Бессонница твой взор уныл и страшен
Âëàäèìèð Íàáîêîâ
Âå÷åð ðóññêîé ïîýçèè
Ïðåäìåò ñåãîäíÿøíåé äèñêóññèè èç òåõ,
 êîòîðûõ òî÷êå íå ñòîÿòü âîâåêè.
Êîãäà äîëèíû êðó÷å è òåñíåé,
Íà áåãëûé ðóññêèé ïåðåõîäÿò ðåêè,
È òàê æå äåòè ãîâîðÿò âî ñíå.
Ìîé äðóã, âîçüìèòå æå ôîíàðü âîëøåáíûé,
È âñòàâüòå ñëàéä, íå òàê, íàîáîðîò,
È ïàðó ñëîâ, âñòóïèòåëüíûõ, òóìàííûõ,
È èìÿ ìîå â ðóññêèõ áóêâàõ ñòðàííûõ
Ïóñêàé âàì ëó÷ öâåòíîé ïðåïîäíåñåò.
Ïðåäàíèå, âû ïîìíèòå, ãëàñèò,
×òî ãðåê, óâèäåâ æóðàâëåé â ïîëåòå,
Çà áóêâîé áóêâó ñîçäàë àëôàâèò…
Åãî âîîáðàæåíèå âáèðàëî
Ðàññâåò è ãîðèçîíò, è ïðèâêóñ ëåñà,
È ïîñòåïåííî â çíàêè îôîðìëÿëî
Ôàíòîìû ïòèö ïî ìåðå óäàëåíüÿ…
Äà, Ñèëüâèÿ…
— Çà÷åì âû ïðèäàåòå
Ñëîâàì äëÿ íèõ ÷ðåçìåðíûå çíà÷åíüÿ?
Íå ëó÷øå ëü ïîíèìàíüå â ëåãêîé äûìêå?
— Ïîñêîëüêó âñþäó ïóòû-íåâèäèìêè.
Êóäà íè ãëÿíåøü, êëåâåð ñâÿçàí ñ ìåäîì,
Çâóê ñâÿçàí ñ ôîðìîé, à ñîñóä ñ âèíîì,
Ìåæ ðàäóãîþ è ëþáûì çåðíîì
Ðîäñòâî íåîñïîðèìî, èõ îêðóãëîñòü
Èõ âûäàåò, è áåðåãóùèé ìóäðîñòü
Ïîêàòûé ÷åðåï, è âîîáùå, äîáðî,
Âñå ïëàâíûå èìååò î÷åðòàíüÿ,
Êàê ðóññêèå îáèëüíûå ó, î,
Êóâøèíêà, ÷òî áåç âñÿêîãî ñòàðàíüÿ
Ãëîòàåò çîëîòèñòîãî øìåëÿ,
È ðàêóøêà, âìåñòèâøàÿ íàïåðñòîê,
Ìîðñêîé ïðèáîé, è ðóññêèå ñòèõè…
Åùå âîïðîñ!
— Ñêàæèòå, à ó âàñ
Ïðîñîäèÿ…
— ß ïîíÿë, Ýììè, äëÿ
×óæèõ óøåé íàø ïÿòèñòîïíûé ÿìá
Ïîêàæåòñÿ è ñîííûì, è ãëóõèì,
Íî òóò ÿ ïîñîâåòîâàë áû âàì
Ïðèñëóøàòüñÿ ê ñòðîêå, ïðèêðûâ ãëàçà,
È ñðàçó æå ïî÷óâñòâóåòå: çà
Íà÷àëüíûì ñëîâîì òåíü ëåæèò âòîðîãî,
È òðåòüå ÷óòü êàñàåòñÿ çâîíêà,
È ñëåäóþùàÿ óæå ñòðîêà
Çìåèòñÿ â îòäàëåíèè, è ñëîâî,
×òî â ñåðåäèíå, òÿíåò äâà äðóãèõ,
Ðàñêðó÷èâàåòñÿ íåñïåøíî ñòèõ,
Ó÷åáíûé ôèëüì, çàìåäëåííûé, áåñöâåòíûé,
Ãäå ðîçû ðàñïóñêàåòñÿ áóòîí…
È ê òåìå ìû ïðèáëèçèëèñü çàâåòíîé,
Ïîãîâîðèì î ðèôìàõ, äåëî â òîì,
×òî áëèçíåöû âñòðå÷àþòñÿ ïîâñþäó,
Ó âñåõ íàðîäîâ, âàøè love-above
Íå èñêëþ÷åíüå, è ñìåøîí ÿ áóäó,
Ëþáîâü è êðîâü êàê âñå çàðèôìîâàâ.
