At fire-place the table’s lain: Onegin’s waiting - Lensky’s speeding
On roan horses, three abrest; Arid let’s have dinner before rest!
XLV
Of ‘Clicquot widow’ or ‘Moet` Some blessed and fine the dry white wine
In icy bottle for the poet Sometimes is brought at proper time.
I It sparkles by Hippocrene’s role, It was by own play and foam
(Which seemed to be like this and that) Me captivating; and for that
I last and poor mite was giving For you myself, remember this;
But its magestic merry fizz Caused foolishness and some misgiving,
And many verses, jokes, whims, And arguments, and merry dreams.
XLVI
But it betrays with froth imprudent My stomack. I have never sought
It now; but ‘Bordeaux’ prudent To-day to others nave prefered.
Some wines to me are not ajusted, Remind a lady-lover rusted,
Which’s shiny, windy and alive, But selfish, idle, thirsts for thrive.
And you, ‘Bordeaux’ you came friendly, Like friend in trouble and in grief,
You are like comrade, 1 believe, To help are ready always gently,
Can share stillness of pastimes; Long live
‘Bordeaux’ all the times!
XLVII
The fire’s dead; and under ashes Like gold is the coal’s crust;
A jet of steam yet hardly flashes, its whirling, vanishes at last.
The fire-place is fading...
Smoke From pipes to chimney flies.
A bowl
On table’s hissing yet, forlorn...
The evening darkness comes along...
I like the friendly idle speakings And friendly howl of sweet wine
(At season, which is called meanwhile The time of wolf and dog for meetings,
But why? I don’t grasp it yet). {14} And now friends enjoy a chat..
XLUIII
‘But how are Tatyana, neighbours, And Olga, frisky pretty girl?’
- To pour half-glass you do a favour...
Enough, my dear...
Healthy all...
Regards of them to you I’m giving.
Ah, dear, all my inner feeling
Adores my Olga: figure, breast!
You’ll see: they all become the bosh
Let’s visit them; you’ll be obliging: Or otherwise you judge yourself:
You came two times, but then of self You don’t make them yet reminding
And thus... But what a fool I am I They call you: come next week to them.-
XLIX
‘Me?’ - Yes, Tatyana’s name-day happy Will be on Saturday...
They call, And no reason, even gappy, You have for not to come at all.-
‘But they will have a throng of people And all the other rabble feeble..?.
-But no one...
Pm sure... none, They’ll be the family, the one.
Let’s go, do thorn such a favour!
And what? -