Текст книги "Стихотворения"

Автор книги: Владимир Набоков

СТИХОТВОРЕНИЯ НА АНГЛИЙСКОМ, НЕ ВОШЕДШИЕ В ПРИЖИЗНЕННЫЕ СБОРНИКИ

429. REMEMBRANCE ^{*}

 
Like silent ships we two in darkness met,
   And when some day the poet's careless fame
   Shall breathe to you a half-forgotten name —
Soul of my song, I want you to regret.
For you had Love. Out of my life you tore
   One shining page. I want, if we must part,
   Remembrance pale to quiver in your heart
Like moonlit foam upon a windy shore.
 

<Ноябрь 1920>

430. HOME ^{*}

 
Music of windy woods, an endless song
Rippling in gleaming glades of Long Ago,
You follow me on tiptoe, swift and slow,
Through many a dreary year.... Ah, it was wrong
To wound those gentle trees! I dream and roam
O'er sun-tormented plains, from brook to brook,
And thence by stone grey thundering cities. Home,
My home magnificent is but a word
On a withered page in an old, dusty book.
Oh, wistful birch trees! I remember days
Of beauty: ferns; a green and golden mare;
A toadstool like a giant lady bird;
A fairy path; bells, tinkling bells, and sighs;
Whimsical orioles; white-rimmed butterflies
Fanning their velvet wings on velvet silver stems....
All is dead. Who cares, who understands?
Not even God.... I saw mysterious lands
And sailed to nowhere with blue-winged waves
Whirling around me. I have roved and raved
In southern harbours among drunken knaves,
And passed by narrow streets, scented and paved
With moonlight pale. There have I called and kissed
Veiled women swaying in a rhythmic mist,
But lonesome was my soul, and cold the night....
And if sometimes, when in the fading light
Chance friends would chatter, suddenly I grew
Restless and then quite still, – Ah, it was
Music of you, windy woods!
 

<Ноябрь 1920>

431. THE RUSSIAN SONG ^{*}

 
I dream of simple tender things:
a moonlit road and tinkling bells.
Ah, drearly the coachboy sings,
but sadness into beauty swells;
 
 
swells, and is lost in moonlight dim…
the singer sighs, and then the moon
full gently passes back to him
the quivering, unfinished tune.
 
 
In distant lands, on hill and plain,
thus do I dream, when nights are long, —
and memory gives back again
the whisper of that long-lost song.
 

<1923>

432. SOFTEST OF TONGUES ^{*}

 
To many things I've said the word that cheats
the lips and leaves them parted (thus: prash-chai
which means «good-bye») – to furnished flats, to streets,
to milk-white letters melting in the sky;
to drab designs that habit seldom sees,
to novels interrupted by the din
of tunnels, annotated by quick trees,
abandoned with a squashed banana skin;
to a dim waiter in a dimmer town,
to cuts that healed and to a thumbless glove;
also to things of lyrical renown
perhaps more universal, such as love.
Thus life has been an endless line of land
receding endlessly.... And so that's that,
you say under your breath, and wave your hand,
and then your handkerchief, and then your hat.
To all these things I've said the fatal word,
using a tongue I had so tuned and tamed
that – like some ancient sonneteer – I heard
its echoes by posterity acclaimed.
But now thou too must go; just here we part,
softest of tongues, my true one, all my own....
And I am left to grope for heart and art
and start anew with clumsy tools of stone.
 

<21 октября 1941>; Уэлсли, Macc.

433. EXILE ^{*}

 
He happens to be a French poet, that thin,
book-carrying man with a bristly gray chin;
        you meet him wherever you go
across the bright campus, past ivy-clad walls.
The wind which is driving him mad (this recalls
        a rather good line in Hugo),
keeps making blue holes in the waterproof gloss
of college-bred poplars that rustle and toss
        their slippery shadows at pied
young beauties, all legs, as they bicycle through
his shoulder, his armpit, his heart, and the two
        big books that are hurting his side.
 
 
Verlaine had been also a teacher. Somewhere
in England. And what about great Baudelaire,
        alone in his Belgian hell?
This ivy resembles the eyes of the deaf.
Come, leaf, name a country beginning with «f»;
        for instance, «forget» or «farewell».
Thus dimly he muses and dreamily heeds
his eavesdropping self as his body recedes,
        dissolving in sun-shattered shade.
L'Envoi:Those poor chairs in the Bois, one of which
legs up, stuck half-drowned in the slime of a ditch
        while others were grouped in a glade.
 

<13 сентября> 1942

434. A POEM ^{*}

 
When he was small, when he would fall,
on sand or carpet he would lie
quite flat and still until he knew
what he would do: get up or cry.
 
 
After the battle, flat and still
upon a hillside now he lies —
but there is nothing to decide,
for he can neither cry nor rise.
 

11 ноября 1942; Сент Пол, Миннесота

435. DREAM ^{*}

 
«Now it is coming, and the sooner
the better», said my swooning soul —
and in the sudden blinding lunar
landscape, out of a howling hole
 
 
a one-legged child that howled with laughter
hopped and went hopping hopping after
a bloody and bewildered bone,
a limb that walked away alone.
 