À äàëü ñ ïå÷àëüþ — â ýòîì åñòü ðîäíîå,
À ñ ãðÿçüþ êíÿçü — íà êàæäîì æå øàãó,
È âñå ÷òî ïðè Ëóíå è ïîä Ëóíîþ,
ß ðèôìîâàòü áåç óñòàëè ìîãó.
Ñâîáîäà è ïðèðîäà õîäÿò ïàðîé,
È ñ ÷åëîâåêîì âåê íàêîðîòêå,
Íî Ñîëíöå ñ âåòðîì, è ñþæåò òîò ñòàðûé
Ïðî æèçíü è ñìåðòü íå âäðóã ïðèòêíåøü ê ñòðîêå.
ß ñêèïåòð öàðñêèé ïîçàáûë çà ìîðåì,
Íî ðàçëè÷àþ â ýòîé ñèíåâå,
Êàê ìåäëåííî Ñîþçû è ×àñòèöû
Ñëåä â ñëåä ñòóïàþò ïî ñóõîé ëèñòâå.
Òàì âñå ãëàãîëû â ïðîøëîì, âñå ñêàçàëè,
Òàì âñå ðàâíî, ÷òî ýõî, ÷òî ìîëâà,
È åñëè íî÷üþ ëîøàäè çàðæàëè,
Êîìó-òî â ýòîì ñëûøàòñÿ ñëîâà,
Êîìó-òî çâîí õðóñòàëüíîãî áîêàëà,
Êîòîðîãî äîòðîíóëèñü åäâà.
Êîãäà â ñòèõàõ ïðîãàëèíû è ùåëè,
Èõ íóæíî çàñåëèòü è çàñàäèòü.
Íåçàìåíèìû òóò áåðåçû, åëè,
Êàê ãóñåíèöà äåðæèòñÿ çà íèòü,
×òî íåïðåìåííî ÷åðåç ìèã ïîðâåòñÿ,
Òàê ñåðäöå óñòàåò äåðæàòü â ñåáå
Áåðåçó íà âåòðó, ÷òî ê Ñîëíöó ðâåòñÿ,
È åëè, îêàéìëÿþùèå ñàä,
È â ïàìÿòè ïî÷òè íå îñòàåòñÿ
Ñêâîçü âåòâè ÷óòü ìåðöàþùèé çàêàò.
Ñðåäè çâåðåé, æèâóùèõ â íàøèõ âèðøàõ,
È ïòèö, â ñòèõè ñëåòàþùèõ ñ âåòâåé,
Òóò, Äæîííè, áåç ñîìíåíüÿ âñåõ ïðåâûøå
Ïîþùèé ñâîå ñîëî ñîëîâåé.
Îí ùåëêàåò, ñâèñòèò, â íåì ôëåéòà, ëèðà,
Ñìåõ äåâóøåê, êóêóøêà, ïðèçðàê â íåì,
Íî, Ñèíòèÿ, íå÷àñòî íàø ïèèòà
Êëàäåò â îñíîâó äðàãîöåííûé êàìåíü,
Ðóáèí ëè òî, ñèÿþùèé îãíåì,
ßíòàðü èëü æåì÷óã, âñå â øêàòóëêàõ ñêðûòî,
È íèêîãäà îêîøêî þâåëèðà
Íå ñâåòèò íàì íåíàñòíûìè íî÷àìè.
