Осень и двадцать дней зимы
Прошло с прощальной нашей встречи;
Любили нас, любили мы,
Зима казалась нам далече...
Теперь уж нет ни прежних дум, ни нег;
В беседке в парке толстым слоем
Разлёгся на скамье пушистый снег,
И дышит всё кругом незыблемым покоем.
Строй чёрных лип вдоль сумрачных аллей
Дозором бродит, чьи-то тени
Мелькают в свете тусклых фонарей,
И ветер треплет заросли сирени.
Закутавшись в пальто, какой-то человек
Торопится домой, срезая по сугробам;
Шампанского струёй кровавой новый век
Шипит и пенится, пророча рай за гробом.
December 2015
Летний вечер
Вдали над синими холмами
Деревья пышными клубами,
Как дым печной в морозный день
Над хижинами деревень,
Застыли в загустевшей мгле.
Туман стелѝтся по земле
От русла речки неглубокой,
Заросшей ивой и осокой.
Смолкают звуки, тишина;
Воды прохладное журчание
Да колокольчиков бренчание
Пасущегося табуна
Ещё ласкают слух усталый.
Над кромкой гор полоской алой
Солнце, окрасив небосвод,
Прощальный поцелуй нам шлёт.
Из всех дневных часов мне этот час милей:
Люблю встречать его среди немых полей
Или над озером, когда в зеркальных водах
Отражено всё небо в огненных разводах.
October 2016
Раньше
Раньше не было свободы,
Раньше был диктат,
Раньше верили народы
В пролетариат.
Раньше не было одежды,
Не было еды;
Облачённые в надежды
Строили мечты.
Раньше мор, война и голод
Раздирали люд.
Крест и месяц - серп и молот -
Царствие иуд.
Там распятые поэты
С кровью на устах
Власти ветхие заветы
Разметали в прах.
Раньше было много горя,
Много и добра.
Нынче же поэтам воля,
А стихи - вода.
April 2015
***
Хоть кто-нибудь из вас ли рад, что я пришёл?
Хоть кто-нибудь, скажите честно?
Хоть кто-нибудь один хоть что-нибудь нашёл
В моих стихах? - и то б мне было лестно.
Вы мне завидуете? Господи, за что?
Ведь вы же сами знаете, что значит быть поэтом,
Что этот глупый титул - фикция, ничто,
Как генеральский чин за свадебным обедом.
А что потом? Что ждёт меня, спросите -
Ночь, улица, вокзал, 'спасибо за обед'...
Всё что угодно, только не гасите
Этот бессмысленный и тусклый свет.
Фантазия
на тему 'Нескончаемой любви' Р. Тагора
Я вас любил во всех обличьях
Из жизни в жизнь, из века в век;
Мне кажется, что я любил вас вечно,
Не умирая и не забывая ни на миг.
Под властью этого заклятья
Я распускал и вновь сплетал венец стихов.
Примите же его, как дар на счастье,
Для ваших всех обличий, жизней и веков.
Когда я слышал хроники любви
О горечи разлук и радостях свиданий,
Сквозь сумрак прошлого, мне чудилось, вдали
Был виден свет ваших небесных очертаний.
Поток любви из глубины времен
Нас вынес в этот мир, где снова мы познали
Всю прежнюю любовь без перемен,
Лишь обновляя путь на временнòй спирали.
Сегодня вся эта любовь у ваших ног.
Она - любви всех дней минувших воплощение,
Её страданий всех, восторгов и тревог,
Всех песен всех поэтов вдохновение.
January 2015
Requiem Lacrimosa
Моцарту
Бог умер. В заколоченном чёрном гробу
Выносили из церкви его мёртвое тело
И на дроги слагали, и могильщик суровый,
Бесчувственный к смерти сел на козлы,
Стегнул лошаденку вожжами и погнал её
На кладбѝще. Небо плакало неустанно.
Небо плакало неустанно, и земля опухала
От слёз, проливаемых небом, и цеплялась
Комками за колёса повозки, будто стараясь
Её удержать от урочного страшного ига.
Но неудержимо плелась лошаденка,
Неудержимо катилась повозка,
Неудержимо плакало небо.
И никто не ступил из-под крова
По следам уходящей повозки,
Ни одной головы не коснулись
Слёзы горькие неба. Лишь собака
Бежала за гробом и выла тоскливо,
Словно знала, что бога хоронят.
Там за городом на безлюдном кладбѝще
Лошадь встала. Могильщик, кряхтя
И ругая погоду, гроб с повозки стащил
У края общей могилы, и вдвоём с подмастерьем
В безымянную яму они его опустили.
И собака, морду понурив, поплелась в путь обратный,
А могильщик бесчувственный к смерти
Яму мокрой тяжёлой землёю засыпал.
Сотворив на прощание молитву, он удалился.
Только слёзы сильнее полились
С безутешного серого неба.
Ещё ниже оно наклонилось,
Ещё горче оно зарыдало по мёртвому богу.
Люди в тепле и довольстве в кабаках и гостиных
Жили и великого горя не знали,
Веселились и пили, болели и умирали;
Ни один не был тронут смертью бога,
Лишь убийца его горько плакал.
December 2014
Чародей
Смотрите, как сегодня ночь звезднà! -
Должно быть, Чародей работал допоздна,
Взбирался на холмы, спускался в сень долин,
Смертного мира он бессмертный властелин.
В безоблачные дни, когда ему не лень,
Когда уж вечера в лесах густеет тень,
Он бродит меж дерев в плаще и колпаке
С корявым деревянным посохом в руке.
С собою у него волшебная мошна,
Огнями ярких звёзд она полным-полна;
И всюду у него невидимые нити,
Протянуты от леса к небесам и от небес к планете.
Он, стоя на земле, тянет за нити те,
И там на небесах в бездонной высоте
Боги великие, стряхнув дневную дрёму,
С улыбкой клонятся в ответ его поклону.
Тут он развязывает свой мешок с звездàми,
С небес спускает клети с фонарями,
Влагает в каждый яркую звезду,
А то и две или галактику...
И бережно наверх их подымает,
Пока закат багровый догорает.
Я должен в моря отправиться вновь
Из Джона Мейсфилда
Я должен в моря отправиться вновь
в одинокий бескрайний простор,
Я прошу корабль с путеводной звездой,
чтоб манила во мраке мой взор,
И руля содрогание, и ветра вой,
и белого паруса трепет,
И серый туман над гладью морской,
и серый рассвет в небе.
Я должен в моря отправиться вновь
на призыв всемогущий прибоя,
И нельзя отрицать, дик и звучен тот зов,
нежели всё земное.
И прошу я хороший ветреный день,
стаи быстрых седых облаков,
Крики чаек, летящие брызги с кормы
и воздушную пену валов.
Я должен в моря отправиться вновь,
бродячей вверившись доле,
За крыльями чаек, за песней китов,
где ветры бушуют на воле;
И всё, что прошу я, меня угости
лишь шуткой весёлой пирата
И дай мне заснуть, когда всё позади,
а большего мне и не надо.
Каприз
Осенний маскарад окончен,
Все лица пресны и тусклы,
И громовержец вдоль обочин
Пускает мутные ручьи.
Отживший год ложится в землю.
Там чьи-то жёлтые глаза
Из леса смотрят на деревню,
И воют чьи-то голоса...
Быть может, это лишь капризы,
Быть может, нет там никого,
Быть может, это только бесы
Меня пугают одного.
November 2014
Начало года
Маме на 9-е января
Я не люблю начало года:
За замороженным окном
Волчицей воет непогода,
И грустно на сердце моём.
Минула праздников пора,
Зима в свои права вступила,
И потянулись холода
Чредою скучной и унылой.
Снег сух и сер, бесплодный ветер
Срывает с крыш снежинок пыль.
За серым днём плетётся вечер -
В гости непрошеный бобыль.
На юг склонившись головой,
Солнце лучей смыкает вежды,
И ночь под облачной чадрой
Повсюду сеет сон медвежий.
Ещё недавно в декабре
Всё жило, всё кругом дышало:
Зима во всей своей красе
Явилась королевой бала.
Теперь безбрежность и покой,
Нет сутолоки предновогодней,
Следующий праздник далеко,
Дни волочатся цепью будней.
Начало как конец,
Как вид зимой заснеженного поля:
Без гор, без леса, без границ,
И только воля, воля, воля...
Половодье
Половодье, половодье,
Натянул Апрель поводья,
Вылез из лихих саней,
В алых пятнах от заката
Перед ним моря полей,
Перекошенные избы,
Сапоги скользят в грязи...
Эх, дороженьки отчизны -
Ни проехать, ни пройти!
В проходящую телегу
Рядом с пьяным мужиком
Влез Апрель и дальше ехал,
Затопляя всё кругом.
***
Когда поют, я слушаю слова,
А не смотрю на платья или лица,
И если музыке гармония чужда,
Отвратны эти мне певец или певица.
Когда рисуют, я смотрю на то,
Как правильно ложатся тени,
Грошовое иначе мастерство
У тех, у кого нет теней в картине.
Мёртвая бабочка
Мёртвою бабочкой ветер играл,
Я за игрою его наблюдал:
Стиснув в объятиях, бросал он о камни
Хрупкое тело с крыльями рваными.
Тот же удел ожидает поэта:
Как один день пройдёт его лето,
Но будут трепать ещё много столетий
Книжки его бестолковые дети.
Первая заповедь поэта
Никогда ни в чём не участвуй:
Ни в войне, ни в мире, ни в гонке;
Не ропщи, не борись, не препятствуй,
Не вставай ни в ряды, ни в колонки.
Пусть твоё безучастье клянут,
Ты терпи, как бы ни было тошно;
Пусть себе и друг другу все лгут,
Что ж, пусть лгут...
Ведь они не поэты, им можно.
December 2015
***
В чём цель поэзии высокого словца? -
Хвалить себя, язвить глупца;
Для тех, кому бог не дал дара живописца -
Чернилами пейзажи малевать и лица.
Спящий призрак
к памятнику Пушкину
Заползла, шурша листами, лету под платья
Мелкая серая мышиная осень,
Напугала глупую бабу до беспамятья,
И, срывая с себя одежды,
Она голая бросилась оземь.
Небо серое, мышиное еле-еле стелется,
Плюя на землю мелким дождичком,
Но для лета это уже сущая безделица:
Оно спит в берлоге медвежьей,
Свернувшись теплым облачком.
Каждый день в серой мышиной рясе
послушник-туман
Бродит по дворам, шёпотом проповедуя лень и обман.
Лишь один спящий призрак в том вечном саду
на Неве
Как и прежде всё грезит о чем-то, замерев на холодной
скамье.
К памятнику Гоголю
Одновременно грустно и смеясь,
Взирает он с улыбкою Джоконды,
Вполоборота над державою клонясь,
Со своей каменной колонны.
'Эй, Русь, куда ж несёшься ты?' -
Ещё во взгляде тлеет прежний пламень;
Алхимик слов, полтавский Леонардо с берегов Невы,
Как будто прячет под шинелью философский камень;
Вознёсшийся над тиной мелочей,
Сидит с опущенною головой покорно,
Порой угрюм и мрачен сей московский вий
И смотрит исподлобья угнетённо.
Миллион терзаний отражает лик его,
Один среди пути, он бессемейный странник -
Страдальческою думою морщит чело -
Последний сталинский изгнанник
Или насмешливо глядит на новых москалей,
Их глупые машины и наряды,
И сети электрических огней,
Опутавшие вавилонские громады.
