A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

Визи Мария Генриховна

[1960s]

582. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Почернел, искривился бревенчатый мост…»

Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's span and burdocks grow as tall as man and, dense, the thickets of nettles sing that they never will know a sickle's sting. There's a sigh at the lake when evening falls and wrinkled moss creeps over the walls. That's where I greeted my twenty-first spring. To my lips the pungent honey was the sweetest thing. Dry branches shredded that white silk dress of mine. A nightingale sang on and on in the crooked pine. He would hear me calling and would leave his lair, gentler than a sister, though wild as a bear. I would swim across the rivulet, run uphill, but oh, later I would never say «Leave me now, go».

18 Jan. 1966

583. Анна

Ахматова (1889–1966). «Heмудрено, что не веселым звоном…» [263]

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now— with every passing day you are more dear! How very short the road has grown and how it used to seem of all the longest way!

26 Nov. 1992

263

Translation of the second stanza. Variant in the last line: «the very longest way!»

584. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Перуджиа [264]

Half a day of toil, and half of ease, azure smoke above the Umbrian hills. Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze, loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills. In the window — one whose dark eyes smile, under Perugino's fresco, there, tries to reach a basket for a while with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare. In it lies a note for eager glances: «Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

264

Variant in the eighth line in the manuscript: "with a tawny brown hand, and does not dare."

15 May [1928]

585. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Пройдет зима — увидишь ты…»

When winter goes — then you will see my fields and fens that stretch away. «What beauty!» you will say to me, — «What lifeless slumber!» you will say. But, child, remember, in the still I kept my thoughts, and in that plain I — restless, sorrowful, and ill — Have waited for your soul in vain. And in that dusk I guessed my fate, stared into death's cold face, and long, endlessly long I had to wait, peering through mists that swam along. But you passed by before my face, — among the bogs my thoughts I kept and in my soul a gloomy trace of that strange lifeless beauty slept.

16 May [1928]

586. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Мы шли на Лидо в час рассвета…» [265]

We walked toward Lido once at dawn, the rain was gentle, like a net. Without replying you were gone. And soon I slept beside the wet. I heard the waves, their steady falling, because my sleep was light, I heard the sounds, that shook with passion, calling, loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird. And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, — came down and floated on the sea, upon the waves of song, love-laden, with which you always dwell in me.

265

Mary Vezey's "(??)" in the eighth line presumably indicates a search for a better word.

12 June [1928]

587. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я просыпался и всходил…»

I've wakened often in the night and peered at stairways darkness-filled. The frosty moon threw silver light upon my house, where all was stilled. I've had no messages of late; the city only brings me round its noise, and every day I wait for guests, and start at every sound. And waked by steps that seemed to pass at midnight more than once I rose and in the window — saw the gas that shimmered in the streets in rows! Today — again I must await my guests, and clench my hands, and fear. I've had no messages of late, knocks is all I hear.

12 June [1928]

588. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я был смущенный и веселый…»

I was confused and glad of heart, your dark silk garments teased me sore. The heavy curtain swung apart, and voices hushed and spoke no more. A gleaming ring — the footlights — trace a wall of fire between us two, the music burns your very face, and brings a change in all of you. And so again the candles light, my soul alone is blind anew… Your bared shoulders glisten bright, the crowd of men is drunk with you… Star, you have left this world of mire, and far above the plain you stand… You raise your hand — a silver lyre is trembling in your outstretched hand.

[1928]

589. Александр

Блок(1880–1921). «Какому Богу служишь ты?..»

Who is the God to whom you pray? Are you related in your flight to dreams that come before the night or anxiousness at break of day? Or, joined to a star, are you — yourself a goddess — with the rest proud of an equal beauty too, — with eyes devoid of interest Looking from strange heights up there down at the shadows touched with flame — oh, queen of purity, of prayer and earthly homage to your name?

[1928]

590. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Незнакомка

Above the restaurants, at twilight, where drunken shouts and laughter ring, the hot and putrid air is governed bv the impurities of spring. Above the dull suburban houses, above the dust of narrow streets, a gilded signboard faintly glitters, and infant's distant cry repeats. And every night, amidst the ditches, their bowlers jauntily pushed back, the city wits parade their ladies in fields beyond the railway track. Above the lake the squeak of oarlocks mingles with women's muffled screams, while in sky, surprised at nothing, the stupid disk forever beams. And nightly, in my glass reflected, my solitary friend I see, by this mysterious tangy potion subdued and quieted, like me; while next to us, at other tables, waiters look sleepily about, and drinkers, with their reddened eyelids, «In vino veritas!» will shout. And nightly, at the hour appointed (or do I dream that she exists?) a woman's form, in gleaming satins, moves in the window through the mists. And slowly walking past the drinkers, without an escort, as before, wafting a breath of mist and perfume, she finds a seat beside the door. The shining satin tight about her of strange and ancient legend sings, and so her hat, with mourning plumage, and slender hand with many rings. And caught within this sudden nearness, I gaze beyond her somber veil, and there enchanted shores discover, a faraway enchanted trail. With someone's secret I am trusted, a sun is given me to keep. Throughout the fissures of my soul the tangy wine begins to seep. Those ostrich feathers, dimly drooping, rock in my brain forever more. Blue eyes, so deep they have no bottom, now blossom on a distant shore. Within my heart there lies a treasure, and I possess the key, alone! You speak the truth, oh drunken monster: «In vino veritas» — I own.

[1929]

591. Александр Блок (1880–1921). Эпитафия Фра Филиппо Липпи [266]

Here I am resting, Filippo, artist forever immortal, the wonderful charm of my paint brush is on everyone's lips into the paints I was able to breathe with my fingers a soul, souls of the pious I could shake with the voice of the Lord. Even Nature herself, looking at what I created had to admit that I was artisan equal to her. Here in this marble I was rested by Lawrence Medici, ere I would be turned into lowliest dust.

266

Blok supplemented the published poem with a note: «Эпитафия сочинена Полицианом и вырезана на могильной плите в Сполотском соборе по повелению Лаврентия Великолепного». Fra Filippo Lippi (са. 1406–1469) was an Italian painter of the early Renaissance.