 
Perhaps the window shade had billowed
and slapped the darkness on the face;
but when I had picked up and pillowed
the book of sleep and found the place,
 
 
I saw him haltingly returning
out of the dust, back to the burning
hole of his three-walled home – that boy
hugging a new, a nameless toy.
 

<16 августа 1944>; Кембридж, Масс.

436. DANDELIONS ^{*}

 
Moons on the lawn replace the suns
that mowers happily had missed.
Where age would stoop, a babe will squat
and rise with star-fluff in its first.
 

30 мая 1950; Итака, Нью-Йорк

437. LUNAR LINES ^{*}

 
Spell «night». Spell «pebbles»: Pebbles in the Night.
Peep, crated chicks on lonely station! This
Is now the ABC of the abyss,
The Desperanto we must learn to write.
 

<28 апреля 1966>

ПЕРЕВОДЫ НА АНГЛИЙСКИЙ ^{*}

438–439. FROM «MOZART AND SALIERI» ^{*}

SCENE I. A ROOM

 

Salieri

They say there is no justice on the earth.
I know now there is none in Heaven. Plain
as seven simple notes! I have loved the art
from birth; when I was but a little child
in our old church and the organ boomed sublimely,
I listened and was lost – shedding delicious
involuntary tears. I turned away
from foolish pastimes early; found repellent
all studies foreign to my music – ay,
from all I turned with obstinate disdain,
determined thence to dedicate myself
to music, music only. The start is hard,
the first steps make dull going. I surmounted
the initial obstacles; I grounded firmly
that craft that makes the pedestal for art;
a craftsman I became: I trained my fingers
to dry obedient proficiency,
brought sureness to my ear. Stunning the sounds,
I cut up music like a corpse; I tested
the laws of harmony by mathematics.
Then only, rich in learning, dared I yield
to blandishments of sweet creative fancy.
I dared compose – but silently, in secret,
nor could I venture yet to dream of glory.
How often, in my solitary cell,
having toiled for days, having sat unbroken hours,
forgetting food and sleep, and having tasted
the rapture and the tears of inspiration,
I'd burn my work and coldly watch the flame
as my own melodies and meditations
flared up and smoked a little and were gone.
Nay, even more: when the great Gluck appeared,
when he unveiled to us new marvels, deep
enchanting marvels – did I not forsake
all I had known, and loved so well and trusted?
Did I not follow him with eager stride,
obedient as one who'd lost his way
and met a passerby who knew the turning?
By dint of stubborn steadfast perseverance
upon the endless mountainside of art
I reached at last a lofty level. Fame
smiled on me; and I found in others' hearts
responses to the sounds I had assembled.
Came happy days: in quiet I enjoyed
Work and success and fame – enjoying also
the works and the successes of my friends,
my comrades in that art divine we served.
Oh, never did I envy know. Nay, never!
Not even when Piccini found a way
to captivate the ears of savage Paris —
not even when I heard for the first time
the plangent opening strains of «Iphigenia».
Is there a man alive who'll say Salieri
has ever stooped to envy – played the snake
that, trampled underfoot, still writhes and bites
the gravel and the dust in helpless spite?
Not one!.. Yet now – I needs must say it – now
I am an envious man. I envy – deeply,
to agony, I envy. – Tell me, Heaven!
where now is justice when the holiest gift,
when genius and its immortality,
come not as a reward for fervent love,
for abnegation, prayer and dogged labor —
but lights its radiance in the head of folly,
of idle wantonness? …Oh, Mozart, Mozart!
 

Mozart enters.

 

Mozart

Aha! you saw me! I was just preparing
to take you by surprise – a little joke.
 
 

Salieri

You here? – When did you come?
 
 

Mozart

           This very minute. I
was on my way to you to show you something
when, passing near a tavern, all at once
I heard a fiddle.... Oh, my dear Salieri!
You never in your life heard anything
so funny.... Than blind fiddler in a pothouse
playing Voi сhe sapete.Marvelous!
I simply had to bring him here to have you
enjoy his art. – Step in!
 

Enters a blind old man with a violin.

 
          Some Mozart, please!
 

The old man plays the aria from «Don Giovanni»;

Mozart roars with laughter.

 

Salieri

And you can laugh?
 
 

Mozart

          Oh, come, can't you?
 
 

Salieri

                                I cannot.
I am not amused by miserable daubers
who make a mess of Raphael's Madonna;
I am not amused by despicable zanies
whose parodies dishonor Alighieri.
Be off, old man.
 
 

Mozart

                Wait; here's some money for you —
you'll drink my health.
 

The old man goes out.

 
                  It seems to me, Salieri,
You're out of sorts to-day. I'll come to see you
some other time.
 
 

Salieri

         What have you brought?
 
 

Mozart

                                     Oh, nothing —
a trifle. My insomnia last night
was troubling me, and one or two ideas
entered my head. Today I dashed them down.
I wanted your opinion; but just now
you're in no mood for me.
 