March 2014
Осенняя тревога
Опускается на землю туча белая,
Облетает роща пожелтелая;
Осень, как собака кость,
Гложет на дворе берёзки голой трость
И рычит, поджавши куцый хвост,
На расчерченный надгробьями погост,
Словно где-то рядом чует смерть
Бьёт копытами в земную твердь,
Или волк крадётся вдалеке
За рекой в прозрачном ивняке,
Или помертвевший стог холма
Отнимает у неё зима...
Что там осень? Что там вдалеке?
Смерть ты чуешь или волка в ивняке?
Что там ухает тревожно так сова?
Чья там золотая голова
С неба катится в чернеющий овраг,
Поднимая по деревням лай собак?
Чьи визжат там в чаще голоса,
Как перед крушением тормоза?
October 2015
Набережная туманов
Когда холодно и пусто
станет, и туман
разольётся густо
по твоим следам,
и на чёрные аллеи
в парке ляжет снег,
я приду к тебе, мой самый
лучший человек.
Было холодно и пусто,
и ночной туман
разливался густо
в парке по утрам,
и на чёрные аллеи
сыпал первый снег,
и пришла она - мой самый
лучший человек.
July 2015
***
Я люблю вас в одностороннем порядке
Безмерно, безрассудно, без оглядки,
Ни ревностью не мучаясь, ни расставанья болью,
Доволен этой я второстепенной ролью.
Я не мечусь в бреду любви по сцене,
Не падаю пред вами на колени,
Я не клянусь, и вас я не молю,
Любить меня в ответ за то, что я люблю.
June 2015
Осенний стрелок
Осенний стрелок -
Дуло в висок,
Взводит курок,
Раздаётся звонок:
- Кто там?
- Я.
- Кто 'Я'?
- Я, твоя болдинская осень! -
Жар-птицей врывается в дверь,
Чертит в воздухе цифру восемь
И ложится к поэту в постель,
Наполняет всю комнату
Ароматом увядшей травы;
Словно крылья, горят её косы
Из опавшей кленовой листвы.
- Не узнаёшь? - шепчет осень. -
Прошло двести лет, я всё та же,
А в твоих волосах уже проседь,
И в стихах одна горькая сажа.
- Что делать? Сил больше нет.
Ты пришла слишком поздно. -
Убирает стрелок пистолет
И в ответ её просит серьезно, -
Подари мне бессмертие.
Мне не в кого больше стрелять.
От меня отступились враги,
И друзья перестали писать,
А пойти в террористы
И стрелять из окна по прохожим
Могут все модернисты,
Лишь одни мы с тобою не можем.
November 2014
Негласная ложь
Негласной лжи не нужны слова,
Она хитрее слов,
И на словах нельзя
Поймать её лжецов.
По выражениям их лиц
Она скользит змеёй,
И падают пред нею ниц
И стоик, и святой.
Язык полувзглядов всеобщего осознания
Творимой неправды - её змеиное жало.
Её голос - сообщническое молчание.
Её глазки глядят так самоуверенно нагло.
И когда победителя нужно засудить,
Когда вопросы, требующие ответов,
Нужно оставить без внимания,
Она показывает тебе свой длинный раздвоенный
язык
И, взывая к милосердию, требует понимания.
Когда нужно выдать грязные пятна на стенах
За гениальные картины модных мастеров,
У которых голубая кровь в венах,
И непостижимое нам видение миров,
Её негласный приговор расходится
Быстрее, чем по телефону
И охватывает планету шире, чем интернет.
А попробуй, расскажи о ней другому -
Тебе скажут: 'Да с чего ты взял весь этот бред!?'
February 2015
Собрание Земноводных
Континент правды омывает океан лжи;
Все обитатели континента - земноводные,
Такие как: черепахи, крокодилы, тюлени, моржи...
Тюлени выползают на пляж, когда сытые,
А крокодилы, когда голодные...
Черепахи выходят на берег, только чтобы откладывать
яйца:
Они идут еле-еле, прячут голову в панцирь и всего на
суше боятся,
Но зато в воде они плавают не хуже, чем рыбы,
А моржи ничего не боятся, они толстокожи
И лежат на песке, как окаменелые глыбы.
Моржи за правое дело не щадят животы
И на море взирают брезгливо,
Но, сказать вам по правде, ползти до воды
Им лень, и они целый день ждут прилива.
October 2015
Под снегом
Под снегом мир тесен,
Но жизнь есть даже под снегом:
Под снегом легко живёт плесень,
Но трудно там жить человеком.
И всё на земле, что под небом
Бездонным и звёздно-синим
Отвергнуто было Фебом,
Под снегом считают красивым.
Под снегом иные вершины
Обратные гордым и белым:
В почёте под снегом низины
И всякий заползший в них первым.
Под снегом ни буря, ни стужа
покоя
Жильцов не встревожит,
Удобно под снегом жить лежа,
Но если захочешь жить стоя -
Того и гляди, заутюжит.
November 2016
***
Поэт, философ молодой,
Не уповай на будущие годы
И не взирай на прошлое с тоской,
Ты в нём не жил, минувшие народы
Неведомы тебе. Ни власти их, ни моды
Отличны не были от тех, что правят ныне.
Ни в древней Греции, ни в древнем Риме
Заступничества не ищи от современных палачей
Свободы, Гения и Славы
И чашу их отравы
Ты, как Сократ, прими и пей.
March 2017
Я Навальный
Я не богочеловеком
От пречистой девы был рождён.
Я учился, занимался бегом
И купался летом под дождём.
Я учился у великих мастеров Китая
Сердце пронизать мечом,
И на угли раскалённые ступая,
Представлять, что жар мне нипочём.
Я учился быть философом, и годы
Постепенно укрощая страх,
Вам кажусь теперь бесстрашным от природы,
Отпуская шутки в кандалах.
Что такое боль, отчаяние, отвага? -
Это всё поэзия, поверь,
В нашем чёрном космосе гулага
Нет ни обретений, ни потерь.
Я учился не быть жертвой, будучи мишенью,
Выбираться из любых трясин
И в уме не предаваться мщенью,
Оставаясь в темноте один.
Для меня это - обычная работа
Я не пушкинский пророк и не герой;
'Идиот..' - я слышу, шепчет кто-то
Из толпы, стоящей за спиной.
Что ж, пусть так... не богочеловеком
От пречистой девы я рожден.
Я учился, занимался бегом
И купался летом под дождем.
12 June 2021
Я видел храм
Из Уильяма Блейка
Я видел чудный храм:
Небес сокровищницей грезился он нам,
Снаружи многие молились и скорбели,
Но преступить порог его не смели.
И видел я, как гнусный змий возрос
Меж белокаменных колонн на входе,
И, двери сокрушив, в святилище он вполз
И осквернил его касанием гадкой плоти,
И, прянув к алтарю через жемчужный неф,
Он яд свой на алтарь изверг струёю,
И мир весь обратился в хлев,
И обратился я свиньёю.
Шут-садовник
Всегда, за всё, во всех местах крапивы он достоин...
А. С. Пушкин
Когда-то много лет назад,
Окрестных жителей отрада,
На этом пустыре цвёл дивный сад:
Беседки утопали в лозах винограда,
Тенистые аллеи, клумбы, пруд...
Теперь ничто уж боле тут
Не привлекает взгляда.
Садовник старый помер, его примерный труд
Назначен был вести бывший придворный Шут
(Как видно, не нашлось иной кандидатуры).
Испытанный с пелён в политике большой
Шут не хотел прослыть драконом и ханжой
В царстве растительной культуры:
Враг предрассудков, с первых дней правления
Обычай варварский он упразднил -
Полоть и стричь растения.
Пускай на шутовской манер
Герой наш возжелал греметь по царству Флоры,
Как первый революционер:
'Уж то-то урожая будут горы!' -
Он так соображал, что лучшим удобрением
Свобода и покой послужат всем растениям.
А сам всё лето колотил заборы,
Чтоб урожай не растащили воры.
Чем дело кончилось, скажу вам, не тая:
Когда настало время урожая,
То урожайность впрямь была большая,
Да только вот крапивы и репья.
____________________
Таких шутов-садовников есть множество в народе,
Которым вверен был культуры нашей сад,
И, как в любом саду, их творческой свободе
В искусстве лишь сорняк, опутавший нас, рад.
Синица
Синица прыгала, вертелась как юла:
Птица известная синица -
Синицына природа такова,
Что ей секунды смирно не сидится.
Пока в синице бьётся сердце,
Синица будет хлопотать и суетиться.
С Синицей рядом оказалась тут Сова:
'Послушай, барышня, - ей говорит она, -
Уж у меня от прыганий твоих в глазах рябит,
И даже кружится немного голова!
Как можешь выдержать ты этот ад сама?'
Всё вертится Синица, но молчит.
Сова подождала
И громче ей кричит:
'Ах, кумушка, смотреть мне право больно,
Как вертишь ты всё время головой,
Тебе, должно быть, и во сне-то незнакомо,
Что значит тишина, покой?'
Синица, как нарочно, вертится, хлопочет,
Сову и вовсе примечать не хочет.
На сей раз у Совы не стало уж терпения,
И, не теряя понапрасну время,
Сова её хватила клювом в темя,
Синица замерла на миг от удивления.
'Прости, ты что-то мне сказала? -
Синица ей с испугу отвечала. -
А я-то, кажется, немного задремала!'
____________________
Так человек иной хлопочет, крутится, трещит
По телефону без умолку,
А приглядишься - господи, он ж спит!
Добьёшься разве от такого толку?!
Учёный Вор
'На все ремесла есть свои науки,
Лишь воровское ремесло
Даётся неохотно в руки,
И не бывает так, чтоб долго в нём везло...
Я часто от людей слыхал подобный вздор!' -
Так размышлял один Учёный Вор.
Учёность же его вся состояла в том,
Что он в приметах был глубоким знатоком.
Ведь там, где дело случай всё решает,
Приметы знать не помешает.
Иной воришка-то о ловкости хлопочет,
А он, Учёный Вор, приметы соблюдёт
И как по маслу украдёт,
Что комар носа не подточит.
Где кошка ль чёрная ему дорогу перейдёт -
Ни-ни! уж он на дело не идёт.
Ворона ль каркнет,
Бабу ль с вёдрами пустыми на дворе приметит -
Из дома ни ногой.
Зато в другой раз кошку пёструю он встретит
И воротится с полною сумой.
Но года не прошло, наш Вор сидит в темнице:
Наукой он своей решил прожить в столице
И в первую же ночь, крадясь в чужом саду,
Попался сослепу в засаду,
И предан был закону за награду.
Не веря до конца безжалостной судьбе,
Сидит Учёный Вор и горько причитает,
На Бога да на Случай всё пеняет:
'На чём попался я, чтоб кончить жизнь в тюрьме?!
Ни одного в ту ночь мне не было знамения,
Я все приметы бдел, идя на преступление!
Несправедливо, Господи! За что
Судьба со мною так жестока,
Ведь у меня ж не просто воровство,
А целая была наука!?'
Наскуча этим вздором скоро,
Бог гласом громовым сотряс темницу Вора:
'Зачем, глупец, ты верил так в свои гадания,
Толпы необразованной предания,
Как лучше б верил ты в меня
И соблюдал мои заветы,
А раз не хочешь, так пеняй же на себя
Или на тех, кто выдумал приметы!'
____________________
Скажу я то ж на злобу дня:
Иные сходно ищут счастья:
Переставляют по фен-шую мебеля,
На звёздные календари валят ненастья;
Лягушечек буддийских полон дом,
Фортуны же всё нет, и нет успокоения,
В душе по-прежнему смятение.
