Alexander Pushkin
19 october

The woods have cast their crimson foliage,
The faded field is silvery with frost;
The sun no sooner glimmers than it's lost
Behind drab hills; the world's hermitage.
Burn brightly, pine-logs, in my lonely cell;
And you, wine, friend to chilly autumn days,
Pour into me a comfortable haze,
Brief respite from the torments of my soul.

Perhaps some friend is driving up by stealth,
Hoping to surprise me; his face will press
Against my window; I'll rush out, embrace
Him warmly, from the heart, then drink his health
And talk, and laugh away our separation
Till dawn. I drink alone; no one will come;
The friends who crow around me in this room
Are phantoms born of my imagination.

I drink alone, while on the Neva's banks
My comrades speak my name, propose a toast...
And who besides myself has missed the feast?
Are there not other spaces in your ranks?
Who else betrays the ritual gathering?
Who has been snatched away by the cold world?
Whose voice is silent when the roll is called?
Who has not come? Who's absent from the ring?

Our curly-headed songster is not there,
With his sweet-tuned guitar and blazing eyes;
Beneath fair myrtles and Italian skies
He calmy sleeps; and on his sepulchre
No friendly chisel has cut out a verse
In Russian, which some stranger in exile
Who wanders there might see, and pause awhile
To mourn a fellow-countryman's resting-place.

And are you seated at the gathering,
Horizon-seeker, you unresting soul,
Or are you off again, for the north pole
And the hot tropics? Pleasant voyaging!
I'm envious of you! Ever since you strode
Out of the school-gates, smiling, and leapt on
The first convenient ship, you've been the son
Of waves and storms, the sea has been your road.

Yet in your wanderings you have faithfully
Preserved the spirit of our boyhood years:
Amid the gales still echoed in yours ears
The shouts and merriment of Tsarskoye;
You stretch a hand to us, we know we ride
Safe in your heart wherever you may sail;
And I recall your words: 'It's possible
Our fate is to be scattered far and wide!'

How excellent our union is, how rare!
Beating with one pulse still, as when we first
Linked fast in love, by friendly muses nursed;
In perfect freedom, perfectly secure.
Wherever fate decrees that we must go,
Wherever fortune leads us by the hand,
We're still the same: the world a foreign land,
Our mother country — Tsarskoye Selo.

From place to place driven by the storm, and caught
In nets of a harsh fate, I sought to rest
My weary head upon new friendship's breast,
And trembled when I found what I had sought.
But I deceived myself; for though I gave
My heart with all the ardency of youth,
Bitterly I found that trust, and truth,
Were far away in Petersburg, or the grave.

And then, here in this haunt of freezing winds
And blizzards, hope renewed itself, I found
Green shoots emerging from the stony ground;
A brief, sweet solace. Three of you, dear friends,
I embraced here! I could not speak for joy
When you, first, Pushchin, called on me, and chased
Away the dismal thoughts of a disgraced
Poet, as once you cheered a lonely boy.

And you, whom fortune always blessed, I greet you,
Dear Gorchakov! The frigid glare of fame
Has not impaired your heart; you are the same
Free spirit, loyal to your friends and virtue.
Widely divergent are the paths we trace;
Life early separated us; and yet,
When on a country road by chance we met,
There was a brother's warmth in your embrace.

When I was envious even of the shades
Who share my house, since every face had turned
Against me, even my famiy, I yearned
For you, enchanter of Permessian maids,
My Delvig — and you came, amazingly!
You child of inspired indolence, your voice
Re-kindled fires and made my heart rejoice
At the benevolence of my destiny.

The spirit of song was present in us both,
We shared its agitation and delight
When we were young; two muses paused in flight
And lit on us, nursing each tender growth.
But I grew greedy for applause; your pride
Made you sing for the muses and your soul;
I squandered my whole life, a prodigal;
In quietness your talents multiplied.

The muses won't allow frivolity,
To serve the beautiful one must be sober.
But April's whisper is not like October,
Wordly desires work on us devilishly...
We try to call a halt — but it's too late!
We turn round, try to find our lost tracks through
The snow, but can't. That's how it was with you
And I, Wilhelm, my brother in art and fate!

It's time, it's time! The world's not worth the fret
Of all that hunting fever: come, Wilhelm,
Join me here where that fever can grow calm
In solitude. I wait for you; you're late —
Brighten my embers, let our discourse move
Like dawn across those wild Causasian heights
You and I knew; and where a through! alights
Let's muse awhile — on Schiller, fame, or love.

For me, too, it is time... My friends, feast well!
I will imagine mirth and revelry;
Moreover, here's a poet's prophecy:
One more swift year and I'll accept your call;
Everything I want will come to pass;
The months speed by — I'm at your celebrations!
How many tears! How many exclamations!
And lifted high, how many a brimming glass!

And first let's drink to us, our sparkling throng!
And when we've drunk, let's fill our glasses full
Once more, and drink a blessing on our school:
Bless it, triumphant muse — may it live long!
The teachers of that youthful brotherhood,
The dead, the living, we will honour them,
Pressing our grateful lips to the cool rim,
Recall no wrongs, but praise all that was good.

More wine, up to brim! Our hearts on fire
For the next toast, let's raise the crimson glass!
Whom do we honour now? — but can't you guess?
That's right! Long live the Tsar! We toast the Tsar.
He is a man; confusions, passions, sway
His life like everyone's; he is the slave
On the passing moment... So, his crimes forgive:
He captured Paris, founded our Lycee.

Let us enjoy the feast while we are here!
Alas, our band has dwindled; one is sealed
In the black grave, one's wandering in far fields;
Fate glances, drops her gaze... we disappear;
The days flash by, in one year we have grown
Unnoticeably closer to our end...
Which one of us, in his old, age, my friends,
Will celebrate the founding day alone?

Sad guest of those who will not understand
His tedious words, who barely suffer him,
He will recall us and, his eyes grown dim,
To heavy lids will lift a trembling hand...
May he, too, find a poignant consolation
And drink to our friendship in a cup of wine,
As now, in this disgraced retreat of mine,
I've drowned my sadness in your celebration.

Translated by Donald Michael Thomas