Is served up chilled before the poet
And placed upon the tabletop.
It sparkles like the Muses’ fountain.
Spirited, full of fizz and flouncing
(Reminding us of that and this),
It dazzled me once; for its bliss
I would have spent my last poor lepton,
As you’ll recall, my friends. You know
The silly pranks its magic flow
Has brought about, while it has kept on
Producing jokes, verses in streams,
Wild arguments and merry dreams. 46
And yet, with its unsettling fizziness
It plays my stomach false, so now
Sedate Bordeaux is more my business.
I much prefer it, anyhow.
No more Aÿ. It leaves me listless.
Aÿ is like a lovely mistress,
Vivacious, brilliant, volatile,
Quirky and frivolous. Meanwhile,
Bordeaux, you are a good friend, present
In times of sorrow and despair,
A comrade always, everywhere,
Ministering with something pleasant
Or sharing our sweet leisure. So,
Let’s drink to our good friend, Bordeaux! 47
The fire’s gone out. A golden ember
Is dusted over with fine ash,
The curling vapour stream is slender,
And from the hearth comes just a dash
Of warmth. The pipe smoke seems to vanish
Straight up the flue. A fizzing chalice
Still shines mid-table. Now the home
Yields to encroaching evening gloam.
(I love the friendly idle chatter
And the odd friendly glass of wine
Enjoyed at what they call “the time
’Twixt wolf and dog”. Ignore the latter—
I cannot fathom things like that.)
Meanwhile the two companions chat: 48
“The ladies! How’s Tatyana faring?
Is Olga still as sharp, old man?”
“A half-glass. Be a little sparing…
That’s it, my friend… Yes, all the clan
Is fit and well. They send their greetings.
My dear chap, she is such a sweet thing—
Those lovely shoulders, and that bust!
That spirit too! We really must
Call on them soon. They’ll be delighted.
But think… It isn’t very nice—
You’ve wandered in to see then twice,
And after that you’ve not been sighted.
But listen. Who am I to speak?
You are invited there next week.” 49
“I am?” “Yes, you. It’s Tanya’s name day—
Saturday. Olga and her mum
Want you to be there. It’s their brainwave
To have you over. Why not come?”
“But people will be there in legions,
And all the riff-raff of the region…”
“No, no one will be there. Trust me.”
“Who’s coming? Only family.
Let’s go. Do them a little favour.
Yes?” “All right.” “There’s a chap.” He drank,
And thought of someone as he sank
His wine—toasting his lady neighbour—
Then he went back to talking of
His darling Olga. Such is love! 50
His mood was merry. Two weeks later
Bliss beckoned—they had fixed the date.
The secret marriage bed… No sweeter
Love garland could one contemplate,
With his anticipation climbing.
Meanwhile the cares and woes of Hymen,
The long-extended trail of yawns,
Upon his thinking never dawned.
We hymen-haters can discover
In domesticity a rut
Of tedious scenes and nothing but—
As in a La Fontaine-style novel.
Poor Lensky, though his heart was bliss,
Was born to live a life like this. 51
And he was loved… At least he needed
To think so. Happy was the thought.
Blest hundredfold is the believer
Who sets his chilling mind at naught
And rests in heartfelt joy, reposing
Like a drunk tramp abed and dozing,
Or like a butterfly (less gloom!)
Swooning in spring upon its bloom.
But pity him who has forebodings,
Whose mind is set and never whirls,
Who views all movement, and all words
That carry extra sense, with loathing.
His heart is chilled by life, it seems,
And barred from dreaming woozy dreams.
* Morality is in the nature of things. (French.)
CHAPTER FIVE
May you never know these nightmares, My dear Svetlana.
ZHUKÓVSKY
1
That year the weather stayed with autumn,
As if the world outside had slowed,
But winter waited—then it caught them
In January, when it snowed,
The third night. Up betimes, Tatyana
Looked through the windowpane to garner
A picture of the white world hence—
The flowerbeds and the roofs and fence,
The windowpanes with gentle patterns,
Trees in their winter silver, hard,
With happy magpies in the yard
And all the hillocks smoothly flattened.
A brilliant white had overset
All things with winter’s coverlet. 2
Winter! A sledding peasant revels
In ploughing through a virgin plot.
His pony, snuffling snow, bedevilled,
Gets through it at a struggling trot.
A covered sleigh flies past, and flurries
Of powdered snow rise as it scurries.
The seated coachman in a flash
Speeds by in long coat and red sash.
A peasant lad, the little tinker,
Runs round with Blackie as his fare
And him the horse. Without a care,
The scamp ignores his frozen finger,
Which hurts a bit, and still he laughs
At mummy scolding through the glass. 3
But you may think this kind of picture
Is hardly worth a second glance.
Here’s Nature mean and unrestricted,
Deprived of any elegance.
Warmly inspired, as if divinely,
Another bard, of verbal finery,
Has shown us first snow and displayed
Winter delights of every shade.
I know he’ll charm you with his talent,
His use of keen poetic skills
On sleigh rides with their secret thrills!
But neither poet do I challenge,
Not him, not you. Be not afraid,
Singer of that young Finnish maid. 4
The Russian spirit deep within her
Made Tanya inexplicably
A lover of our Russian winter,
So cold and beautiful to see,
The rimy sheen in frosty sunshine,
Sledging in the late dawn and, sometimes,
The bright pink texture of the snow,
Its January evening glow…
They marked the church days after Christmas
The old way, in the evenings there,
And maids came in from everywhere
To guess the fortune of each mistress.
Each year, the same thing: what’s in store?
A soldier husband and a war. 5
Tanya loved legends from all quarters,
To old tales she was well attuned,
And dreams, and cards, and telling fortunes,
Prognostications by the moon.
Omens of every kind upset her,
And everything was a begetter
Of mystery amid dismay.
Forebodings took her breath away.
If Snobs, the cat, sat on his oven
And purred, pawing to clean his face,
This was a definite foretaste
Of coming visitors. Above her,
If a young crescent moon was heft
Into the heavens from the left— 6
She would turn pale and give a shudder,
And if a shooting star should speed
Through the dark firmament above her
And shower down, ah, then indeed
Tanya made haste in great confusion,
While the said star was downward cruising,
To whisper forth her heart’s desire.
If a chance meeting should transpire
To place a black-robed monk before her,
Or if a swift hare shot across
Her field path, she was at a loss,
Deciding what to do, from horror,
And, full of premonitions, she