Eugene Onegin Part 17

But now its noisy effervescence Betrays my stomach, and instead I much prefer Bordeaux's quiescence Which spares the stomach and the head.

An15 I can no longer savour; An is like a woman's favour, Ravis.h.i.+ng, gay, mercurial, Impetuous and trivial...

If now Bordeaux is my addiction, It's as a friend who's always there To benefit us everywhere, Partaking sorrow and affliction, Sharing the leisure time we spend.

Long live Bordeaux, our precious friend!

47.

The fire is out; ash barely covers The golden coal; a tiny flow Of vapour, just apparent, hovers; The grate exhales the faintest glow.

And, up the chimney, pipe smoke rises.

Wine in the gleaming gla.s.s still fizzes Among the empty dinner plates.

An evening gloom acc.u.mulates...

I like a friendly chat in quiet Over a friendly bowl of wine, Above all at that special time 'Between the wolf and dog'16 (though why it Should be so called, I've no idea).

But our two friends are talking here:

48.

'How are the Larin girls, I wonder, Tatiana, sprightly Olga, tell?'

'Pour me just half a gla.s.s or under...

Enough, dear chap... the family's well And all of them send salutations.

But Olga, ah, what transformations!

Dear fellow, Olga's in her prime, What shoulders, bosom, soul!... Some time, Let's visit them, they'll be delighted; Judge for yourself, my friend, it's clear: You drop in twice, then disappear And never show a nose. They're slighted.

But I'm a fool... for as I speak, You are invited there next week.'

49.

'I?' 'Yes. The family's celebrating Tatiana's nameday, Sat.u.r.day.

Mother and Olen'ka are waiting: You've no good reason to gainsay?'

'But goodness knows what sort of rabble I shall encounter, that's the trouble...'

'I'm sure n.o.body will be there, It's just a family affair.

So let us go, do me the favour!'

'Well, yes; let's hope I'm entertained.'

'You're kind,' Vladimir said and drained His gla.s.s, a toast to his fair neighbour, Then started talking once again Of Olga a such is love's refrain!

50.

Cheerful he was a about to marry.

In just a fortnight he'd be wed.

The crown sweet love gave him to carry, The mystery of the nuptial bed Awaited Lensky's exaltations.

Hymen's concerns and tribulations, The chilling train of yawns in store He neither dreamed of nor foresaw.

While we whom Hymen will not capture Perceive in home life but a show Of tedious pictures row on row, A Lafontaine17 account of rapture...

Oh, my poor Lensky, he at heart Was born to play this very part.

51.

She loved him... or was she deceiving?

Why should a happy man suspect?

Blest he who's given to believing, Who sets aside cold intellect, Whose heart, enjoying bliss delightful, Rests like a traveller drunk at nightfall Or (gentler) like a b.u.t.terfly That settles on a flower near by; But sad is he who lacks illusion, Whose head is steady, never stirred, Who hates each impulse, every word, Foreseeing always their conclusion; Whose heart experience has chilled, Whose urge to reverie is stilled.

CHAPTER V.

Never know these fearful dreams,

You, O my Svetlana!

Zhukovsky1

I.

Winter that year arrived belated, The autumn weather not yet gone, Impatient nature waited, waited, Snow only fell in January, on The third at night-time. Early waking, Tatiana, from her window seeking, Beheld at morn the whitened court, The roof, the fence and flower plot, Delicate patterns on the windows, The trees in winter's silver frond, Gay magpies gathering beyond, And distant hills that were by winter's Resplendent carpet softly bound.

The scene is bright and white all round.

2.

Winter!... The peasant, celebrating, Climbs on his sleigh and clears a spot; Sniffing the snow and hesitating, His nag then somehow starts to trot; A daredevil kibitka2 hurries, Ploughing up fluffy snow in furrows; The driver hurtles with panache In sheepskin coat and crimson sash.

An impish household lad who's chosen To seat a small dog on his sled, And play the part of horse instead, Already has a finger frozen.

He finds it fun, the pain he scorns, His mother from her window warns...

3.

But pictures with this kind of feature Will not appeal to you, I fear, They're nothing more than lowly nature, You won't find much refinement here.

Warmed by the G.o.d of inspiration, One poet,3 rich in stylization, Has painted early snow for us In every nuance sumptuous; He'll hold you fast, there's no denying, Depicting in his fiery lay Secret excursions in a sleigh; But, in the meantime, I'm not trying To fight with either him or you, Whose Finnish Maid4 I can't outdo.

4.

Tatiana, knowing not the reason, But being Russian to the core, Adored the Russian winter season, The frosty beauty that it wore, Rime in the sun when days were freezing, The sleighs, and, at late dawn, the blazing Resplendence of the rosy snows, And Twelfth Night evenings dark and close.

And in her household these occasions Were celebrated as of old, Young ladies heard their fortunes told In servant girls' prognostications, That promised them a husband from The army with a march and drum.