Alexander Blok
The Stranger

These evenings over the restaurants
The air is hot and strangely cloying,
And shouts drift from the drunkards’ haunts
On the putrid breath of spring.

Far off, over dusty side streets can be seen —
Over snug villas mile on mile —
The golden flint of a baker’s sign,
And one can hear the children wail.

And every evening, past the level —
Crossing, the jocular swells,
Bowlers tilted at a rakish angle,
Stroll between ditches with their girls.

Over the lake the oarlocks scraping
And women screeching can be heard,
And in a sky inured to everything
The moon leers down like a drunkard.

Each evening my one and only friend,
Reflected at my glass’s brink,
Like me is fuddled and constrained
By the thick, mysterious drink.

And next to us, at the tables beside
Our table, somnolent waiters pass
And drunks to one another, rabbit-eyed,
Call out “In vino veritas.”

Each evening, at the appointed moment
(Or is this only in a dream?)
A girl’s shape in a silken garment
Shows dark against the window’s steam.

And slowly between the drunkards weaving,
As always unescorted, there
She sits down by the window, leaving
A mist of perfume on the air.

And a breath of ancient legends gathers
About her silk dress as it swings,
About her hat with its mourning feathers,
And her slender hand with its rings.

And rooted there by this curious presence,
I search the shadowy veil once more
And through it see an enchanted distance
Beyond an enchanted shore.

Vague confidences in my ear are loosed,
And the sun is suddenly mine,
And every crevice of my soul is sluiced
And flooded by the sticky wine.

And now the nodding ostrich-feather plume
Begins to hypnotize my brain,
And eyes that are unfathomable bloom
Blue on a distant shore again.

Deep in my soul there lies a treasure;
The only key to it is mine!
And you are right, you drunken monster!
I know now: there is truth in wine.

Translated by Peter France and Jon Stallworthy