Äà, ÿ ïðèâûê, êàê Àðãóñ ìíîãîãëàçûé,
Áûòü íà÷åêó, âñåãäà ñìîòðåòü íàçàä,
È âå÷íî ãðèìèðîâàííûå òåíè
Èç-çà ñïèíû ìîåé êîñÿò ãëàçà,
Îõîòÿòñÿ çà êàæäîé íîâîé ôðàçîé,
Èëè ïðèñåâ òèõîíüêî íà ñòóïåíè
Êðûëüöà, íà ñòðàæå áîäðñòâóþò âñþ íî÷ü,
È ïîóòðó, çà ìèã äî ïðîáóæäåíüÿ,
 äâåðíîé çâîíîê òðåçâîíèòü íà÷èíàþò,
È ïàìÿòü ìîþ ñîííóþ òåðçàþò,
È óáåãàþò êàê ìàëü÷èøêè ïðî÷ü.
×òî æ, âðåìÿ ì÷èòñÿ, ñêîðî íàì ïðîùàòüñÿ,
À ÿ åùå íè ñëîâà íå ñêàçàë
Î Ïóøêèíå, è î åãî êèáèòêå,
 êîòîðîé îí äðåìàë, çåâàë, ïèñàë.
Ïîëÿ è âåðñòû, âðåìåíè â èçáûòêå,
Ñëèëèñü â îäíî õîëìû è îáëàêà,
Äîæäè, è çàâûâàíüå ÿìùèêà,
Êðóãîì ëèøü æåëòîâàòûå ðàêèòû,
È ãîëîñà, è ãîðèçîíò — ðàçìûòû,
Òóò ìåñòî ëèøü Íåêðàñîâñêèì ðûäàíüÿì,
Íî âîïðåêè óíûëîñòè — ñëîâà
Ïîä ñêðèï êîëåñ íàçîéëèâûé ðîäÿòñÿ,
È ñëîãè øåáóðøàòñÿ è ðîÿòñÿ,
È êàæóòñÿ êàêèì-òî íàêàçàíüåì,
È ñòðîêè, êàê íè ñòðàííî, ãðîìîçäÿòñÿ,
È ðèôìû âñïîìèíàþòñÿ åäâà,
À èíîãäà îáõîäÿòñÿ âíèìàíüåì.
Âëþáëåííûå, ÷òî â ëàáèðèíòå ïàðêà
Î æèçíè áåçãðàíè÷íîé ãîâîðÿò,
Òàì òîïîëÿì ïðè ëóííîì ñâåòå æàðêî,
Ñòó÷àò ñåðäöà ñèëüíåå âî ñòî êðàò.
È íåñîïîñòàâëåíèå ìàñøòàáîâ,
Ãîòîâíîñòü ïðèíèìàòü êðîòà çà ðûñü,
È ñïîðû î âîïðîñàõ ñàìûõ- ñàìûõ,
Êàê ïðî÷íî â ðóññêèé ñòèõ îíè âïëåëèñü.
Ïðèäàíèå âñåëåíñêîãî çíà÷åíüÿ
Òî ïîáðÿêóøêàì, òî îáðûâêàì ôðàç,
È áûòü â ïóòè íåÿñíîå ñòðåìëåíüå
Íà æèçíü â èçãíàíüå îáðåêàþò íàñ.