 

Salieri

                                 Ah, Mozart! Mozart!
When is my mood averse to you? Sit down.
I'm listening.
 
 

Mozart (at the piano)

                 I want you to imagine…
Whom shall we say?… well, let's suppose myself
a little younger – and in love – not deeply,
but just a little – sitting with a damsel
or with a bosom friend – yourself, let's say —
I am merry.... All at once: a ghostly vision,
a sudden gloom, or something of the sort....
Well, this is how it goes.
 

He plays.

 

Salieri

          You were bringing this,
and you could stop to linger at a tavern
and listen to a blind man with a fiddle!
Ah, Mozart, you are unworthy of yourself.
 
 

Mozart

You like it, do you?
 
 

Salieri

                                       What profoundity!
What daring and what grace! Why, you're a god,
and do not know it; but Iknow, Iknow.
 
 

Mozart

What, really? Maybe so… If so His Godhead
is getting to be hungry.
 
 

Salieri

                                      Listen, Mozart:
Let's dine together at the Golden Lion.
 
 

Mozart

A capital idea. But let me first
go home a moment: I must tell my wife
she's not to wait for me.
 

He goes

 

Salieri

          Don't fail me now.
– Nay, now can I no longer fight with fate:
my destiny's to stop him – else we perish,
we all, the priests, the ministers of music,
not I alone with my dull-sounding fame....
What worth are we if Mozart lives and reaches
new summits still? Will this exalt our art?
Nay: art will sink so soon as he departs:
he will leave us no successor – will have served
no useful purpose. Like a seraph swooping,
he brought us certain songs from Paradise,
only to stab us, children of the dust,
with helpless wingless longing, and fly off!
– So fly away! – the sooner now, the better.
 
 
Here's poison: the last gift of my Isora.
For eighteen years I've kept it, let it season —
and often life would seem to me a wound
too bitter to be borne – I have often sat
with some unwary enemy at table,
yet never did that inward whisper win me;
though I'm no coward and feel insult deeply,
and care not much for life. Still did I tarry,
tormented by the thirst for death, yet brooding:
why should I die? Perchance the future yet
holds unexpected benefits; perchance
I may be visited by Orphic rapture,
my night of inspiration and creation;
perchance another Haydn may achieve
some great new thing – and I shall live in him…
While I was feasting with some hated guest,
perchance, I'd muse, I'll find an enemy
more hateful still; perchance a sharper insult
may come to blast me from a prouder eminence
 
 
–  thenyou will not be lost, Isora's gift!
And I was right! At last I have encountered
my perfect enemy: another Haydn
has made me taste divine delight!. The hour
draws nigh at last. Most sacred gift of love:
You'll pass to-night into the cup of friendship.
 

<12 декабря 1940>

SCENE 2. A PRIVATE ROOM IN A TAVERN, WITH A PIANO.

Mozart and Salieri at table.

 

Salieri

What makes you look so gloomy?
 
 

Mozart

          Gloomy? No.
 
 

Salieri

Mozart, there's surely something on your mind.
The dinner's good, the wine is excellent,
but you, you frown and brood.
 
 

Mozart

                                I must confess it:
            I'm worried about my Requiem.
 
 

Salieri

                  Oh, you're writing
a Requiem? Since when?
 
 

Mozart

          Three weeks or so.
But the queer part… didn't I tell you?
 
 

Salieri

                        No.
 
 

Mozart

                                Well, listen:
three weeks ago I got home rather late —
they told me someone had been there to see me.
All night – I know not why – I lay and wondered
who it could be and what he wanted of me.
Next day the same thing happened: the man came;
I was not in. The third day – I was playing
upon the carpet with my little boy —
there came a knock: they called me, and I went;
a man, black-coated, with a courteous bow,
ordered a Requiem and disappeared.
So I sat down at once and started writing.
Now from that day to this my man in black
has never come again. – Not that I mind.
I hate the thought of parting with my work,
though now it's done. Yet in the meantime I…
 
 

Salieri

You what?
 
 

Mozart

          I'm ashamed to say it.
 
 

Salieri

                                   To say what?
 
 

Mozart

I am haunted by that man, that man in black.
He never leaves me day or night. He follows
behind me like a shadow. Even now
I seem to see him sitting here with us,
making a third.
 
 

Salieri

                Come, come! what childish terrors!
Dispel these hollow fancies, Beaumarchais
was wont to say to me: «Look here, old friend,
when black thoughts trouble you, uncork a bottle
of bright champagne, or reread „Figaro“».
 
 

Mozart

Yes, you and Beaumarchais were boon companions,
of course – you wrote «Tarare» for Beaumarchais.
A splendid piece – especially one tune —
I always find I hum it when I'm gay:
ta-tá, ta-tá… Salieri, was it true
that Beaumarchais once poisoned someone?
 
 

Salieri

                                               No,
I doubt it. He was much too droll a fellow
for such a trade.
 
 

Mozart

                  And then he was a genius
like you and me. And villainy and genius
are two things that don't go together, do they?
 
 

Salieri

You think so?
 

He pours the poison into Mozart's glass.