Идут они к психологам потом,
(Но о психологах молчу,
Я спорить с ними не хочу)
А там известные таблетки от волнения,
А от таблеток к докторам,
А уж от докторов на свете нет спасения,
Ведь самая наука там.
Когда же, наконец, откажут доктора,
Наступит запоздалая пора
Для каждого хоть и немного
Взамен наук поверить в Бога.
Шелкопряд
Я царь - я раб - я червь - я Бог!
Г. Р. Державин.
На ярмарке одной давным-давно
Известный мастер Ткач и Шелкопряд
Заспорили о том, чьё лучше полотно.
Судить их спор взялся весь ткацкий ряд:
За два стола их мигом усадили
И по команде ткать пустили.
'Букашка жалкая не больше муравья -
Какой же это ткач? - подумал наш ловкач. -
Сейчас с ним без труда расправлюсь я!'
И свой станок пустил он тотчас вскачь.
У Шелкопряда же работа шла не диво,
Да что и говорить,
Ведь истинны труды ведутся кропотливо,
И качеству во вред лишь служит прыть.
Когда спор кончился, наш Ткач торжествовал:
Полотен груды вкруг него лежали,
А Шелкопряд один лишь плат соткал.
Ткача с победой все уж поздравляли:
'Знатно! На диво! То-то же отлично! -
Ткачу помещичьи дивились мужички. -
Из этого рубах с десяток б вышло,
Ещё обрезки бы сгодились на портки.
А этот-то червяк как смел с тобой тягаться?
Всего один платок соткал,
Да тот так тонок, мал,
Что, кажется, вот-вот уж норовит порваться!'
'Постойте, - тут один купец им отвечал. -
Судить о мастерстве вы лучше не беритесь,
Когда количеством сличать труды стремитесь.
Таких платков нигде я не встречал,
Ни здесь, ни у кого в столице.
Я по любой цене его куплю,
Не побоюсь преподнести самой царице'.
А что же Ткач? -
А Ткач распродал мужикам полотна по рублю.
Пчела, Комар и Муха
Знакомые Пчела, Комар и Муха,
Однажды летом повстречав друг друга,
О вкусах завели учёный спор
И из друзей врагами сделались с тех пор.
Пчела приятелям все уши прожужжала
О том, что нет вкусней цветочного нектара.
'Нектар, какая гадость! - Муха ей в ответ. -
В помойку загляни, вот, где ассортимент,
Так уж ассортимент для истинных гурманов,
Недаром там так много тараканов!'
Комар лишь нос свой от друзей воротит:
'Ты любишь сладкое, Пчела, ты, Муха, любишь
гниль, -
Пищит Комар. - По мне и то, и это гиль!
Кровь слаще и свежей всего в природе!
Спросите самого царя зверей,
Он поклянётся вам при всём честном народе,
Что человечьей крови нет вкусней'.
____________________
А кто из них был прав, читатель сам рассудит.
Однако ж, я скажу, кто пьёт нектар цветов,
Тот верно уж отбросы есть не будет
И с голоду умрёт, не станет сосать кровь.
Нитка и Иголка
Нитка была прочна, длинна,
Была у ней беда одна:
Куда б ни тыкалась она,
Не прошивала полотна.
'Сестрица, тут нужна сноровка, -
Ей говорит тогда Иголка. -
Возьмись за швы ли, за узоры,
Но из тебя не выйдет толку'.
Хорошие продюсеры
Похожи так на ту иголку
Лишь с разницею часто той,
Что нитью любят шить гнилой.
Заметки и афоризмы разных годов
Notes and Aphorisms from Different Years
Единственный способ быть современным автором - это писать о вечном.
The only way to be a modern author is to write about the eternal.
Бездарные художники иногда оставляют очень трудно выводимые пятна.
Talentless artists sometimes leave very tough stains.
Если правда вам колет глаза, радуйтесь - значит вы ещё не утратили способность её видеть.
If the truth pricks your eyes, rejoice - it means you have not yet lost the ability to see it.
Перевод с иностранного языка на русский подобен переливанию воды из пробирки в таз; перевод с русского языка на иностранный подобен переливанию воды из таза в пробирку.
Translating from a foreign language into Russian is like pouring water from a test tube into a basin; translating from Russian into a foreign language is like pouring water from a basin into a test tube.
Подлинное искусство совершенно; у ремесленника всегда найдется недостаток в технике.
True art is perfect; a craftsman will always have a limitation in technique.
Художники говорят, что если смешать все цвета, получится черный; можно предположить, если смешать все человеческие желания, получится желание не быть.
Artists say that if you mix all colours, you get black; one may suppose that if you mix all human desires, you get a desire not to be.
Если бы каждый человек был самим собой, на земле не осталось бы ни одного примера для подражания.
If every person were themselves, there would not be a single role model left on earth.
A lie is bad; a half-told truth is worse than a lie; an unspoken truth is the worst of evils.
Характер человека - это совокупность его ненавистей.
A person's character is the sum of their hatreds.
Лишь две вещи пробуждают в человеческой душе самые прекрасные чувства - абсолютная красота и абсолютная беспомощность.
Only two things awaken the most beautiful feelings in the human soul - absolute beauty and absolute helplessness.
В любом искусстве всегда легко отличить бездарность от таланта, ведь для бездарности творить означает самовыражаться.
In any art it is always easy to distinguish lack of talent from talent, for to create, for the talentless, means to express oneself.
Судя по обилию в нашем языке возвратных глаголов и словосочетаний с ними, таких как: планы выполняются, дома строятся, поля пашутся, полы моются, обед готовится, можно подумать, что Россия - это одна большая страна-автомат.
Самое опасное общество - это общество мирных, законопослушных граждан: никогда не знаешь, какое беззаконие могут узаконить в таком обществе.
The most dangerous society is a society of peaceful, law-abiding citizens: you never know what lawless atrocity may be legalised in such a society.
Какое влияние женщины во власти оказывают на мир? - Никакого, если они ведут себя по-мужски.
What influence do women in power have on the world? - None, if they behave like men.
В наш век свободы стало так много, что она утрачивает всякую ценность. Цивилизованные люди обращаются со свободой, как перуанские дикари до прихода колонизаторов обращались с золотом: одни дают играть с нею детям, другие ставят её в пантеоны.
In our age there is so much freedom that it is losing all value. Civilised people treat freedom the way Peruvian indigenous people treated gold before the arrival of the colonisers: some let children play with it, others place it in pantheons.
Чтобы писать поэзию нужно знать себя, чтобы писать прозу нужно знать людей.
To write poetry one must know oneself; to write prose one must know people.
- Платон мне друг, но истина дороже.
- Истина не может быть дороже человека.
- Plato is my friend, but dearer still is truth.
- No truth can be valued above a human being.
Если идея способна рассорить друзей, это плохая идея; если друзья способны рассориться из-за идеи, то это плохие друзья.
If an idea is capable of driving friends apart, it is a bad idea; if friends are capable of falling out over an idea, they are bad friends.
В современном мире остался один великий диктатор - 'маленький человек', самый жестокий тиран из всех когда-либо досаждавших талантливым людям.
In the modern world only one great dictator remains - the 'little man', the most cruel tyrant of all who have ever plagued talented people.
Смысл жизни не в том, чтобы жить хорошо или долго, а в том, чтобы жить вечно.
The meaning of life is not to live well or long, but to live forever.
Лучше быть предателем одной страны, чем предателем всего рода человеческого.
It is better to be a traitor to one country than a traitor to the whole of humankind.
Религиозность и патриотизм разумного человека не должны заходить далее искренней веры в практическую пользу религиозных и гражданских праздников.
The religiosity and patriotism of a reasonable person should not go beyond a sincere belief in the practical usefulness of religious and civic holidays.
Только человек, лишенный воображения, не боится темноты.
Only a person deprived of imagination is not afraid of the dark.
Кто остается ребенком, тот становится личностью; кто взрослеет, тот становится массой.
Whoever remains a child becomes a personality; whoever grows up becomes a mass.
Самый противоестественный и самый распространенный художественный вымысел - это зло, наделенное положительными качествами (красотой, умом, вкусом, смелостью, талантом, оригинальностью). В реальности единственная характерная черта зла - это тупое военное однообразие, вызывающее смертельную скуку.
The most unnatural and the most widespread artistic fiction is evil endowed with positive qualities (beauty, intelligence, taste, courage, talent, originality). In reality, the only characteristic feature of evil is dull military uniformity that produces deadly boredom.
The villain in film is Mowgli from The Jungle Book; the villain in real life is a mowgli from a psychiatric ward.
У нас в литературе сложилось странное представление о жанре басни: наши баснописцы, кажется, всерьез полагают, что, обзывая в своих нехитрых произведениях людей, которые им чем-то не угодили или чей образ жизни они осуждают, ослами, курицами, свиньями и т. п., они не просто бранятся, а изъясняются на эзоповом языке.
In our literature, a strange notion of the genre of the fable has taken shape: our fabulists seem to believe in all seriousness that, by calling in their simple-minded works people who have displeased them in some way or whose way of life they condemn asses, chickens, pigs, and so on, they are not merely abusing them, but expressing themselves in Aesopian language.
Самоубийство - это смерть самых...
Suicide is the death of the utmost...
Если тело не дает себя чувствовать, значит, человек ведет духовную жизнь.
If the body does not make itself felt, it means that a person is leading a spiritual life.
В нашем языке заложен рецепт лучшего лечения - это увлечение.
Если кто из творцов станет философски заявлять, что как дереву безразлично то по вкусу ли обезьянам его плоды, так и ему нет дела до того по вкусу ли публике его творения, то сравнивать его с деревом будет куда как лестно, ведь у дерева ушли миллионы лет эволюции, чтобы сделать свои плоды красивыми, вкусными и полезными. Но если уж этому творцу непременно хочется продемонстрировать нам своё безразличие, то вернее будет сравнивать его с бревном.
If one of the creators begins to declare philosophically that, just as a tree is indifferent to whether monkeys like the taste of its fruits, so he has no concern for whether the public likes his creations, then to compare him to a tree would be far too flattering, for a tree has taken millions of years of evolution to make its fruits beautiful, tasty, and wholesome. But if this creator is truly eager to demonstrate his indifference to us, it would be more accurate to compare him to a log.
Как справедливо заметил философ N, во все времена, все мудрейшие люди судили о жизни одинаково: они говорили, что она никуда не годится. И точно так же жизнь в ответ вознаграждает труды гениев злоязычием глупцов.
As philosopher N rightly observed, at all times the wisest people have judged life in the same way: they said that it is no good at all. And in exactly the same way, life in return rewards the works of geniuses with the detraction of fools.
Безбожник - это не тот, кто не верит в бога или считает, что никакого бога не существует, это человек, которого красота и гениальность природы, людей, их творчества оставляют равнодушным.
A godless person is not someone who does not believe in God or thinks that God doesn't exist; it is a person whom the beauty and genius of nature, of people, and of their creations leave indifferent.
Если в стране все слепы, значит ли это, что зрячий - король? - Нет, это значит, что зрячий во тьме.
If everyone in a country is blind, does that mean that the one who can see is king? - No, it means that the one who can see is in the dark.
Ложь - это смрад, источаемый мертвым политиком.
Lie is the stench exuded by a dead politician.
Лидер есть тот, кто ведет, не идя на поводу.
A leader is one who leads without being on a leash.
Инвестируйте в самоуважение; это единственная валюта, курс которой будет расти.
Invest in self-respect; it is the only currency whose rate will rise.