ß ìîã áû âå÷åð íà íî÷ü ðàñòÿíóòü,
È âàñ áåññâÿçíûì óòîìèòü ðàññêàçîì,
Íî ñêîðî ïîåçä, ñîáèðàþñü â ïóòü…
À ÿ åùå õîòåë óïîìÿíóòü
Ïîä øëÿïîþ ìîë÷àùåãî ùåãëà…
Ýõ, åñëè á ïàìÿòü ùåäðîþ áûëà,
À òî âîò òàê, ñêóïà è íåîòâÿçíà,
Íåäàâíî, ïîìíþ, ãîðîäèøêî ãðÿçíûé,
Õîëìû, êóñòû, à áîëüøå ïóñòûðè…
È â çàïàäíîé Âèðäæèíèè îäíàæäû,
 ïðîñòðàíñòâå ìåæäó ñàäîì è äîæäåì,
Íà ãëèíèñòîé äîðîãå, ðûæåé, ñêîëüçêîé,
Îíà âîçíèêëà, ýòà äðîæü âíóòðè,
Òî ðóññêîå íå çíàþ ÷òî, è ñêîëüêî
Òû íè âçäûõàé, è ñêîëüêî íè ñìîòðè,
È ñêîëüêî ïîâòîðåíèÿ íè æàæäàé,
Óñòàëîå äèòÿ, çàáûâøèñü ñíîì,
Óæå âå÷åðíåé áîëòîâíè íå âñïîìíèò.
Óêëàäûâàåò ôîêóñíèê ïîæèòêè-
Ïëàòîê òðåõöâåòíûé, øåëêîâûé øïàãàò,
Íàáîð äâóäîííûõ ðèôì, êîëîäó êàðò,
È çðèòåëþ êàê áóäòî ïî îøèáêå,
Ïðèîòêðûâàåò òàéíû óãîëîê…
À âîò êîíâåðò ñ îãîâîðåííîé ñóììîé,
Ïîêëîí, àïëîäèñìåíòû, è óëûáêè.
×òî ãîâîðÿ â Ðîññèè íà ïðîùàíüå?
Óäà÷è? äîáðûé ïóòü? Ñ÷àñòëèâî? Êàê
Ñêàçàòü:ß âîñõèùåí ðàññêàçîì âàøèì?
-ß ýòî òàê ìîãó ïåðåâåñòè;
Áåññîííèöà, òâîé âçîð óíûë è ñòðàøåí,
Ëþáîâü ìîÿ, îòñòóïíèêà ïðîñòè.
Ïåðåâåë Gutman , 1994
Íèæå ïðèâîäèòñÿ îðèãèíàë
Vladimir Nabokov
An evening of Russian poetry
…seems to be the best train.Miss Ethel Winter of the
department of English will meet you at the station and…
From a letter addressed to the visiting speaker
The subject chosen for tonights discussion
is everywhere, though often incomplete,
when their basaltic banks become too steep,
most rivers use the kind of rapid Russian,
and so do children talking in their sleep.
My little helper at the magic lantern,
insert that slide, and let the coloured beam
project my name or any such-like phantom
in Slavic characters upon the screen.
The other way, the other way. I thank you.
On mellow hills the greek, as you remember,
fashioned his alphabet from cranes in flight,
his arrows crossed the sunset , than the night,
Our simple skyline and the taste for timber.
the influence of hives and conifers
reshaped the arrows of the borrowed birds.
Yes, Sylvia?
Why do you speak of words
when all we want is knowledge nicely browned?
Because all hangs together — shape and sound,
heather and honey , vessel and content.
Not only rainbows — every line is bent ,
and skulls and seeds and all good worlds are round,
like Russian verse, like our colossal vowels:
those painted eggs, those glossy pitcher flowers
that swallow whole a golden bumblebee,
those shells that hold a thimble and the sea.
Next question.
Is your prosody like ours?
Well, Emmy, our pentameter may seem
to foreign ears as if it could not rouse
the limp iambus from its pyrrhic dream.
But close your eyes and listen to the line.
The melody unwinds ; the middle word
is marvellously long and serpentine:
you hear one beat , but you have also heard
the shadow of another, then the third
touches the gong , and then the forth one sighs.
It makes a very fascinating noise;
it opens slowly like a greyish rose
in pedagogic film of long ago.
The rhyme is the lines birthday as you know,
and there are certain customary twins
in Russian as in other tongues. For instance
love automatically rhymes with blood,
nature with liberty, sadness with distance,
humane with everlasting, prince with mud,
moon with a multitude of words, but sun
and song and wind and life and death with none.
