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Winter Evening

[Zimnii vecher]

In Chapter 6 Ryukhin cites an 1825 poem by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. Two translations of the poem by Walter Arndt, published in his Pushkin Threefold (NY:Dutton, 1972)

WINTER EVENING
(poetic translation)

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they are like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child;
Now along the brittle thatches
They will scud with rustling sound,
Now against the window latches
Like belated wanderers pound.

Our frail hut is glum and sullen,
Dim with twilight and with care.
Why, dear granny, have you fallen
Silent by the window there?
Has the gale's insistent prodding
Made your drowsing senses numb,
Are you lulled to gentle nodding
By the whirling spindle's hum?

Let us drink for grief, let's drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where's the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.
Sing me of the tomtit hatching
Safe beyond the ocean blue,
Sing about the maiden fetching
Water at the morning dew.

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they sound like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child.
Let us drink for grief, let's drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where's the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.

WINTER EVENING
(literal linear translation)

Storm with mist the heavens covers,
Snowy whirlwinds twisting;
Now like a wild beast falls roaring,
Now falls crying like a child,
Now along the wizened roof
Abruptly with the straw it rustles,
Now like a belated wanderer
At our window it will rap.

Our decrepit little cabin
Is (both) dismal and dark.
How comes it, dear old granny,
You fell silent (a little) at the window?
By the storm's roar, off and on,
Are you numbed, my dear,
Or dozing to the buzz
of your spindle?

Let us drink, kind little friend
of my wretched youth,
Let us drink from grief; where is the jug?
The heart will be gayer.
Sing me the song of how the blue tit
Quietly lived beyond the sea
Sing me the song of how the maiden
Went for water at the morn.

Storm with mist the heavens covers,
Snow whirlwinds twisting;
Now like a wild beast falls roaring
Now falls crying like a child.
Let us drink, kind little friend
Of my wretched youthi
Let us drink from grief; where is the jug?
The heart will be gayer.