Вполне возможно, что Американское государство - это общественный договор, служащий личной выгоде каждого участвующего в нём человека, но Россия и страны подобные ей - это не общественные договоры, это неблагополучные многодетные семьи, дети которых могут утешаться лишь тем, что родителей не выбирают.
It is quite possible that the American state is a social contract serving the personal benefit of every person participating in it, but Russia and countries like it are not social contracts; they are dysfunctional large families, whose children can take comfort only in the fact that one does not choose one's parents.
Чувство, которое называлось бы антонимом слова 'зависть', так редко, что люди ему даже имени не придумали!
A feeling that could be called the antonym of the word 'envy' is so rare that people have not even invented a name for it!
Философ Алан Уотс заметил, что человеку дать себе определение так же трудно, как укусить собственные зубы. Этот феномен доказывает, что внутри каждого из нас заключена индивидуальность столь неповторимая, что её невозможно выразить общими словами.
The philosopher Alan Watts noted that for a person to give themselves a definition is just as difficult as to bite their own teeth. This phenomenon proves that within each of us there is an individuality so unique that it cannot be expressed by common words.
Самая ценная вещь в доме - пустой пол; в жизни - свободное время.
The most valuable thing in a home is empty floor space; in life, free time.
Инстинкт самосохранения - это инстинкт самоуважения.
The instinct of self-preservation is the instinct of self-respect.
Обмен информацией есть самое экстатическое удовольствие человечества, ну разве нет!?
The exchange of information is the most ecstatic pleasure of humanity - isn't it?
If you hear someone ranking people, beware: that's a cannibal talking.
Потребитель - это звучит гордо.
Consumer - that sounds proud.
Our Hogwarts generation is the first generation of grumpy thirty-year-olds lamenting their glorious past.
Films are paintings: the wall belongs to them. Series are wallpaper: they belong to the wall.
AI is only as smart as the person talking to it.
If I can't watch your movie with a ten-year-old kid, it's a waste of my time.
Human hatred is a purely aesthetic feeling; if it weren't, we wouldn't admire fictitious villains.
Мечты - это кино о вашей жизни, в котором вас играет кто-то другой.
Daydreams are a film about your life in which you are played by someone else.
Any act of will is a work of art.
Translations and English Poems
***
From Pushkin
I loved you: yet love may not be
Wholly extinguished in my heart;
But let it no more trouble thee;
I do not want to make you sad.
I loved you hopelessly and mutely,
Tormented now by jealousy, now by shyness;
I loved you so sincerely, so fondly,
God grant you be loved so by someone else.
Autumn
From Pushkin
What comes not then into my dormant mind?
Derzhavin.
I
October came - the grove already throws
The last leaves from its naked limbs.
The autumn cold had blown - the road froze.
Purling, the brook beyond the mill still streams,
But frozen is the pond; my neighbour promptly goes
To distant grounds with a hunt of his,
And winter crops endure the savage larking,
And sleeping oak woods are woken up with barking.
II
Now it is my time. The spring I do not love;
The thaw is tedious to me; stench, mud - in spring
I'm sick;
The blood ferments; my senses, mind are troubled;
better off
I am at the harsh winter's peak,
I love her snows; attended by the moon above,
How the sleigh's run with a girlfriend is free and quick,
When warm and fresh under her sable furs,
Blushing and shivering, she takes your hand in hers!
III
Shod in sharp steel, how cheerful it is
To glide upon a mirror-like unyielding flow!
And the winter holidays' glittering thrills?..
But it's high time to stop; half a year - snow and snow,
The dweller of a den, a bear, may finally tire of all this.
For a whole century we simply cannot go
Riding in sledges with young Graces
Or mope by firesides and double window-cases.
IV
Oh, summer glorious! I'd love you, as long as
There were no mosquitoes and flies, and dust, and heat.
Spoiling all mental faculties one has,
You torture us; we suffer from your drought like wheat;
Just to get watered and freshened up - no other thought
in us,
We start to pity winter, the old hag, indeed,
And with pancakes and wine having attended her demise,
Serve her commemoration with ice-cream and ice.
V
Days of late autumn they usually scold,
But I am fond of her, my dear reader,
Of that mild beauty modestly installed.
Just as to me an unloved child seems sweeter
Among her own kin. And if the truth be told,
Of all the seasons only hers I am a joyful greeter.
She has much good; a lover of little self-esteem,
I did find something in her with my wayward dream.
VI
How is it to be explained? I like her as you may
At times find charming a consumptive maid.
Condemned to death, poor thing withers away
Without a murmur, without hate.
A smile upon her faded lips is seen; she fails to pay
Attention to the gaping grave, before her laid;
Still crimson colour in her face she has got.
She's still alive today, tomorrow she is not.
VII
A gloomy time! Sensations' fascination!
Your parting beauty is pleasant to behold -
I do love nature's rich dilapidation,
All forests clothed in crimson and in gold,
In their halls wind's noise and chilly respiration,
A wavy mist cast over the sky's vault,
And the first frosts, and a rare sunny ray,
And hoary winter's threats from far away.
VIII
And with each fall I blossom once again;
Cold weather makes my health feel stronger;
Once more love for the habits of existence I regain:
By turns sleep flies away, by turns comes hunger;
Lightly and joyfully blood courses through my veins,
Desires boil in me - I am happy, younger,
I'm full of life again - such is my organism
(Kindly forgive me for the needless prosaism).
IX
A steed is brought to me; and in the open space,
Tossing his mane, he swiftly goes,
And ice crusts crack and frozen vales
Resound loudly under his shining hooves.
But the short day dies out; in the forgotten fireplace
A fire burns again - now it brightly glows,
Now grows dim - while I am reading by its side
Or nourishing long meditations in my mind.
X
And I forget the world - and in the sweet repose
I'm sweetly lulled by my imagination,
And poetry in me comes forth:
My soul is strained with lyric agitation,
It sounds and thrills, and seeks, as in a doze,
To vent itself at last in a free manifestation -
And here unseen guests come swarming in,
Acquaintances of old, the fruits of my dream.
XI
And in my mind thoughts fearlessly caper,
And onto them airy rhymes cling,
My fingers want a pen, the pen wants paper,
A minute - and my verse shall freely spring.
Likewise upon a quiet sea a vessel slumbers like a vapour,
But hark! - all of a sudden sailors fling
Themselves, crawl up and down - and the sails swell, filled
with the breeze;
The giantess is off and furrows the seas.
XII
She sails. Where shall we sail? ..............................
March - April 2018
***
For what purpose are a poet's lofty words fit? -
To praise oneself, to sting a fool with wit,
For those who do not possess an artist's gift -
To have landscapes and faces writ.
To a poet
(sonnet)
From Pushkin
Poet! do not prize highly public love.
The fleeting noise of praise shall fade;
You'll hear a fool's verdict and the cold crowd's laugh:
But you stay firm, composed and self-contained.
You are a king: live singly. Along a free road
Go wherever your free mind steers,
Refining fruits of your favorite ideas,
And for a noble deed demanding no reward.
It is in you alone. The highest court is yours;
Stricter than anyone you can appraise your toils
Are you content with them, exacting master?
Content? Well, let the crowd curse them then and spit
On the altar where your fire is lit
And shake your easel in its childish fluster.
April 2016
And boring and sad
From Lermontov
And boring and sad, and no one's there
When a minute of suffering comes
Desires!.. what's the use of desiring vainly forever?..
While years pass by - all the best ones!
To love... but who, then?... for a while - it is not worth the
pains,
Yet for eternity nobody can love.
Should you look into yourself? - of the past no vestige
remains:
Every joy, every torment - it all has been nothing but
fluff...
What passions? - after all sooner or later their pleasant
disease
At the voice of reason shall pass;
And life, look around with a cold eye - it is
Such an empty and silly farce...
Three Palms
(An eastern legend)
From Lermontov
In the waterless plains of Arabian land
Three palm trees rose tall and grand.
And there a spring from the fruitless earth,
Purling amid them, used to come forth,
Harbored under the shade of the plants
From burning rays and flying sands.
And many long years were quietly spent;
But a weary traveler from a far-away land
Had not yet bent his sweltered bosom
To the cool water beneath the trees' blossom,
And the resonant brook and the luscious leaves
Started to dry from the scorching sunbeams.
And started the palms to murmur to God,
'Why have we grown to dry in this sand?
Uselessly we in the desert were born,
Scorched by the heat and swung by the storm,
Pleasing no one's benevolent eye?..
Unjust is your verdict, oh, gracious sky!'
By the time they finished - on the horizon
Golden clouds of sand had already been rising;
Inharmonious sounds of bells were heard,
Motley carpeted bales in the distance emerged
And, swaying like boats, in single file went
One camel after another, ploughing the sand.
Dangling, hang down the tracery laps
Of the travelling tents between the stiff humps;
Tanned little hands raised them at times,
And from within sparkled black eyes...
And bending the slender waist to the steed,
An Arab whipped it up to full speed.
And now and then the black stallion pranced
And like an arrow-struck leopard danced;
And the folds of the rider's white dress
Streamed down his shoulders in a beautiful mess;
With a shout and whistle he galloped aside,
Cast his spear and caught it in flight.
Here the caravan came to the trees
And merrily camped in the shade of the leaves.
Jugs were filled in the sounding brook,
And the palms their heads proudly shook,
Greeting the guests upon their arrival,
While the brook contributed to their revival.
But the moment the country fell into dusk,
Axes were set to their task,
And down the nurslings of centuries went!
By the infants their attire was rent,
Their bodies were hewn later on
And slowly they were burned until dawn.
By the time the night mist was blown away,
The caravan was again underway;
And the cold and grey ashes were left as a trace,
Faintly marking the barren surface;
And after the sun burned up the remains,
Wind scattered them in the boundless plains.
Today it is all wild and empty around -
The leaves and the rattling spring make no sound:
In vain for a shade it appeals to God -
Covered only with searing sand,
And a kite of the desert alone could be seen
Tearing and pecking its prey by the spring.
December 2016
Antiaris
From Pushkin
Amidst a barren desert country
Upon the heated earth
Antiaris, like a menacing sentry,
Stands all alone in the whole universe.
The thirsty wasteland's scanty nature
Begot it on a day of wrath
And filled its branches' dead verdure
And roots with fluids venomous.
The poison trickles through its bark,
At midday melting in the sun,
And freezes, as it grows dark,
In transparent and viscid gum.
A bird flies not to it,
Nor comes a tiger - only a whirlwind harsh
The tree of death will hit
And on, already putrid, rush.
And if a wandering cloud sprinkles
The tree's rampant leaves,
The rain, already poisoned, trickles
Upon the scorching sand beneath.
But by a man a man was sent
To the Antiaris on an errand,
And he obediently went,
And with the poison he returned.
Indeed, the deathly gum he brought
And faded leaves upon a bough,
And down perspiration poured
In cold streams from his pallid brow.
He brought - and weakened, and he sprawled
Upon a bast mat in a tent,
And there at the feet of the all-powerful lord
The poor slave met his end.
And with the poison thus obtained
The king imbued his loyal darts,
With which destruction he then sent
To neighbors into foreign parts.
January 2017
Motherland
From Lermontov
I love my motherland but with strange love!
My reason can't defeat this sense.
Neither the glory bought with bloody strife,
Nor calmness full of proud confidence,
Nor cherished legends of the olden days
A pleasant dream in me can raise.
But I do love - for what, I do not know -
The chilly silence of her leas,
Her shoreless forests swaying in a breeze,
Her sea-wide rivers when they overflow;
I love to journey in a cart along a country road
And, slowly gazing through the shade of night,
To meet at times, sighing for bed and board,
Shimmering lights in gloomy villages on either side.