 
          Drink your wine.
 
 

Mozart

                         Your health, dear friend:
here's to the frank and loyal brotherhood
of Mozart and Salieri, sons of Music.
 

He drinks.

 

Salieri

Wait, wait! You've drunk it off. You've left me out.
 
 

Mozart (throwing his napkin on the table)

                                Enough:
I've eaten.
 

He goes to the piano.

 
            Listen to this, Salieri:
my Requiem.
 

He plays.

 
              Are you weeping?
 
 

Salieri

                         These are tears
I've never shed before – painful yet anodyne,
as if I had discharged a heavy debt,
as if the surgeon's knife had lopped away
a sick and throbbing limb! These tears, dear Mozart…
You must not mind them. Oh, play on, make haste,
flooding my soul with sound…
 
 

Mozart

                                  If all could feel
like you the force of harmony! But no;
the world would crumble then; for none would care
to bother with the baser needs of life;
then all would seek art's franchise. We are few,
the chosen ones, the happy idlers, we
who have no use for what is merely useful,
who worship only beauty – do we not,
dear friend? – But I'm not well – some leaden languor…
I must have sleep. Adieu!
 
 

Salieri

                                Until we meet.
 

Alone.

 
Your sleep will be a long one, Mozart! – Nay,
it cannot be that what he said was true,
and I no genius. «Villainy and genius,
two things that do not go together». Wait:
that's false – for surely there was Buonarroti.
– Or is that but a legend, but a lie,
bred by the stupid mob, by their inane
vulgarity, and that great soul who wrought
the Vatican had never sunk to murder?
 

<21 апреля 1941>

440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM ^{*}

 
«No hands have wrought my monument; no weeds
will hide nation's footpath to its site.
Tsar Alexander's column it exceeds
   in splendid insubmissive height.
 
 
«Not all of me is dust. Within my song,
safe from the worm, my spirit will survive,
and my sublunar fame will dwell as long
   as there is one last bard alive.
 
 
«Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend,
and all will name me, all tongues in her use:
the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend
   of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz.
 
 
«And to the people long shall I be dear
because kind feelings did my lyre extoll,
invoking freedom in an age of fear,
   and mercy for the broken soul».
 
 
Obey thy God, and never mind, О Muse,
the laurels or the stings: make it thy rule
to be unstirred by praise as by abuse,
   and do not contradict the fool.
 

<1944>

441. THE UPAS TREE ^{*}

 
Deep in the desert's misery,
far in the fury of the sand,
there stands the awesome Upas Tree
lone watchman of a lifeless land.
 
 
The wilderness, a world of thirst,
in wroth engendered it and filled
its every root, every accursed
grey leafstalk with a sap that killed.
 
 
Dissolving on the midday sun
the poison oozes through its bark,
and freezing when the day is done
gleams thick and gem-like in the dark.
 
 
No bird flies near, no tiger creeps;
alone the whirlwind, wild and black,
assails the tree of death and sweeps
away with death upon its back.
 
 
And though some roving cloud may stain
with glancing drops those leaden leaves,
the dripping of a poisoned rain
is all the burning sand receives.
 
 
But man sent man with one proud look
towards the tree, and he was gone,
the humble one, and there he took
the poison and returned at dawn.
 
 
He brought the deadly gum; with it
he brought some leaves, a withered bough,
While rivulets of icy sweat
ran slowly down his livid brow.
 
 
He came, he fell upon a mat,
and reaping a poor slave's reward,
died near the painted hut where sat
his now unconquerable lord.
 
 
The king, he soared his arrows true
in poison, and beyond the plains
dispatched those messengers and slew
his neighbors in their own domains.
 

<1944>

442. A SCENE FROM «THE COVETOUS KNIGHT» ^{*}

SCENE 2. A CELLAR. THE BARON, ALONE.

 

The Baron

Just as a mad young fellow frets awaiting
his rendez-vous with some evasive harlot,
or with the goose seduced by him, thus I
have dreamt all day of coming down at last
in vaulted dimness to my secret chests.
The day was good: this evening I can add
to coffer six (which still is not quite sated)
some recently collected gold: a fistful,
a trifle, you might say, but thus my treasure
a trifle is increased. There is some story
about a Prince who bade his warriors bring
a handful each of earth, which formed a hillock
which swelled into a mountain, and the Prince
from this proud height could merrily survey
the dale white-dotted with his tented army,
the many sails that sped upon the sea.
So bit by bit I have been bringing here
my customary tithe into this vault,
and heaped my hill, and from its eminence
I now survey my vassaldom at leisure.
And who is not my vassal? Like some daemon
from here in private I can rule the world;
let me just wish – and there will rise a palace;
amid the marvels of my terraced lawns
a swarm of Nymphs will airily assemble;
the sacred Nine will come with mask or lute;
unshackled Genius labor as my bondsman,
and noble merit, and the sleepless drudge
wait with humility till I reward them.
I'll whistle, and behold: low-bending, cringing,
in creeps Assassination, blood-bespattered,
and while it licks my hands it will be watching
my eyes to read in them the master's order.
All is to me subjected, I to naught.
I am above desiring; I am tranquil:
I know my domination, and this knowledge
I deem sufficient.
 

