Anna Akhmatova
Masquerade Ball in the Garden

Moonlight glitters on the palace roof,
silvers the river’s ripples.
The prince is kissing the hand of the marquise,
so soft, so cool, so exquisitely perfumed.

“Oh, Prince,” she curtsys, smiling,
“you will be my partner for the quadrille?”
Behind her pale carnival mask
she slowly grows paler still,
feeling the heat of her own desire,
anticipating his.

The gazebo is screened by poplar trees
their leaves appear to shimmer
in the summer night’s breeze;
below these noble trees, lowly hedges
stand, lackey-like, at the entrance.
The only indication there’s anyone within
are their overheard words.

“For you, ma belle,
I’d wrest Baghdad from the Arab,
reclaim Constantinople from the Turk!
Don’t deny me this little victory . . . .”

Then, later, “How rarely you smile, Marquise!
I wonder now how I ever dared embrace
so imposing a woman!” A long silence follows.
The gazebo is dark, the night wears on,
one begins to feel its chill. Then, she,
“Very well, shall we go join the dance?”

They return to where the colored lanterns glimmer,
in the boughs of maples and elms,
and a pair of ladies in green gowns play cards
with two medieval monks who are losing gallantly.

A pallid Pierrot with an azalea bouquet,
meets the couple with a grin, “My Prince,
the ostrich feather’s bent in the hat of the marquise,
I don’t suppose you’re to blame?”

Translated by Seraphina Powell