I love the smoke of scorched stubble,
Benighted in a field, a wagon train
And on a hill a wedded couple
Of birches white amid a yellow plain.
Or with delight unknown to others
I see sometimes a threshing-floor,
A window decked with carved shutters,
A peasant's cottage roofed with straw;
Till midnight on a dewy festive evening
I could stay watching country folk
Dance with stomping and whistling,
Accompanied by drunk men's talk.
April 2016
***
From Lermontov
Unwashed Russia, farewell to you,
The land of lords, the land of serfs
And you, the uniforms of blue,
And you, loyalists of theirs.
Behind the wall of the Caucasus I
Might shelter from your peers
From their all-seeing eye,
From their all-hearing ears.
The Cart of life
From Pushkin
Though heavy a burden is in it sometimes,
The cart is light once it gains speed;
The driver is dashing, grey-haired Time,
Drives on, not getting off the seat.
At dawn we jump up in the cart;
We would be glad to break one's neck
And, scorning laziness and fright,
Call: off you go, for .... sake!
At noon we have no former nerves;
Having been jolted, more we dread
All those slopes and steeps, and curves;
We shout: not so fast, blockhead!
Same as before the cart is on its way;
By dusk we have got used to it
And, dozing off, we ride to the night's stay,
While Time drives on and on the steed.
The Cliff
From Lermontov
A golden cloud passed the night
On the bosom of a giant cliff;
Early in the morning she took leave,
Playing merrily in the sunlight;
But there was left a humid trace
In the old cliff's wrinkle. Lonely
Stands he, brooding wanly,
Quietly cries he in the barren space.
The Sail
From Lermontov
A lone white sail appears in
The blue haze of the sea!..
What does she seek beyond the rim?
What has she left at the quay?..
The billows play - the high wind blows,
The mainmast bends and creaks...
Alas! she runs from no sorrows
And no happiness she seeks!
The golden sun above her rolls,
The sky-blue stream beneath...
But for a storm she wildly calls,
As though storms bring peace!
Dance Macabre
From Blok
Night, a street, a lamppost, a drugstore,
A meaningless and faint light.
You may live twenty-five years more -
No escape. Everything will stay like that.
Die - start again all over,
And it will all come as in the past:
Night, cold ripples on the canal water,
The street, the drugstore, the lamppost.
The life of my fellow
From Blok
All day - like any day: comprised of little work
And many a trifling care.
Their ghosts will pointlessly walk
Past your fatigued stare.
You worry, - but deep inside submissive:
If it doesn't pan out - let it fail.
And at the bottom of your soul, black and depressive,
Sadness and disbelief prevail.
And then the tide of your day's cares
By evening surges back.
When at the frosty dark the city stares
And midnight's struck, -
You'd like to fall asleep, but - what an awful moment!
All other thoughts aside -
The senselessness of any deed, the joylessness of comfort
Visit your troubled mind.
And silent anguish does so gently squeeze your throat:
Unable to groan, or gasp,
As if the night has spread the damnation over the whole
world,
The devil himself has caught you in his grasp!
You jump out of bed and run into the stone-deaf streets,
But there is no one to help you out:
Wherever you turn - only the darkness meets
Your vacant eyes and follows you about.
There the wind will keep on moaning overhead
Until the pale sunrise;
A police guard, in order not to fall asleep, will apprehend
A vagrant by surprise...
And finally the longed-for weariness will set in,
And you will not care a bit...
What? Conscience? Truth? Life? It's such a little thing!
It makes one laugh, well, doesn't it?
January 2019
***
From Pushkin
Not highly I esteem
The loud rights that make many a head spin.
I do not murmur that the Fates
Denied me the sweet lot of contesting tax rates
Or of preventing kings from fighting one another;
And honestly, little I bother,
Whether the press humbugs simpletons without
limitations
Or watchful censorship restrains buffoons in publishing
intentions.
All this is words, words, words, as you may see.
Some other better rights are precious to me;
Some other better freedom I still want:
Depending on the mob, depending on a lord -
Is it not all the same? God be with them.
To be obliged
To answer to no one, to serve and to indulge
Yourself alone; for power, for rank
To bend neither your conscience, nor thoughts, nor trunk;
At will to ramble far and wide,
Being carried away by nature's divine sight,
And to regard creations of art and inspiration,
Quivering joyfully with a rapturous sensation.
- Here is happiness! here are the rights...
January 2017
Alie
We love to spread lies
On purpose or at leisure:
It gives us secret pleasure
To see in others' eyes
The triumph of surprise
Or reverence, or fear,
Or a pathetic tear.
To make men raise their brows -
One of the greatest powers!
The same as any drug is a lie:
It makes a low man feel high,
The same addiction it implies,
The same inseparable ties
Keep people dangling on a string -
And see how the puppets spring!
True love
What do we love the most among all things? -
Without doubt it is beauty.
But what it actually means? -
For some, indeed, it's just her body
(And even so, until she nears forty).
But there is true love or there must have been:
When you're in love with someone aged, dead, even never
seen;
With eyes and teeth, and lips, and skin, and hair,
Plucked out, beaten, cut, torn off... you love her to despair.
Were she ever to become a harlot, no word of blame
You would address to her and love on still the same
The empty sockets where
Her eyes once brightly shone,
This would be the true love...
When all the rest is gone.
The three easiest things
There are the three easiest things,
Though none knows what each means,
They seem to us so commonplace
That we take lightly every phase
And speak of it so freely
As if we knew it really
Or there had to be a lot
More serious questions in the world
To seek, to answer and to learn...
The easiest thing is to be born,
The second thing is to give birth
And finally the hardest choice -
To deal with death...
Since my childhood years
I've always wondered: how come
People can live so comfortably calm
Amid this universal ocean
Of constant and uncertain motion
Without answering, without seeking...
Most times without even thinking
They couple, then file for divorce,
They breed and then they march to wars,
As if they deem that their race,
Their nation, legacy, their faith,
Or their petty worldly wealth
Somehow might help them to conquer death!
***
I love you in a unilateral order
Recklessly, without a backward glance;
Feeling no jealousy, no parting torture,
I gladly play my minor part in this romance.
I do not rush across the stage in fits of passion,
I do not sink before you to my knee,
I neither vow nor appeal to your compassion
To love me back just for being loved by me.
The Enchanter
What a starry night today, behold!
Until late the Enchanter must have toiled:
Ascended hills, walked in the shade of dales -
He is the deathless lord of mortal days.
When he is not idle, when the sky is clear,
When forest shadows thicken for the night is near,
He walks among trees in his cloak and pointed hat,
With a crooked wooden staff held in one hand.
Across his shoulder a pouch he has,
It is filled to the brim with countless stars,
And there are stretched invisible strings
Everywhere from trees to celestial beings.
He pulls the strings down where he stays
And there, in heaven, in bottomless space
Great gods, having shaken off midday drowse,
Bend with a smile in reply to his bows.
Here the sack with the stars he unfastens,
From heaven he lowers cages with lanterns,
Encloses in each a glaring star
Or two, or even a galaxy far,
And gently he lifts them into the skies
While the purple sunset dies.
The Butterfly and the Ant
From Krylov
A flighty Butterfly has sung
Through all summer in the sun;
Before she had time to think,
Winter rolled up in a wink.
Clear fields are now dead;
No more those days ahead
When she had a meal and room
Under every tree in bloom.
All is gone: with winter snow
Need and hunger come along;
And the Butterfly no song
Makes of it - who would go on
Singing on a stomach hollow!
Feeling awfully depressed,
To the Ant she appeals next,
'Leave me not, my dear friend,
Only let my spirits mend
And until the coming spring,
You look after my well-being!'
'Sister, you are quite a bummer,'
He says, 'Did you work in summer?'
'Please, my dear, have some pity,
In soft grass we every day
Spent on singing songs and play
And my head went quite giddy.'
'But to work...'
'I had no chance -
The whole summer I was singing.'
'You were singing? That's a beginning,
Now you had better dance!'
April 2017
The Crow and the Fox
From Krylov
How many times it has been said
That flattery is vile, that flattery is bad,
But still no good at all comes from this,
And flatterers can always squeeze
Themselves into the hearts of men with ease.
____________________
Once to a Crow God sent a piece of cheese;
The godsend in the beak,
She, having perched upon a pine,
Was almost going to dine,
But for a moment stopped to think.
And so unluckily it all turned out -
A Fox this very moment prowled about;
The scent of cheese went up the Fox's nose,
The Fox beheld the cheese, the cheese seduced the Fox.
The rascal on tiptoe came to the pine,
Wagging the tail, bending the spine,
Spoke to the Crow sweetly, hardly breathing,
'My dear, how beautiful you are, how pleasing!
Ah, what a neck, what pretty eyes!
No way to tell - they simply mesmerize!
What feathers, what a beak - très chic!
And certainly like angels you must speak!
Sing, darling, don't be shy! If, being
Such a majestic beauty, you also sweetly sing,
Then among birds you shall be a queen!'
The praises made the Crow's head feel light,
Her breath stuck in her throat from delight,
In answer to the Fox's pleasant talk
With all her crow's might she gave a dreadful croak -
The cheese fell to the Fox's feet
And off the rascal went with it.
April 2017
The Asses on Parnassus
From Krylov
When long ago the Gods were removed from Greece
And among the laity their lands were let on lease,
Then someone also got the mount of Parnassus;
And there the new master started to tend Asses.
The Asses, I don't know how, before long did know
That the Muses had lived there not so long ago,
And said the Asses, 'Not in vain
We have been brought to this domain:
The public must be tired of the Muses' singing,
And now they want us to make a new beginning.' -
'Get set, lads, cheer up!' One of the Asses cried,
'I will strike up, and don't you lag behind!
My friends, do not feel shy, and may
Our herd be heard of far away!
And soon the talents of the Nine
Our zeal alone will outshine!
Yet so as to keep our fellowship from being misled,
Such an admission order to Parnassus
We must adopt that will not let
Inside our ranks one who has no vocal nicety of asses.'
The Asses for all asses' cause
Approved their tricky-twisted clause:
And such nightmarish drivel the new poets started
howling,
As if up there was a long train toiling
Whose wheels required a good oiling.
But how did this flashy-dashy sinning end?
The farmer, having lost his patience, went
And drove the Asses back into the cattle house.
____________________
Wishing no ignoramus's anger to arouse,
I would like only to observe in this comment
That if one's head is devoid of wit
High places won't make up for it.
January 2019
Mozart and Salieri
From Pushkin
Scene I
Room.
Salieri
All say: there is no truth on earth.
But there is no truth above. For me
It's clear as a simple scale.
I was born with love for art;
Being a child, when high rang
The organ in our ancient church,
I listened and was absorbed in listening -
Involuntary and sweet tears ran.
Idle amusements I rejected early;
Sciences, alien to music, were
Repellent to me; obstinately and arrogantly
I renounced them and devoted
Myself to music only. Hard is the first step
And boring is the first path. I overcame
The early hardships. The craft
I had set as a footstool to the art;
I became a craftsman: to the fingers
I gave obedient, dry quickness
And accuracy to the ear. Having killed sounds,
Music I dissected, like a corpse. I checked
Harmony with algebra. Then
I already dared, initiated in the science,
To indulge in the delight of a creative dream.
I started to create, but in silence, but in secret,
Not daring yet to think of fame.