(Looks into his money-bag)

 
                  It may seem a little,
but what incalculable human cares,
deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations,
have weighty representatives here seated!
 
 
Where was that old doubloon?.. Here 'tis. This evening
a widow paid it me – though only after
she'd stood, with her three children, many hours
under my window, on her knees and wailing.
It rained, and ceased to rain, and rained again:
the shamming creature never budged. I might have
sent her away, but a faint something told me
that she had brought the sum her husband owed
and would not care to be in jail next day.
And this one? this was brought me by Thibault:
whom did he get it from, the fox, the loafer?
Stole it, I wager; or perhaps… somewhere,
at nightfall, on the highway, in a coppice —
Ah, yes! if all the tears, and blood and sweat,
that have been shed for what is in my keeping,
out of deep earth might suddenly gust forth
we'd have a second flood, – and with a splutter
I'd perish in my trusty vaults.
                                       And now —
 

(He is about to unlock number six)

 
Strange – every time I want to open one
of my good chests, I feel all hot and shaky:
not fear (oh, no! whom should I fear? I have
my gallant sword: one metal guards the other
and answers for it), but a heart-invading
mysteriously enveloping oppression…
Physicians claim that there exist queer people
who find in homicide a kind of pleasure;
when I insert and turn the key, my feelings
are similar, I fancy, to what they
must feel when butchering their victims: pleasure
and terror mingled
 

(Unlocks)

 
                      This is lovely, lovely…
 

(Pours in his gold)

 
Go home, you've had your fill of worldly frisking
and served your time with human needs and passions.
Here you will sleep the sleep of peace and power,
as gods do sleep in Heaven's dreamy depth.
To-night I wish to have a feast in secret: —
a candle bright in front of every chest,
and all of them wide-open, and myself
with eyes aglow amid their brimming glory.
 

(Lights candles and proceeds to unlock the chests)

 
Now I am king! What an enchanting shine!
A mighty realm has now become my manor;
here is my bliss, my blazon, and my banner!
Now I am king! – But who will next enjoy
this bounty when I die? My heir will get it!
A wastrel, a disreputable boy,
by ribald fellow-revellers abetted!
With my last sigh, him, him! this vault will hear
come stamping down into its gentle silence,
with crowds of fawning friends, rapacious courtiers;
and having plucked the keys from my dead fist
he will unlock chest after chest with glee,
and all the treasures of my life will stream
through all the holes of tattered satin pockets.
Thus will a sot destroy these holy vessels,
thus mud will drink an oil for kingly brows,
thus he will spend – And by what right, I ask you?
Did I perchance acquire all this for nothing?
Or with the ease of a light-hearted gambler
that rattles dice and grabs his growing winnings?
Who knows how many bitter limitations,
what bursting passions curbed, what inner gloom,
what crowded days and hollow nights – my wealth
has cost me? Or perhaps my son will say
that with a hoary moss my heart is smothered,
that I have had no longings, and what's more,
that conscience never bit me? Grizzly conscience!
the sharp-clawed beast that scrapes in bosoms; conscience,
the sudden guest, the bore that does the talking,
the brutish money-lender; worst of witches,
that makes the moon grow dark, and then the grave-stones
move restlessly, and send their dead to haunt us!
Nay, suffer first and wince thy way to riches,
then we shall see how readily my rascal
will toss to winds what his heart-blood has bought.
Oh, that I might conceal this vaulted chamber
from sinful eyes! oh, that I might abandon
my grave and, as a watchful ghost, come hither
to sit upon my chests, and from the quick
protect my treasures as I do at present!
 

<25 мая 1941>

443. FROM «A FEAST DURING THE PLAGUE» ^{*}
Pushkin's version of a scene in Wilson's tragedy «The City of the Plague»

Several men and women making merry at a table laid in the middle of the street.

 

A Young Man

Most honorable chairman! Let me now
remind you of a man we all knew well,
a man whose quiddities and funny stories,
smart repartees and pungent observations,
– made with a solemn air that was so pleasing —
lent such a sparkle to the table talk
and helped to chase the gloom which nowadays
our guest the Plague unfortunately casts
over the minds of our most brilliant wits.
Two days ago our rolling laughter greeted
the tales he told; t'would be a sorry jest
if we forgot while banquetting to-day
our good old Jackson! Here his armchair gapes;
its empty seat still seems to be awaiting
the wag; but he, alas, has left already
for a cold dwelling-place beneath the earth.
Though never was so eloquent a tongue
doomed to keep still in a decaying casket,
we who remain are numerous and have
no reason to be sorrowful. And so
let me suggest a toast to Jackson's spirit,
a merry clash of glasses, exclamations,
as if he where alive.
 
 

The Chairman

                         He was the first
to drop out of our ranks. In silence let us
drink to his memory.
 
 

The Young Man

                         Have it your way.
 

All lift their glasses in silence.

