Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

   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.

   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.