Often, having stayed in a silent cell
Two or three days, having forgotten sleep and food,
Having enjoyed raptures and tears of inspiration,
I would burn my work and coldly watch,
How my thought and sounds, brought forth by me,
Blazing, were disappearing in light smoke.
What do I say? When the great Gluck
Appeared and revealed to us new mysteries
(The deep, captivating mysteries),
Did I not drop all that I had known before,
All that I had so loved and so ardently believed in,
And did I not go briskly after him
Submissively, like one who lost his way
And was sent by another in a different direction?
With forceful, strenuous constancy
I finally achieved, in the boundless art,
A high degree. Fame
Smiled on me; in the hearts of men
I found response to my creations.
I was happy: I peacefully enjoyed
My work, success, fame; also
The works and achievements of friends,
My comrades in the wonderful art.
No! Never had I known envy,
O, never! - Not when Piccinni
Managed to captivate the ear of savage Parisians,
Nor when I heard for the first time
The opening sounds of Iphigénie1.
Who'd say that proud Salieri has ever been
An despicable envier,
A snake trampled by people, alive,
Powerlessly biting sand and dust?
None!.. But now - I say it myself - I'm now
An envier. I envy; deeply,
Painfully envy. - O heaven!
Where is justice when the sacred gift,
When the immortal genius - not as a reward
For ardent love, selflessness,
Toil, diligence, prayers - was sent -
But illuminates the head of a madman,
An idle reveler?.. O Mozart, Mozart!
Mozart enters.
Mozart
Aha! You've seen me! But I wanted
To treat you to an unexpected joke.
Salieri
You here! - How long?
Mozart
Just now. I was coming to you,
I had something to show you;
But, passing by a tavern, suddenly
I heard a violin... No, my friend Salieri!
You've heard nothing funnier
In all your born days... A blind fiddler in the tavern
Performed voi che sapete2. Miracle!
I couldn't resist, so I brought the fiddler
To treat you to his art.
Come in!
The blind old man enters with a violin.
Something by Mozart for us!
The old man plays an aria from Don Giovanni;
Mozart laughs.
Salieri
And you can laugh?
Mozart
Ah, Salieri!
Aren't you yourself laughing?
Salieri
No!
I do not laugh when a worthless dauber
Dirties Raphael's Madonna,
I do not laugh when a disgusting buffoon
Dishonours Alighieri with a parody.
Go away, old man.
Mozart
Wait: here, this is for you,
Drink to my health.
The old man leaves.
You, Salieri,
Are out of spirits now. I'll come to you
At another time.
Salieri
What have you brought to me?
Mozart
No - nothing; a trifle. The other night
My insomnia was wearying me,
And two, three thoughts came into my head.
Today I put them down. I wanted
To hear your opinion; but now
You aren't in the mood for me.
Salieri
Ah, Mozart, Mozart!
When am I not? Sit down;
I am listening.
Mozart
(at the piano)
Picture to yourself... whom?
Well, take me - a little younger;
In love - not too much, but slightly -
With a beauty, or with a friend - with you, perhaps.
I'm cheerful... Suddenly: a deathly apparition,
Sudden darkness or something like that...
Well, listen.
(Plays.)
Salieri
You were going to me with this
And yet you could stop at the tavern
And listen to the blind fiddler! - God!
You, Mozart, are unworthy of yourself.
Mozart
So, is it good?
Salieri
What a depth!
What daring and what harmony!
You, Mozart, are a god, and do not know it yourself;
I know it, I do.
Mozart
Oh! really? maybe...
But my deity is hungry.
Salieri
Listen: let us dine together
At the tavern of the Golden Lion.
Mozart
Well then;
I'm glad. But let me go home to tell
My wife so that she won't be expecting me
For dinner.
(Leaves.)
Salieri
I'm waiting for you; see to it.
No! I cannot resist my lot,
My fate: I am chosen to stop him,
Or else we all shall perish,
We all, priests, servants of music,
Not I alone with my dull fame...
What profit if Mozart lives
And yet attains a newer height?
Will he raise art by that? No;
It will fall again when he disappears:
He will leave us no heir.
What use is he? Like a cherub,
He brought us several heavenly songs,
Only to, having stirred the wingless longing
In us, children of dust, fly away thereafter!
So fly away, then! The sooner, the better.
Here is the poison, the last gift of my Isora.
For eighteen years I have carried it with me -
And often life has seemed to me since then
An intolerable wound, and I have often sat
With a careless enemy over a meal,
And never to the whisper of temptation
Have I bowed, although I am not a coward,
Although I feel offence deeply,
Although little I love life. Still I've been lingering.
How thirst for death tormented me,
Why die? I deemed: perhaps life
Would bring me sudden gifts;
Perhaps delight, and a creative night,
And inspiration would visit me;
Perhaps a new Haydn would create
Something great - and I would enjoy it...
How I feasted with a hated guest,
Perhaps, I deemed, I'd find
The deadliest enemy; perhaps, the bitterest offence
Would strike me from a haughty height -
Then you shall not be wasted, gift of Isora.
And I was right! and finally I found
My enemy, and a new Haydn
Marvelously intoxicated me with delight!
Now it's time! cherished gift of love,
Pass today into the cup of friendship.
Scene II
A separate room at the tavern; a piano.
Mozart and Salieri at the table.
Salieri
Why are you gloomy today?
Mozart
I? No!
Salieri
You must be, Mozart, upset about something?
The dinner is good, the wine is fine,
But you are keeping silent and frowning.
Mozart
To confess,
My Requiem is troubling me.
Salieri
Ah!
You are composing a Requiem? For how long?
Mozart
A while, about three weeks. But a strange incident...
Did I not tell you?
Salieri
No.
Mozart
Then listen.
Some three weeks ago, I came home late.
I was told that someone had came
For me. Why - I do not know,
All night I was thinking: who could it have been?
And what did he want with me? The next day he again
Came and didn't catch me in.
On the third day I was playing on the floor
With my boy. They called me;
I came out. A man, dressed in black,
Having bowed politely, commissioned
A Requiem from me and disappeared. I sat down at once
And began to write - and since then
My black man hasn't come for me;
But I am glad: I would be sorry to part
With my work, though quite ready
Is the Requiem. But meanwhile I...
Salieri
What?
Mozart
I am ashamed to confess it...
Salieri
What is it?
Mozart
My black man gives me no rest
By day or night. Everywhere he chases me
Like a shadow. Here now
It seems to me, he himself, the third
Is sitting with us.
Salieri
Come, come! what childish fear is this?
Dispel the empty thought. Beaumarchais
Used to say to me: 'Listen, brother Salieri,
When black thoughts come to you,
Uncork a bottle of champagne
Or reread The marriage of Figaro.'
Mozart
Yes! Beaumarchais was indeed your pal;
You composed Tarare3 for him,
A nice piece. There is one tune...
I'm always humming it when I am happy...
La la la la... Ah, is it true, Salieri,
That Beaumarchais poisoned somebody?
Salieri
I don't think so: he was too humorous
For such a trade.
Mozart
He was, after all, a genius,
Like you and me. And genius and villainy -
Two things incompatible. Aren't they?
Salieri
You think?
(Drops the poison into Mozart's glass.)
Now, drink.
Mozart
To your health
Friend, and to the candid union
That binds Mozart and Salieri,
Two sons of harmony.
(Drinks.)
Salieri
Wait,
Wait, wait!.. You've drunk!.. Without me?
Mozart
(throws the napkin on the table)
Enough, I'm full.
(Goes to the piano.)
Listen, Salieri,
My Requiem.
(Plays.)
You're crying?
Salieri
These tears
For the first time I shed: both painful and pleasant,
As though I had fulfilled a heavy duty,
As though a healing knife had cut from me
A suffering limb! Friend Mozart, these tears...
Ignore them. Continue, hasten
Yet more to fill my soul with sounds...
Mozart
If only all so felt the power
Of harmony! But no: then the world
Could not exist; nobody would
Care for the needs of base life;
All would give themselves to free art.
There are few of us, the chosen, fortunate idle ones,
Neglecting contemptible profit,
Priests of the beautiful alone.
Is it not true? But I am unwell today,
I'm feeling somewhat heavy; I'll go to sleep
Goodbye!
Salieri
Good bye.
(Alone.)
You shall sleep
Long, Mozart! But can he really be right,
And I no genius? Genius and villainy
Are two things incompatible. Not true:
But Buonarroti? or is it a fairy tale
Of the stupid, senseless mob - and was not
The creator of Vatican4 a murderer?
1830
1 'Iphigénie en Tauride', an opera by Gluck.
2 'Voi che sapete' ('O you who know', Ital.) - the aria of Cherubino from the 3rd act of Mozart's opera 'The Marriage of Figaro'.
3 An opera by Salieri to a libretto by Beaumarchais.
4 A legend exists that Michelangelo killed the model in order to depict the dying Christ more naturally.
The thought
from Lermontov
Mournfully I look at our generation!
Its future - either blank or dark,
Meanwhile under the weight of doubt and information
In inactivity it shall grow old unmarked.
Wealthy we are, barely out of the cradle,
In fathers' blunders and their tardy wit,
And life already wearies us like an idle
And even way, like a stranger's holiday banquet.
Disgracefully indifferent to good and evil,
Without struggle we give up pursuits since early days;
In front of danger we basely shrivel
And in front of authority - we're despised slaves.
Just as a slender fruit ripe before its hour
Neither delights our taste, nor eyes,
Hangs like an orphaned alien amid the flowers,
And their beauty's time - the time of its demise!
We dried our minds with sterile education,
Jealously hiding from our friends and fellowmen
The noble voice and best of aspirations
For fear of being ridiculed by them.
We slightly touched the cup of pleasure
But, failing thus to save young energy, we did,
For fear of exceeding measure,
Forever drain each joy of the best juice in it.
The dreams of poetry, works of art
Do not move our minds with raptures sweet;
We still save greedily the residue of feelings in the heart -
A useless treasure, buried by thrift,
And hate, and love we randomly do feel,
Not sacrificing anything either to love or ire,
And in the soul holds sway a secret chill
While in the blood boils fire.
And our ancestors' opulent amusements we find lame,
Their conscientious and childish vice;
And to the grave we speed sans happiness, sans fame,
Sarcastically looking at our lives.
A grim and speedily forgotten crowd,
We'll pass over the world, unfollowed and unsung,
Having cast to the ages no thought profound,
No work by genius begun.
And a descendant, as a judge and a citizen austere,
Shall mark our ashes with a bitter verse,
A duped son's disdainful sneer
Over a father who has squandered his wealth.
June 2021
The Poets
from Blok
A desolate quarter rose near
The city on swampy and treacherous land.
There lived poets - and each with a sneer
Greeted an arrogant friend.
In vain a radiant day would climb
Above this sorrowful bog:
Its dweller gave up all his time
To wine and zealous work.
When they got drunk, their friendships were sworn,
Their talk was provoking and tart.
At dawn they vomited. Then, having withdrawn,
They worked blankly and hard.
Then they crawled out of kennels like dogs,
Watched how the sea was burning.
And fell for the gold of every girl's locks
With a professional yearning.
Softened, they dreamt of the golden age,
Cursed editors aloud
And bitterly wept over a bird in a cage
Or a little pearly cloud...
Thus lived the poets. Reader and friend!
You think, perhaps, - it was worse
Than your daily feeble exertions and
The philistine puddle of yours?
No, dear reader, my eyeless judge!
Leastwise poets possess
And locks, and clouds, and the golden age
All that you cannot access!..
You'll be content with yourself and your spouse,
With your curtailed constitution,
But the poet has a universal carouse
For him there aren't enough constitutions!