 

The Chairman (to one of the women)

Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accents
of native songs reveals a wild perfection:
sing, Marry, something dolorous and plaintive
that afterwards we may revert more madly
to merriment – like one who has been torn
from a familiar world by some dark vision.
 
 

Mary (sings)

In times agone our village
was lovely to behold;
our bonny church on Sunday
was full of young and old;
our happy children's voices
rang in the noisy school;
in sunny fields the reaper
swung fast his flashing tool.
 
 
But now the church is empty;
the school is locked; the corn
bends overripe and idle;
the dark woods are forlorn;
and like charred ruins the village
stands stricken on its hill:
no sound; alone the churchyard
is full and never still.
 
 
A new corpse every minute
is carried in with dread
by mourners loudly begging
God's welcome for the dead.
A new hole every minute
is needed for their sleep,
and tombs and tombs together
huddle like frightened sheep.
 
 
So if an early gravestone
must crown my springtime bright,
you whom I loved so dearly,
whose love was my delight, —
to your poor Jenny's body,
I pray, do not come near,
kiss not her dead lips; follow
with lagging steps her bier.
 
 
And after I am buried, —
go, leave the village, find
some place where hearts are mended
and destiny is kind.
And when the Plague is over
visit my dust, I pray…
But, even dead, will Jenny
beside her Edmund stay.
 
 

The Chairman

We thank you, Mary, melancholy Mary,
we thank you all for this melodious moan.
In former days a similar infection
had visited, it seems, your hills and valleys,
and one could hear most piteous lamentations
sounding along the rivers and the brooks
which now so peacefully and gaily tumble
through the wild paradise of your dear land;
and that dark year in which so many perished,
so many gallant, good and comely souls,
has left but a vague memory that clouds
the elemental minstrelry of shepherds
with pleasing plaintiveness. Nothing, I swear,
so saddens us amid life's animation
as dreamy sounds that dreamy hearts repeat.
 
 

Mary

Oh, had I never sung beyond the threshold
of the small cottage where my parents dwelt!
Dearly they used to love their Mary's voice.
Behind my song I felt as if I listened
to my old self singing in the bright doorway:
my voice was sweeter in those days: it was
the golden voice of innocence.
 
 

Louisa

                                    Such ditties
are nowadays old-fashioned; but one still
finds simple souls eager to melt when seeing
a woman weep: they blindly trust her tears.
She seems to be quite sure that her wet eyes
are most enchanting; and if just as highly
she ranked her laughter then you may be sure
she'd always titter. Walsingham had chanced
to praise the shrill-voiced Northern beauties; so
forthwith she wails her head off. I do hate
that yellow color of her Scottish hair.
 
 

The Chairman

Listen! I hear the sound of heavy wheels.
 

A cart passes laden with dead bodies. It is driven by a Negro.

 

The Chairman

Aha, Louisa faints. I thought she had
a warrior's heart judging by her expressions —
but evidently cruelty is weaker
than tenderness: strong passions shy at shadows.
Some water, Mary, on her face. She's better.
 
 

Mary

Dear sister of my sorrow and dishonor,
recline upon my breast.
 
 

Louisa (regaining her senses)

                            A dreadful demon
appeared to me: all black with white eyes rolling,
he beckoned me into his cart where lay
piled bodies of dead men who all were lisping
a horrible, a most unearthly tale.
Oh, tell me please – was it a dream I dreamt
or did the cart pass really?
 
 

The Young Man

                                Come, Louisa,
laugh in away. Though all the street is ours
– a quiet spot secure from death's intrusion,
the haunt of revellers whom none may trouble —
but… Well, you see, that black cart has the right
to roll and creak down any street in chooses
and we must let it go its way. Look here,
friend Walsingham: to cut short all discussions
that lead to women swooning, sing us something,
sing us a liberal and lively song,
– not one inspired by long mists of the Highlands
but some unbridled bacchanalian stuff
that sprung to life from wine-foam at a banquet.
 
 

The Chairman

Such songs I know not, but I have for you
a hymn in honor of the plague. I wrote it
the other night as soon as we had parted:
I was possessed by a strange urge to rhyme
which never had I felt before. So listen.
My husky voice will suit this kind of poem.
 
 

Several Voices

A hymn! A hymn! Let's hear our chairman sing it!
In honor of the Plague? Good. Bravo, bravo!
 
 

The Chairman (sings)

When mighty Captain Winter swoops
upon us with his hoary troops,
leading against us all his grim
       legions of frost and snow, —
logs crackling brightly laugh at him
       and festive wine cups glow.
 
 
Her awful Majesty the Plague
now comes at us with nothing vague
about her aims and appetite;
       with a grave-digger's spade
she knocks at windows day and night.
       Where should we look for aid?
 
 
Just as we deal with Winter's pest
against thisone it will be best
to stay in lighted rooms and drink
       and drown our minds, and jest.
Come, let us dance upon the brink
       to glorify Queen Pest!
 
 
There's bliss in battle and there's bliss
on the dark edge of an abyss
and in the fury of the main
       amid foam-crested death;
in the Arabian hurricane
       and in the Plague's light breath.
 
