
or share our quiet leisure.
Long live Bordeaux, our friend!
The fire is out; barely with ashes
is filmed the golden coal;
in a barely distinguishable stream
4 the vapor weaves, and the grate faintly
exhales some warmth. The smoke of pipes
goes up the chimney. The bright goblet
amid the table fizzes yet.
8 The evening gloam comes on
(I'm fond of friendly prate
and of a friendly bowl of wine
at that time which is called
12 time between wolf and dog —
though why, I do not see).
Now the two friends converse.
“Well, how are the fair neighbors? How's Tatiana?
How is your sprightly Olga?”
“Pour me half a glass more....
4 That'll do, dear chap.... The entire family
is well; they send you salutations....
Ah, my dear chap, how beautiful the shoulders
of Olga have become!
8 Ah, what a bosom! What a soul!... Someday
let's visit them; they will appreciate it;
or else, my friend, judge for yourself —
you dropped in twice, and after that
12 you never even showed your nose.
In fact — well, what a dolt I am!
You are invited there next week.”
“I?” “Yes, Tatiana's name day
is Saturday. Ólinka and the mother
bade me ask you, and there's no reason
4 you should not come in answer to their call.”
“But there will be a mass of people
and all kinds of such scum.”
“Oh, nobody, I am quite certain.
8 Who might be there? The family only.
Let's go, do me the favor.
Well?” “I consent.” “How nice you are!”
And with these words he drained
12 his glass, a toast to the fair neighbor —
and then waxed voluble again,
talking of Olga. Such is love!
Merry he was. A fortnight hence
the blissful date was set,
and the nuptial bed's mystery
4 and love's sweet crown awaited
his transports.
Hymen's cares, woes,
yawnings' chill train,
8 he never visioned.
Whereas we, enemies of Hymen,
perceive in home life but a series
of tedious images,
12 a novel in the genre of Lafontaine.26
O my poor Lenski! For the said
life he at heart was born.
He was loved — or at least
he thought so — and was happy.
Blest hundredfold is he who is devoted
4 to faith; who, having curbed cold intellect,
in the heart's mollitude reposes
as, bedded for the night, a drunken traveler,
or (more tenderly) as a butterfly
8 absorbed in a spring flower;
but pitiful is he who foresees all,
whose head is never in a whirl,
who hates all movements and all words
12 in their interpretation,
whose heart is by experience
chilled and forbidden to get lost in dreams.
Never know these frightful dreams,
You, O my Svetlana!
Zhukovski
That year autumnal weather
was a long time abroad;
nature kept waiting and waiting for winter.
4 Snow only fell in January,
on the night of the second. Waking early,
Tatiana from the window saw
at morn the whitened yard,
8 flower beds, roofs, and fence;
delicate patterns on the panes;
the trees in winter silver,
gay magpies outside,
12 and the hills softly overspread
with winter's brilliant carpeting.
All's bright, all's white around.
Winter! The peasant, celebrating,
in a flat sledge inaugurates the track;
his naggy, having sensed the snow,
4 shambles at something like a trot.
Plowing up fluffy furrows,
a bold kibitka flies:
the driver sits upon his box
8 in sheepskin coat, red-sashed.
Here runs about a household lad,
upon a hand sled having seated “blackie,”
having transformed himself into the steed;
12 the scamp already has frozen a finger.
He finds it both painful and funny — while
his mother, from the window, threatens him...
But, maybe, pictures of this kind
will not attract you;
all this is lowly nature;
4 there is not much refinement here.
Warmed by the god of inspiration,
another poet in luxurious language
for us has painted the first snow
8 and all the shades of winter's delectations.27
He'll captivate you, I am sure of it,
when he depicts in flaming verses
secret promenades in sleigh;
12 but I have no intention of contending
either with him at present or with you,
singer of the young Finnish Maid!28
Tatiana (being Russian
at heart, herself not knowing why)
loved, in all its cold beauty,
4 a Russian winter:
rime in the sun upon a frosty day,
and sleighs, and, at late dawn,
the radiance of the rosy snows,
8 and gloam of Twelfthtide eves.
Those evenings in the ancient fashion
were celebrated in their house:
the servant girls from the whole stead
12 told their young ladies' fortunes
and every year made prophecies to them
of military husbands and the march.
Tatiana credited the lore
of plain-folk ancientry,
dreams, cartomancy,
4 prognostications by the moon.
Portents disturbed her:
mysteriously all objects
foretold her something,
8 presentiments constrained her breast.
The mannered tomcat sitting on the stove,
purring, would wash his muzzlet with his paw:
to her 'twas an indubitable sign
12 that guests were coming. Seeing all at once
the young two-horned moon's visage
in the sky on her left,
she trembled and grew pale.
Or when a falling star
along the dark sky flew
4 and dissipated, then
in agitation Tanya hastened
to whisper, while the star still rolled,
her heart's desire to it.
8 When anywhere she happened
a black monk to encounter,
or a swift hare amid the fields
would run across her path,
12 so scared she knew not what to undertake,
full of grievous forebodings,
already she expected some mishap.
Yet — in her very terror
she found a secret charm:
thus has created us
4 nature, inclined to contradictions.
Yuletide is here. Now that is joy!
Volatile youth divines —
who nought has to regret,
8 in front of whom the faraway of life
extends luminous, boundless;
old age divines, through spectacles,
at its sepulchral slab,
12 all having irrecoverably lost;
nor does it matter: hope to them
lies with its childish lisp.
