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!
XLVI
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!
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
“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.”
XLIX
“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!
L
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.
LI
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.