Beyond the seas where I have lost a scepter,
I hear the neighing of my dappled nouns,
soft participles coming down the steps,
treading on leaves, trailing their rustling gowns,
and liquid verbs in ahla and in ili,
Aonian grottoes, nights in the Altai,
black pools of sound with Is for water lilies,
The empty glass I touched is tinkling still,
but now tis covered by a hand and dies.
Trees? Animals? Your favourite precious stone?
The birch tree, Cynthia, the fir tree , Joan.
Like a small carterpillar on its thread,
my heart keeps dangling on a leaf long dead
but hanging still, and still I see the slender
white birch that stands on tiptoe in the wind,
and firs beginning where the garden ends,
the evening ember growing through their cinders.
Among the animals that haunt our verse,
that bird of bards, regale of night comes first:
scores of locutions mimicking its throat
render its every whistling, bubbling, bursting,
flutelike or cuckoolike or ghostlike note.
But lapidary epithets are few;
we do not deal in iniversal rubies.
The angle and the glitter are subdued;
our riches lie concealed. We never liked
the jewellers window in the rainy night.
My back is Argus-eyed . I live in danger .
False shadows turn to track me as I pass
and wearing beards, disguised as secret agents,
creep in to blot the freshly written page
and read the blotter in the looking-glass.
And in the dark, under my bedroom window,
until, with a chill whirr and shiver , day
presses its starter , warily they linger
or silently approach the door and ring
the bell of memory and run away.
Let me allude, before the spell is broken ,
to Pushkin rocking in his coach on long
and lonely roads: he dozed, then he awoke,
undid the collar of his travelling cloak,
and yawned, and listened to the drivers song.
Amorphous sallow bushes called rakeety,
enormous clouds above an endless plain,
songline and skyline endlessly repeated,
the smellof grass and leather in the rain.
And then the sob, the syncope ( Nekrasov ! ) ,
the panting syllables that climb and climb,
obsessively repetetive and rasping,
dearer to some than any other rhyme.
And lovers meeting in a tangled garden,
dreaming of mankind, of untrammelled life,
mingling their longings in the moonlit garden,
where trees and hearts are larger than in life.
This passion for expansion you may follow
throughout our poetry. We want the mole
to be a lynx or turn into a swallow
by some sublime mutation of the soul.
But to unneeded symbols concecrated,
escorted by a vaguely infantile
path for bare feet , our roads were always fated
to lead into the silence of exile.
Had I more time tonight, I would unfold
the whole amazing story — neighukluzhe,
nevynossimo — but I have to go.
What did I say under my breath? I spoke
to a blind songbird hidden in a hat,
safe from my thumb and from the eggs I broke
into the gibus brimming with their yolk.
And now I must remind you in conclusion,
that I am followed everywhere and that
space is collapsible, although the bounty
of memory is often incomplete:
once in a dusty place in Mora county
(half town, half desert , dump mound and mezquite)
and once in West Virginia ( a muddy
red road between an orchard and a veil
of tepid rain ) it came , that sudden shudder,
a Russian something that I could inhale
but could not see . Some rapid words were uttered —
and then the child slept on , the door was shut.
The conjuror collects his poor belongings —
the coloured handkerchief, the magic rope,
the double-bottomed rhymes, the cage, the song.
You tell him of the passes you detected.
The mystery remains intact. The cheque
comes forward in its smiling envelope.
How would you say delightful talk in Russian?
How would you say good night?
Oh, that would be:
Bessonnitza , tvoy vzor oonyl i strashen;
lubov moya, otstoopnika prostee.
( Insomnia, your stare is dull and ashen,
my love, forgive me this apostasy.)