 
All, all such mortal dangers fill
a mortal's heart with a deep thrill
of wordless rapture that bespeaks
       maybe, immortal life,
– and happy is the man who seeks
       and tastes them in his strife.
 
 
And so, Dark Queen, we praise thy reign!
Thou callest us, but we remain
unruffled by the chill of death,
       clinking our cups, carefree,
drinking rose-lipped maiden's breath
       full of the Plague, maybe!
 

An old Clergyman enters.

 

The Clergyman

What godless feast is this, you godless madmen?
Your revelry and ribald songs insult
the silent gloom spread everywhere by death!
Among the mourners and their moans, among
pale faces, I was praying in the churchyard
whither the thunder of your hateful orgies
came troubling drowsy graves and rocking
the very earth above the buried dead.
Had not the prayers of women and old men
blessed the dark pit of death's community
I might have thought that busy fiends to-night
were worrying a sinner's shrieking spirit
and dragging it with laughter to their den.
 
 

Several Voices

A masterly description of inferno!
Be gone, old priest! Go back the way you came!
 
 

The Clergyman

Now I beseech you by the holy wounds
of One Who bled upon the Cross to save us, —
break up your monstrous banquet, if you hope
to meet in heaven the dear souls of all those
you lost on earth. Go to your homes!
 
 

The Chairman

                                Our homes
are dismal places. Youth is fond of gladness.
 
 

The Clergyman

Can it be you – you, Walsingham? the same man
who but three weeks ago stood on his knees
and wept as he embraced his mother's corpse,
and writhed, and rocked, and howled over her grave?
Or do you think she does not grieve right now —
grieve bitterly, even in God's abode —
as she looks down at her disheveled son
maddened by wine and lust, and hears his voice
a voice that roars the wildest songs between
the purest prayer and the profoundest sigh?
Arise and follow me!
 
 

The Chairman

                         Why do you come
to trouble thus my soul? Here am I held
by my despair, by memories that kill me,
by the full knowledge of my evil ways,
and by the horror of the lifeless void
that meets me when I enter my own house,
and by the novelty of these wild revels,
and by the blessed poison of this cup,
and by the light caresses (God forgive me)
of a depraved but fair and gentle creature.
My mother's soul can summon me no more;
my place is here; too late!..I hear your voice
calling my soul… I recognise your efforts
to save me… but, old man, depart in peace —
and cursed be anyone who goes with you.
 
 

Several Voices

Bravo, bravo! Well spoken, worthy chairman!
Now you have got your sermon, priest! Be gone!
 
 

The Clergyman

Mathilda's stainless spirit summons you!
 
 

The Chairman

No, – promise me, – with your pale withered hand
raised heavenward, – promise to leave unuttered
a name that death has silenced in the tomb.
Could I but hide from her immortal eyes
this sight, this banquet… Once upon a time
she thought me pure, free-spirited and proud,
and my embrace was paradise to her.
Where am I? Sacred child of light, I see you
above me, on a shore where my wrecked soul
now cannot reach you.
 
 

A Woman's Voice

                  Look, he has gone mad,
he raves about his wife who's dead and buried.
 
 

The Clergyman

Come, come with me.
 
 

The Chairman

          For God's sake, holy father,
leave me.
 
 

The Clergyman

   The Lord have mercy on your soul.
Farewell, my son.
 

The Clergyman departs. The feast continues. The Chairman remains plunged in deep meditation.

<18 июля 1941>; Пало Алто, Калифорния

444–445. FROM EUGENE ONEGIN

1 ^{*}

 

I

«My uncle has most honest principles:
when taken ill in earnest,
he has made one respect him
and nothing better could invent.
To others his example is a lesson;
but, good God, what a bore
to sit by a sick man both day and night,
without moving a step away!
What base perfidiousness
the half-alive one to amuse,
adjust for him the pillows,
sadly present the medicine,
sigh – and think inwardly
when willthe devil take you?»
 
 

II

Thus a young scapegrace thought,
with posters flying in the dust,
by the most lofty will of Zeus
the heir of all his relatives.
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
The hero of my novel,
without preambles, forthwith,
I'd like to have you meet:
Onegin, a good pal of mine,
was born upon the Neva's banks,
where maybe you were born,
or used to shine, my reader!
There formerly I too promenaded —
but harmful is the North to me.
 
 

III

Having served excellently, nobly,
his father lived by means of debts;
gave three balls yearly
and squandered everything at last.
Fate guarded Eugene:
at first, Madame looked after him;
later, Monsieur replaced her.
The child was boisterous but nice.
Monsieur l'Abbé, a poor wretch of a Frenchman,
not to wear out the infant,
would teach him everything in play,
bothered him not with stern moralization,
scolded him slightly for his pranks,
and to Letniy Sad took him for walks.
 
 

IV

Then, when tumultuous youth's
season for Eugene came,
season of hopes and tender melancholy,
Monsieur was ousted from the place.
Now my Onegin is at large:
hair cut after the latest fashion,
dressed like a London Dandy —
and finally he saw the World.
In French impeccably
he could express himself and write,
danced the mazurka lightly,
and bowed unconstrainedly —
what would you more? The World decided
he was clever and very nice.
 