Let it be, from this world like a stray dog I go,
Let life grind me into the earth, - yet I
Shall believe: that God covered me with the snow,
That the blizzard kissed me goodbye!
July 24, 1908 - November 6, 2021
***
From Esenin
I don't regret, nor call, nor cry,
All shall pass like apple-trees' white smoke.
Enfolded in the gold of fading, I
Shall not be young once more.
You will not beat as you did before,
O my heart, touched by a hint of cold,
And the land of birchen calico
Will not lure me to roam barefoot.
Rambling spirit! Now less, less often
You stir up the embers of my heart.
O my freshness long forgotten,
The eyes' riot and the senses' flood.
Now I've become less lavish in my longings,
O my life! Did I live or dream I did?
As if on a springtide loud morning
I have raced on a rose steed.
All of us are transient on earth,
Down copper leaves from maples fly...
Blessed for ever be all those,
Who have come to bloom and die.
1921- November 2021.
The Quartet
from Krylov
A prankish Monkey,
A Mare,
A bow-legged Bear
And a Donkey
Teamed up to play a Quartet by Mozart.
They got hold of the score, a cello, a viola and two fiddles
And sat down on the lawn beneath the lindens
To captivate the world with their art.
They struck the strings, but music didn't start.
'Stop, fellas, stop!' The Monkey cried, 'Wait!
Because you sit all wrong the music can't be played!
You with your cello, Bear, sit opposite the second fiddle,
I, the prima, must be in the middle;
Then music will arise at once:
The forest and the hills will dance!'
Thus seated, they started the Quartet
But music all the same was dead.
'Wait! I have discovered the know-how,'
The Donkey said,
'In order to play well we must sit in a row!'
They sat decorously as they had been told
But still the Quartet went on in discord.
Here they got into more heated conversations
And altercations
About who should sit where and why.
Attracted to their racket, a Nightingale came by.
They all appealed to him to solve their doubt.
'Please, be so kind,' they cried, 'to help us out:
We have the score, and instruments we have,
How we should sit - just tell us from above!'
'In order to play music first you must be skilled,'
The Nightingale revealed,
'But you, my friends, try all sorts of positions,
You'll never be musicians.'
February 2023
The golden grove has finished talking
from Esenin
The golden grove has finished talking
In its birchen, joyful tongue
And cranes, sorrowfully flocking
Away, don't grieve for anyone.
For whom to grieve? Each man is just a pilgrim in this
world -
Walks by, comes in and leaves again one day.
Only a hemp-field and the crescent moon over a pond
Dream of all those passed away.
I stand alone amid the naked field,
The cranes are carried by the wind into the distance,
With thoughts of my light-hearted youth I'm filled
But nothing in it makes me sorry for an instant.
I'm neither sorry for the years spent in vain,
Nor for the lilac blossom of my soul,
A fire of a rowan tree burns by a country lane
But it can warm no one at all.
The rowan clusters won't burn out,
The yellowness will not destroy the crop,
As a tree softly drops its leaves about,
So melancholic words I drop.
And if the wind of time, when I am gone,
Rakes them together in one needless ball...
Say it like this... that in a lovely tongue
The golden grove has said it all.
February 2023
A dying gladiator
From Lermontov
I see before me the gladiator lie...
Byron.
Rejoices rowdy Rome... Triumphantly replies
With thundering applause the great arena: but
He - pierced through the chest - silently he lies,
His knees slide in the dust and blood...
And vainly beg for mercy his dimmed eyes:
The haughty regent and the senator, his adulator,
Crown with their praise the triumph and demise...
What is to the elite and mob a vanquished gladiator?
He is an actor whistled off, forgotten and despised.
Giraffe
From Nikolai Gumilev
Today, I can see, your gaze is remarkably sad
And your hands, embracing your knees, are remarkably
thin.
Listen: far, far away, by Lake Chad
There is an exquisite giraffe wandering.
Graceful slenderness and languor are given to him
And a magical pattern covers his hide,
To equal which only the moon would dare to dream,
Fragmenting and swaying upon a vast tide.
He looks like a colored sail of a ship from a distance
And his stride is as fluid as a joyous bird's flight.
I know the earth has much wonder to witness,
When he hides in his marble grotto at night.
I know cheerful tales of a mysterious folk
About an ebony maiden and the passion of a young
chieftain,
But you for too long have inhaled heavy fog,
You want to believe in nothing but rain.
And how am I to tell you about slender palm trees,
About the smell of unthinkable herbs, about a tropical
orchard
- You're crying? Listen... far, far away, there is
The exquisite giraffe wandering by Lake Chad.
The Shot
A duel we fought.
Baratynsky
I swore to shoot him by the law of the duel
(My shot was still owed to him).
'An evening at the Bivouac' A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky
I
We were stationed in the little place ***. The life of an army officer is well known. In the morning drill and the manege; dinner at the regimental commander's or in a Jew's tavern; in the evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single marriageable girl; we gathered at each other's, where, except for our uniforms, we did not see anything.
Only one man in our circle was not in the military. He was about thirty-five, and for that reason we regarded him as an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; in addition, his habitual gloominess, tough character and malicious tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, yet bore a foreign name. At one time he had served in the hussars and successfully at that; nobody knew the reason which had induced him to resign and settle in a poor place, where he lived both poorly and prodigally: he always went on foot, in a worn-out black frock coat, yet kept open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like water. Nobody knew either his fortune or his income and nobody dared ask him about it. He had books, for the most part military ones and novels. He willingly lent them out, never demanding them back; yet he himself never returned to the owner a book he had borrowed. The main exercise of his consisted in pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullets, all full of holes, like honeycombs. A reach collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor clay hut where he lived. The skill to which he had attained was incredible, and if he had offered to knock a pear off anyone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to put his head up for him. The talk among us often touched upon duels; Silvio (as I shall call him) never took part in it. To the question whether he had ever fought a duel, he answered drily that he had, but did not go into particulars, and it was obvious that such questions were unpleasant to him. We presumed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay upon his conscience. However, it did not even enter our heads to suspect anything resembling timidity in him. There are people whose very appearance removes such suspicions. An unexpected incident astonished us all.
One day some ten of our officers were dining at Silvio's. We drank as usual, that is, a great deal; after dinner we began persuading our host to keep the bank for us. For a long time he refused, for he almost never played; at last he ordered the cards to be brought, poured half a hundred tenners onto the table, and sat down to deal. We gathered round him, and the game began. Silvio had the habit of preserving absolute silence during a game, never argued, and never explained himself. If the punter happened to miscount, he would immediately either pay the remainder or write down the excess. We already knew this and did not interfere with his managing things in his own way; but among us was an officer recently transferred to our regiment. He, playing there too, absent-mindedly bent down an extra corner. Silvio took up the chalk and corrected the score according to his custom. The officer, thinking that he made a mistake, launched into explanations. Silvio silently continued dealing. The officer, having lost his patience, took up the brush and rubbed out what seemed to him to have been wrongly entered. Silvio took up the chalk and entered it again. The officer, heated by the wine, by play, and by his comrades' laughter, considered himself grievously insulted and, in a fury, snatching up a brass candlestick from the table, hurled it at Silvio, who barely had time to dodge the blow. We were disconcerted. Silvio rose, pale with anger, and with flashing eyes said: 'Sir, be so good as to leave, and thank God that this happened in my house.'
We did not doubt the consequences and deemed our new comrade already dead. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult as the gentleman banker would wish. The game went on for a few minutes more; but sensing that the host was not up to the game, we withdrew one by one and dispersed to our quarters, talking of the soon vacancy.
The next day at the manege we were already asking whether the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among us; we put the same question to him. He answered that he had yet had no news from Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, planting bullet upon bullet into an ace pasted to the gate. He received us as usual, not saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in astonishment: could it be that Silvio wouldn't fight? Silvio did not fight. He contented himself with a very slight explanation and made peace.
This nearly damaged him greatly in the opinion of the young men. Lack of courage is least of all forgiven by young people, who usually see in courage the height of human virtues and an excuse for every possible vice. However, little by little all was forgotten, and Silvio again acquired his former authority.
I alone could no longer approach him. Endowed by nature with a romantic imagination, before this I had, more than anyone else, been attached to the man whose life was a riddle and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious tale. He was fond of me; at least, with me alone he abandoned his usual harsh malice of tongue and spoke of various subjects with simple-heartedness and extraordinary pleasantness. But after that unhappy evening, the thought that his honor had been stained and, through his own fault, not washed clean - that thought never left me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too intelligent and experienced not to notice this and not to guess the reason for it. It seemed to grieve him; at least I noticed a couple of times in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such occasions, and Silvio gave me up. From then on I saw him only in the presence of my comrades and our former candid conversations ceased.
The distracted inhabitants of the capital have no idea of many impressions so well-known to the inhabitants of villages or small towns, for example, the expectation of post day: on Tuesdays and Fridays our regimental office used to be full of officers: some waiting for money, some for letters, some for newspapers. Packages were usually opened right there, the news was communicated, and the office presented the most animated scene. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment and was usually there as well. One day a package was handed to him, whose seal he tore off with an air of the greatest impatience. As he run through the letter, his eyes flashed. The officers, each occupied with his own letters, did not notice anything. 'Gentlemen,' Silvio addressed them, 'circumstances demand my immediate absence; I'm leaving tonight; I hope you will not refuse to dine at my place for the last time. I expect you too,' he continued, turning to me, 'I expect you without fail.' With these words he hurriedly went out; and we, having agreed to gather at Silvio's, each went his own way.
I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the whole regiment there. All his things had already been packed; only the bare bullet-riddled walls remained. We sat down to table; the host was in extremely high spirits and soon his gaiety became general; corks were popping every minute, the champagne in the glasses was foaming and fizzing incessantly, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing man a good journey and every blessing. We rose from the table late in the evening. As we were taking our caps, Silvio, bidding farewell to everybody, took me by the hand and stopped me at the very moment I was going to leave. 'I need to talk to you,' he said quietly. I stayed.
The guests had left; we remained alone, sat opposite each other, and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there were no longer any traces of his convulsive gaiety. Somber paleness, flashing eyes and thick smoke coming from his mouth gave him the appearance of a real devil. Several minutes passed, and Silvio broke the silence.
'Perhaps we shall never see each other again,' he said to me. 'Before parting, I wanted to explain myself to you. You may have noticed that I have little respect the opinion of others; but I love you and feel: it would be hard for me to leave in your mind a false impression.'
He paused and began refilling his extinguished pipe; I kept silent, eyes cast down.
'It seemed strange to you,' he continued, 'that I didn't demand satisfaction from that drunken madman R***. You will agree that, having the right to choose the weapons, his life was in my hands, while mine was almost safe: I could ascribe my moderation to magnanimity alone but I don't want to lie. If I could have punished R***, without exposing my life at all, I would not have pardoned him for anything.'
I looked at Silvio in astonishment. Such a confession utterly disconcerted me. Silvio continued.
'Precisely so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive.'
My curiosity was greatly excited. 'Did you not fight a duel with him?' I asked. 'Circumstances must have separated you?'
'I fought a duel with him,' Silvio answered, 'and here is the souvenir of our duel.' Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel and braid (what the French call a bonnet de police); he put it on; it was shot through two inches above the forehead.
'You know,' continued Silvio, 'that I served in the *** Hussar Regiment. My character is known to you: I am accustomed to taking the lead, but in my youth it was my passion. In our time rowdiness was in fashion: I was the foremost ruffian in the army. We boasted of our drinking: I outdrunk the famous Burtsov, sung by Denis Davydov. Duels occurred in our regiment at every turn: in all of them I was either a witness or a principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental commanders, constantly replaced, looked upon me as a necessary evil.