March 3, 1945
Источник
Vladimir Nabokov
(1899–1977)
An Evening of Russian Poetry
‘…seems to be the best train. Miss Ethel Winter
of the Department of English will meet you at
the station and…’
From a letter addressed to the visiting speaker
The subject chosen for tonight’s discussion
is everywhere, though often incomplete:
when their basaltic banks become too steep,
most rivers use a kind of rapid Russian,
and so do children talking in their sleep.
My little helper at the magic lantern,
insert that slide and let the colored beam
project my name or any such-like phantom
in Slavic characters upon the screen.
The other way, the other way. I thank you.
On mellow hills the Greek, as you remember,
fashioned his alphabet from cranes in flight;
his arrows crossed the sunset, then the night.
Our simple skyline and a taste for timber,
the influence of hives and conifers,
reshaped the arrows and the borrowed birds.
Yes, Sylvia?
‘Why do you speak of words
when all we want is knowledge nicely browned?’
Because all hangs together – shape and sound
heather and honey, vessel and content.
Not only rainbows – every line is bent,
and skulls and seeds and all good words are round,
like Russian verse, like our colossal vowels:
those painted eggs, those glossy pitcher flowers
that swallow whole a golden bumblebee,
those shells that hold a thimble and the sea.
Next question.
‘Is your prosody like ours?’
Well, Emmy, our pentameter may seem
to foreign ears as if it could not rouse
the limp iambus from its pyrrhic dream.
But close your eyes and listen to the line.
The melody unwinds; the middle word
is marvelously long and serpentine:
you hear one beat, but you have also heard
the shadow of another, then the third
touches the gong, and then the fourth one sighs.
It makes a very fascinating noise:
it opens slowly, like a grayish rose
in pedagogic films of long ago.
The rhyme is the line’s birthday, as you know,
and there certain customary twins
in Russian as in other tongues. For instance,
love automatically rhymes with blood,
nature with liberty, sadness with distance,
humane with everlasting, prince with mud,
moon with a multitude of words, but sun
and song and wind and life and death with none.
Beyond the seas where I have lost a scepter,
I hear the neighing of my dappled nouns,
soft participles coming down the steps,
treading on leaves, trailing their rustling gowns,
and liquid verbs in ahla and in ili,
Aonian grottoes, nights in the Altai,
black pools of sound with «I»s for water lilies.
The empty glass I touched is tinkling still,
but now ’tis covered by a hand and dies.
‘Trees? Animals? Your favorite precious stone?’
The birch tree, Cynthia, the fir tree, Joan.
Like a small caterpillar on its thread,
my heart keeps dangling from a leaf long dead
but hanging still, and still I see the slender
white birch that stands on tiptoe in the wind,
and firs beginning where the garden ends,
the evening ember glowing through their cinders.
Among the animals that haunt our verse,
that bird of bards, regale of night, comes first:
scores of locutions mimicking its throat
render its every whistling, bubbling, bursting,
flutelike or cuckoolike or ghostlike note.
But lapidary epithets are few;
we do not deal in universal rubies.
The angle and the glitter are subdued;
our reaches lie concealed. We never liked
the jeweler’s window in the rainy night.
My back is Argus-eyed. I live in danger.
False shadows turn to track me as I pass
and, wearing beards, disguised as secret agents,
creep in to blot the freshly written page
and read the blotter in the looking glass.
And in the dark, under my bedroom window,
until, with a chill whirr and shiver, day
presses its starter, warily they linger
or silently approach the door and ring
the bell of memory and run away.
Let me allude, before the spell is broken,
to Pushkin, rocking in his coach on long
and lonely roads: he dozed, then he awoke,
undid the collar of his traveling cloak,
and yawned, and listened to the driver’s song.
Amorphous sallow bushes called rakeety,
enormous clouds above an endless plain,
songline and skyline endlessly repeated,
the smell of grass and leather in the rain.
And then the sob, the syncope (Nekrasov!),
the panting syllables that climb and climb,
obsessively repetitive and rasping,
dearer to some than any other rhyme.
And lovers meeting in a tangled garden,
dreaming of mankind, of untrammeled life,
mingling their longings in the moonlit garden,
where trees and hearts are larger than in life.