 

V

All of us had a bit of schooling
in something and somehow:
hence education, God be praised,
is in our midst not hard to flaunt.
Onegin was, in the opinion of many
(judges resolute and stern),
a learned fellow but a pedant.
He had the happy talent,
without constraint, in conversation
slightly to touch on everything,
keep silent, with an expert's learned air,
during a grave discussion,
and provoke the smiles of ladies
with the fire of unexpected epigrams.
 
 

VI

Latin has gone at present out of fashion;
still, to tell you the truth,
he had enough knowledge of Latin
to make out epigraphs,
descant on Juvenal,
put at the bottom of a letter vale,
and he remembered, though not without fault,
two lines from the Aeneid.
He had no urge to rummage
in the chronological dust
of the earth's historiography,
but anecdotes of days gone by,
from Romulus to our days
he did keep in his memory.
 
 

VII

Lacking the lofty passion not to spare
life for the sake of sounds,
an iamb from a trochee —
no matter how we strove – he could not tell apart;
dispraised Homer, Theocritus,
but read, in compensation, Adam Smith,
and was a deep economist:
that is, he could assess the way
a state grows rich,
and what it lives upon, and why
it needs not gold
when it has got the simple product.
His father could not understand him,
and mortgaged his lands.
 
 

VIII

All Eugene knew besides
I have no leisure to recount;
but where he was a veritable genius,
what he more firmly knew than all the arts,
what since his prime had been to him
toil, anguish, joy,
what occupied the livelong day
his fretting indolence —
was the art of soft passion
which Naso sang,
wherefore a sufferer he ended
his brilliant and tumultuous span
in Moldavia, in the wild depth of steppes,
far from his Italy.
 

<1964>

2 ^{*}

 

XXXII

Diana's bosom, Flora's dimple
are very charming, I agree —
but there's greater charm, less simple,
– the instep of Terpsichore.
By prophesying to the eye
a prize with which no prize can vie
'tis a fair token and a snare
for swarms of daydreams. Everywhere
its grace, sweet reader, I admire:
at long-hemmed tables, half-concealed,
in spring, upon a velvet field,
in winter, at a grated fire,
in ballrooms, on a glossy floor,
on the bleak boulders of a shore.
 
 

XXXIII

I see the surf, the storm-rack flying....
Oh, how I wanted to compete
with the tumultuous breakers dying
in adoration at her feet!
Together with those waves – how much
I wished to kiss what they could touch!
No – even when my youth would burn
its fiercest – never did I yearn
with such a torturing sensation
to kiss the lips of nymphs, the rose
that on the cheek of beauty glows
or breasts in mellow palpitation —
no, never did a passion roll
such billows in my bursting soul.
 
 

XXXIV

Sometimes I dream of other minutes
by hidden memory retold —
and feel her little ankle in its
contented stirrup which I hold;
again to build mad builders start;
again within a withered heart
one touch engenders fire; again
– the same old love, the same old pain…
But really, my loquacious lyre
has lauded haughty belles too long
– for they deserve neither the song,
not the emotions they inspire:
eyes, words – all their enchantments cheat
as much as do their pretty feet.
 

<Весна 1945>

446. EPIGRAM ^{*}

(On Vorontzov)

 
Half-merchant and half-prince
half-scholar and half-dunce,
half-knave – but there's a chance
he'll be complete for once.
 

<1947>

447. THE NAME ^{*}

 
What is my name to you? 'Twill die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a lone splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry…
 
 
'Twill leave a lifeless trace among
names on your tablets: the design
of an entangled gravestone line
in an unfathomable tongue.
 
 
What is it then? A long-dead past,
lost in the rush of madder dreams,
upon your soul it will not cast
Mnemosyne's pure tender beams.
 
 
But if some sorrow comes to you,
utter my name with sighs, and tell
the silence: «Memory is true —
there beats a heart wherein I dwell».
 

<1947>

448. WINTER MORNING ^{*}

 
A magic day – sunshine and frost —
but you, in dreamland still are lost…
Come, open your enchanting eyes
with honeyed indolence replete....
Star of the North, arise to meet
Aurora in her wintry skies.
 
 
That blizzard yesternight! It spread
dimness and tumult overheard.
The moon through a lugubrious veil
was but a blur of jaundiced grey,
and you were listless.... But to-day —
well, let the window tell its tale:
 
 
Fabulous carpets of rich snow
under the cloudless heavens glow.
Alone the gauzy birches seem
to show some black, while green occurs
among the frost-bespangled firs,
and blue-shot ice adorns the stream.
 
 
The room is flooded with a light
like amber, and with all its might
the hot stove crackles. Lolling there
in meditation is no doubt
enjoyable… but what about
a sledge behind the chestnut mare?
 
 
Sweet friend, together we shall speed
yielding to our impatient steed
on new-born whiteness, fleet and free,
and visit silent fields of snow,
woods that were lush two months ago,
a lakeshore that is dear to me…
 

<1947>