I calmly (or restlessly) enjoyed my glory, when a young man of a rich and noble family joined our ranks (I don't want to say his name). Never in my life had I met so dazzling a favourite of fortune! Imagine youth, wit, beauty, the gaiety most wild, the courage most careless, a great name, money of which he knew no count and which he never ran out of, and imagine what an effect he was bound to produce among us. My primacy was shaken. Charmed by my fame, he began to seek my friendship; but I treated him coldly, and he withdrew from me without the least regret. I came to hate him. His success in the regiment and in the society of women drove me to utter despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; he answered my epigrams with epigrams which always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine and which, of course, unlike mine, were funnier: he joked while I was malicious. At last, on day at a ball at a Polish landlord's, seeing him the object of attention of all the ladies, and especially of the hostess herself, who was in a liaison with me, I said some coarse vulgarity in his ear. He flared up and slapped me in the face. We dashed for our sabres; ladies fainted; we were dragged apart and that same night we drove out to fight.
It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. With inexpressible impatience I awaited my adversary. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already setting in. I saw him from afar. He was coming on foot, his uniform jacket hanging over his sabre, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him. He approached, holding his forage cap filled with sweet cherries. The seconds measured out twelve paces for us. I was to fire first, but the agitation of malice within me was so intense that I did not trust the steadiness of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool down, I yielded him the first shot; my adversary would not agree. It was decided to cast lots: the first number fell to him, the eternal favorite of fortune. He took aim and shot through my cap. The turn was now mine. His life was finally in my hands; I watched him greedily, trying to catch at least one shadow of uneasiness... He was standing at gunpoint, picking out ripe sweet cherries from his forage cap and spitting out the stones, which reached me. His indifference enraged me. What use was it to me, I thought, to take his life when he did not value it at all? A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I lowered the pistol. 'It seems you're in no mood for death right now,' I said to him; 'you are having breakfast; I don't want to disturb you...' 'You aren't disturbing me in the least,' he replied, 'kindly fire, however, as you wish; the shot remains to you; I'm always at your service.' I turned to the seconds, declaring that I did not intend to fire today, and with that the duel ended.
I left the service and withdrew to this little place. Since then not a single day has passed when I haven't thought of vengeance. Now my hour has come...'
Silvio took from his pocket the letter received in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (apparently his agent) wrote to him from Moscow that a certain person was soon enter into lawful marriage with a young and beautiful girl.
'You guess,' said Silvio, 'who that certain person is. I'm going to Moscow. We shall see whether he receives death as indifferently before his wedding as once he awaited it over the sweet cherries.'
At these words Silvio rose, flung his forage cap onto the floor, and began to pace the room back and forth like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him without moving; strange conflicting feelings were troubling me.
The servant came in and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio pressed my hand firmly; we kissed. He got into the little cart, where two suitcases lay, one with the pistols, the other with his belongings. We bade farewell once more and the horses trotted off.
II
Several years passed, and domestic circumstances compelled me to settle in the poor little village of N** district. Being occupied with my estate, I did not cease quietly sighing for my former noisy and carefree life. Hardest of all for me was to grow accustomed to passing the autumn and winter evenings in complete solitude. Until dinner I somehow whiled away the time, talking with the headman, riding around work sites or visiting new facilities; but as soon as it began to grow dark, I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. The small number of the books that I had found under the cupboards and in the storeroom, I had learned by heart. All the fairy tales that the housekeeper Kirilovna could remember had been retold to me; songs of peasant women filled me with melancholy. I took to drinking unsweetened fruit liqueur, but it gave me a headache; and, I confess, I was afraid of becoming a drunkard out of sorrow, i.e. the most miserable kind of drunkard of whom I had seen a multitude of examples in our district. There were no neighbors near me except for two or three miserable ones whose conversation for the most part consisted of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was more tolerable.
Two miles from me there was a rich estate belonging to Countess B***; but only the steward lived in it, and the countess had visited her estate only once in the first year of her marriage, and even then had stayed there no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my seclusion, a rumor spread that the countess and her husband would come to their village for the summer. Indeed, they arrived at the beginning of June.
The arrival of a wealthy neighbor is an important epoch for country folk. Landlords and their household serfs talk about it for some two months beforehand and three years after. As for me, I confess, the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighboress had a strong effect upon me; I was burning with impatience to see her, and therefore on the first Sunday after her arrival, in the afternoon, I set out for the village *** to present myself to their lordships as their closest neighbor and most humble servant.
A lackey ushered me into the count's study and himself went to announce me. The spacious study was furnished with every possible luxury; along the walls stood bookcases, with a bronze bust above of each; above the marble fireplace was a wide mirror; the floor was covered with green baize and laid with carpets. Having become disaccustomed to luxury in my poor corner, and not having seen other people's wealth for a long time, I grew timid and awaited the count with a kind of trepidation, as a petitioner from a province awaits the appearance of a minister. The doors opened, and a handsome man of about thirty-two came in. The count approached me with an opened and friendly air; I tried to take heart and began to introduce myself but he forestalled me. We sat down. His conversation, free and courteous, soon dispelled my rustic shyness; I had already begun to return to my usual state when all of a sudden the countess came in, and embarrassment came over me worse than before. Indeed, she was a beauty. The count presented me; I wanted to appear unconstrained, but the more I tried to assume an air of ease, the more awkward I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover and grow accustomed to the new acquaintance, started talking to each other, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile I began to walk to and fro, examining the books and paintings. I am not a connoisseur of paintings, but one attracted my attention. It depicted a view in Switzerland; yet it was not the art that struck me in it, but that the painting was shot through with two bullets one driven into the other.
'That was a fine shot,' said I, turning to the count.
'Yes,' he replied, 'Avery remarkable shot. Do you shoot well?' he continued.
'Fairly,' I answered, rejoicing, that the conversation had at last touched upon a subject close to me. 'At thirty paces I don't miss a card, of course, with familiar pistols.'
'Indeed?' said the countess, with an air of great attention, 'Would you, my friend, hit a card at thirty paces?'
'Some day,' answered the count, 'we shall try. In my time I shot not badly; but it's now four years since I last took a pistol in my hand.'
'Oh,' I observed, 'in that case I'd wager that Your Lordship would not hit a card even at twenty paces: a pistol requires daily practice. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was considered one of the best shots. Once it happened I didn't take up a pistol for a whole month: mine were under repair; and what would you think, Your Lordship? The first time I began shooting again afterwards, I missed a bottle four times in a row at twenty-five paces. We had a captain, a wit and a jester; he happened to be there and said to me: seems, brother, your hand won't rise against a bottle. No, Your Lordship, you ought not to neglect this exercise, or else you will lose the habit at once. The best shot, I have ever met, shot every day, at least three times before dinner. It was a habit with him as a glass of vodka.'
The count and the countess were glad that I had begun to talk.
'How well did he shoot?' the count asked me.
'Like this, Your Lordship: he would see a fly settle on a wall - are you laughing, countess? By God, it's true. He would see a fly and shout: 'Kuzka, the pistol!' And Kuzka would bring him a loaded pistol. Bang - and he would drive the fly into the wall!'
'That is astonishing!' said the count. 'What was his name?'
'Silvio, Your Lordship.'
'Silvio!' cried the count, springing from his seat, 'You knew Silvio?'
'Sure I did, Your Lordship; we were friends; in our regiment he was accepted as one of our own, as a comrade; but it is already about five years since I have had any news of him. So Your Lordship also knew him?'
'I did, did very well. Did he not tell you... but no; I don't think so; did he not tell you about one very strange incident?'
'Wasn't it the slap in the face he received from some rake at a ball, Your Lordship?'
'Did he tell you the name of that rake?'
'No, Your Lordship, he did not... Ah! Your Lordship,' I continued, guessing the truth, 'forgive me... I didn't know... was it you then?..'
'I myself,' the count replied, with an air exceedingly distressed look, 'and the shot-through painting is the memento of our last meeting...'
'Ah, my dear,' said the countess, 'for God's sake don't tell it; I'll be frightened to hear it.'
'No,' replied the count, 'I will tell all. He knows how I insulted his friend: let him also learn how Silvio revenged himself upon me.'
The count drew up an armchair for me, and I listened with the liveliest curiosity to the following story.
'Five years ago I married. I spent the first month, the honey moon, here, in this village. To this house I owe the best moments of my life and one of the most painful memories.
One evening we were riding out together; my wife's horse started to jib; she got frightened, gave me the reins and went home on foot; I rode on ahead. In the courtyard I saw a travelling cart; I was told that there was a man in my study who had not wished to tell his name but had merely said that he had business with me. I entered this room and saw a man in the darkness, covered with dust and overgrown with a beard; he was standing here by the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to recollect his features. 'Haven't you recognized me, Count?' he said in a trembling voice. 'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess I felt my hair suddenly stand on end. 'That's right,' he continued, 'I owe you a shot; I have come to discharge my pistol; are you ready?' His pistol was sticking out from his side pocket. I measured out twelve paces and stood there in the corner, begging him to fire quickly, before my wife came back. He was hesitating - he asked for a light. Candles were brought. I locked the doors, ordered that no one should come in, and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim... I was counting seconds, I was thinking of her... A dreadful minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand. 'It is a pity,' said he, 'that the pistol is loaded not with cherry stones... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we have not a duel but a murder: I'm not used to aiming at an unarmed man. Let's start anew, cast lots for who is to fire first.' My head was spinning... It seems I did not agree... At last we loaded another pistol; we rolled up two slips of paper; he put them in the cap I had once shot through; I again drew out the first number. 'You, count, are devilishly lucky,' he said with a grin which I will never forget. I don't understand what came over me and how he managed to force me into it... but - I fired and hit this painting.' (The count pointed with his finger at the shot-through painting; his face was burning like fire; the countess was paler than her kerchief: I could not refrain from an exclamation.)
'I fired,' the count continued, 'and, thank God, missed; then Silvio... (at that moment he was, indeed, dreadful) Silvio started aiming at me. Suddenly the doors open, Mary runs in and, with a shriek, throws herself around my neck. Her presence restored all my courage. 'Darling,' I said to her, 'don't you see that we are joking? How frightened you've got! Go, drink a glass of water and come back to us; I will present to you my old friend and comrade-in-arms.' Mary still couldn't believe it. 'Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?' she said, turning to the fearsome Silvio. 'Is it true that you are both joking?' 'He's always joking, Countess,' Silvio answered her, 'once, as a joke, he gave me a slap in the face; as a joke, he shot through this cap of mine; as a joke, he missed his shot at me a moment ago; now I too have taken a fancy to joke...' With these words he meant to aim at me... in her presence! Mary flung herself at his feet. 'Get up, Mary, this is shameful!' I cried in a fury, 'and will you, sir, stop jeering at the poor woman? Will you fire or not?' 'I will not,' answered Silvio. 'I am satisfied: I have seen your confusion, your fear; I made you fire at me, for me that is enough. You shall remember me. I leave you to your conscience.' With that he turned to go, but stopped in the doorway, glanced back at the painting I had shot through, fired a shot at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. My wife lay in a faint; the servants did not dare stop him and watched him in horror; he went out onto the porch, called the coachman, and left before I had time to come to my senses.'
The count fell silent. Thus I learned the end of the tale whose beginning had once so struck me. I never again met its hero. They say that Silvio, during the insurrection of Alexander Ypsilantis, led a detachment of the Etairists and was killed in the battle of Sculeni.
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