This passion for expansion you may follow
throughout our poetry. We want the mole
to be a lynx or turn into a swallow
by some sublime mutation of the soul.
But to unneeded symbols consecrated,
escorted by a vaguely infantile
path for bare feet, our roads were always fated
to lead into the silence of exile.
Had I more time tonight I would unfold
the whole amazing story – neighukluzhe,
nevynossimo – but I have to go.
What did I say under my breath? I spoke
to a blind songbird hidden in a hat,
safe from my thumbs and from the eggs I broke
into the gibus brimming with their yolk.
And now I must remind you in conclusion,
that I am followed everywhere and that
space is collapsible, although the bounty
of memory is often incomplete:
once in a dusty place in Mora county
(half town, half desert, dump mound and mesquite)
and once in West Virginia (a muddy
red road between an orchard and a veil
of rapid rain) it came, that sudden shudder,
a Russian something that I could inhale
but could not see. Some rapid words were uttered –
and then the child slept on, the door was shut.
The conjurer collects his poor belongings –
the colored handkerchief, the magic rope,
the double-bottomed rhymes, the cage, the song.
You tell him of the passes you detected.
The mystery remains intact. The check
comes forward in the smiling envelope.
‘How would you say «delightful talk» in Russian?
‘How would you say «good night»?’
Oh, that would be:
Bessonnitza, tvoy vzor oonyl i strashen;
lubov moya, otstoopnika prostee.
(Insomnia, your stare is dull and ashen,
my love, forgive me this apostasy.)
Cambridge, Massachussets, 1945
Владимир Набоков
(1899–1977)
Вечер русской поэзии
«… похоже, самый удобный поезд.
Mиcc Этель Уинтер с английского
факультета встретит вас на вокзале и…»
(Из письма приглашённому лектору)
Предмет беседы, выбранный сегодня,
пусть и не в полной мере, но во всём:
когда становится их берег крут,
почти все реки говорят по-русски,
и так во снах своих лепечут дети.
Моя помощница у эпидиаскопа,
поставьте этот слайд, и пусть нам луч
покажет моё имя в русских буквах
иль даст похожий призрак на экран.
Наоборот, наоборот. Спасибо.
Средь гор своих античный грек все формы
для алфавита взял у журавлей;
его стрела закат пронзала, ночь.
Н а ш горизонт и склонность к древесине,
влиянье ульев, хвои – изменили
и стрелы, и заимствованных птиц.
Да, Сильвия?
– Зачем вы о словах?
Мы ждём от вас лишь свежих, вкусных знаний.
Да потому, что всё дается разом –
звук, форма, вереск, мёд, сосуд, вода.
Не только радуги округлы – семя,
и череп, и все добрые слова,
как русский стих, как образ наших гласных:
то крашеные яйца, то кувшинки,
в чьей пасти исчезает шмель златой,
то раковины, где с наперстком море.
Ещё вопрос?
– А что просодия?
Ну, Эмми, наш пентаметр для чужих
звучит, как будто разбудить не может
от сна в пиррихии наш холиямб.
Глаза закройте, вслушивайтесь в строчку.
Мелодия расходится, и слово
посередине так длинно и мило:
ты слышишь такт, и даже тень другого,
и тут же третий гонг, и вздох – четвёртый.
Всё это порождает дивный шум;
он раскрывается подобно розе
из чёрно-белых фильмов прошлых лет.
Вот рифма – день рожденья строчки. Эти
привычные двойняшки существуют
и в нашем языке, как и в других.
Так, кровь у нас рифмуется с любовью,
природа со свободой, даль с печалью,
князь с грязью; мы луну свою рифмуем
со многими словами, а вот солнце,
жизнь, ветер, песню, смерть – ни с чем.
За морем, где утрачен скипетр мой,
чу! – пегих существительных там ржанье,
а вот причастья, стелющие там
по листьям шелестящие плащи,
какой-нибудь глагол на -ала, -или,
грот ионийский, ночи на Алтае,
и черный омут «и» у «лилии«.
Пустой бокал звенит лишь от касанья,
но вот покрыт рукою – и он умер.
– Деревья? Звери? Камни, что любимы?
Берёза, Синтия, и ель, Джоан.
Как гусеница малая на пряже,
так сердце на засохшем уж листе
висит, но всё же вижу ту берёзу
на цыпочках стоящей на ветру,
и ёлки на границе того сада,
и угольки заката, что меж них.
Среди зверей, что населяют стих наш,
лидирует услада ночи – соловей,
чьи трели, свист, журчанье, треск – как флейта,
подобие кукушки или призрака:
бесценно его горла мастерство.
Эпитетов печатных у нас мало;
нам дела нет до всяческих рубинов.
Сверканье, блеск – приглушены немного;
богатство наше – в тайне. Никогда
не привлечёт нас ювелир средь ночи.
И на спине моей – глаза. Вокруг опасность.
За мною всюду следуют те тени,
что смахивают сильно на шпионов,
крадутся, чтоб страницу промакнуть
и в зеркале увидеть промокашку.
Во тьме, где окна моей спальни, до тех пор,
пока стартёр свой с кашлем выжимает день,
таскаются они и так и эдак,
а то – подходят к двери и звонят
в мой колокольчик памяти – и убегают.
Коль чары не разрушены пока,
сошлюсь на Пушкина – трясётся он в коляске
по длинным и пустым дорогам: дремлет
и просыпается, мучительно зевая
под песню ямщика, что бесконечна.
Кусты бесформенные – их зовут rakeety –
и облака огромные над полем,
строка из песни и, конечно, горизонт –
рефреном к запаху травы и кожи.
Затем – всхлип, обморок (Некрасов!). Слоги
стремятся вверх; навязчивы повторы,
скрежещущие, но милые для многих.
Влюблённые в запущенном саду
мечтают о свободе для народа,
сливая свои страсти; под луной
деревья и сердца – мощней, чем в жизни.
Такую страсть к пространству вы не раз
в поэзии найдёте нашей. Крот у нас –
то рысь, то даже ласточка, при этом
всё превращенье происходит в душах.
По инфантильным тропам мы брели
с ненужной ношей символов каких-то;
да, босиком – по тем дорогам, что
обречены вести лишь в глушь изгнанья.
Имей я больше времени, я б смог
раскрыть вам всю историю – neukluzhe,
nevynosimo – но пора идти.
Что я шепнул? Я говорил о том,
что в безопасности теперь слепая
та птица, чьи я яйца крал когда-то
и шляпу их желтками наполнял.
Теперь я в заключенье вам напомню,
что следует за мной повсюду нечто,
что всё это пространство разрушимо,
хоть щедрость памяти так часто неполна:
однажды в пыльном месте (округ Мора,
то ль город, то ль пустыня – мусор, шум),
другой раз в Западной Вирджинии
(дорога между садом и дождём),
она являлась, эта дрожь, внезапно,
то нечто русское, что мог вдохнуть я,
но не увидеть. Беглые слова
мелькнули – и дитя заснуло вновь.
Вот фокусник сбирает бедный скарб:
двойной платок, канат и клетку,
с двойным дном рифмы и, конечно, песню.
Вы не раскрыли ль фокусы его?
Нет, тайна сохранилась. Чек явился
на свет в своём весёленьком конверте.
– Как по-русски «очаровательна беседа»?
– И как бы вы сказали «до свиданья»?
О, вот так:
Bessonnitza, tvoy vzor oonyl i strashen;
lubov moya, otstoopnika prostee.
Бессонница, твой взор уныл и страшен;
любовь моя, отступника прости!
Кембридж, Массачусетс, 1945
перевод Сергея Кирюты
Из книги «Сто переводов с английского.
Тридцать поэтов Англии и Америки» (1983–2003)
5 Проголосовало
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