Стихотворения - Владимир Набоков

433. EXILE{*}

He happens to be a French poet, that thin,book-carrying man with a bristly gray chin;        you meet him wherever you goacross the bright campus, past ivy-clad walls.The wind which is driving him mad (this recalls        a rather good line in Hugo),keeps making blue holes in the waterproof glossof college-bred poplars that rustle and toss        their slippery shadows at piedyoung beauties, all legs, as they bicycle throughhis shoulder, his armpit, his heart, and the two        big books that are hurting his side.

Verlaine had been also a teacher. Somewherein England. And what about great Baudelaire,        alone in his Belgian hell?This ivy resembles the eyes of the deaf.Come, leaf, name a country beginning with «f»;        for instance, «forget» or «farewell».Thus dimly he muses and dreamily heedshis eavesdropping self as his body recedes,        dissolving in sun-shattered shade.L'Envoi: Those poor chairs in the Bois, one of whichlegs up, stuck half-drowned in the slime of a ditch        while others were grouped in a glade.

<13 сентября> 1942

434. A POEM{*}

When he was small, when he would fall,on sand or carpet he would liequite flat and still until he knewwhat he would do: get up or cry.

After the battle, flat and stillupon a hillside now he lies —but there is nothing to decide,for he can neither cry nor rise.

11 ноября 1942; Сент Пол, Миннесота

435. DREAM{*}

«Now it is coming, and the soonerthe better», said my swooning soul —and in the sudden blinding lunarlandscape, out of a howling hole

a one-legged child that howled with laughterhopped and went hopping hopping aftera bloody and bewildered bone,a limb that walked away alone.

Perhaps the window shade had billowedand slapped the darkness on the face;but when I had picked up and pillowedthe book of sleep and found the place,

I saw him haltingly returningout of the dust, back to the burninghole of his three-walled home — that boyhugging a new, a nameless toy.

<16 августа 1944>; Кембридж, Масс.

436. DANDELIONS{*}

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

30 мая 1950; Итака, Нью-Йорк

437. LUNAR LINES{*}

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

<28 апреля 1966>

ПЕРЕВОДЫ НА АНГЛИЙСКИЙ{*}

Александр Пушкин

438–439. FROM «MOZART AND SALIERI»{*}

SCENE I. A ROOM

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

Mozart enters.

Mozart Aha! you saw me! I was just preparingto take you by surprise — a little joke.

Salieri You here? — When did you come?

Mozart            This very minute. Iwas on my way to you to show you somethingwhen, passing near a tavern, all at onceI heard a fiddle.... Oh, my dear Salieri!You never in your life heard anythingso funny.... Than blind fiddler in a pothouseplaying Voi сhe sapete. Marvelous!I simply had to bring him here to have youenjoy his art. — Step in!

Enters a blind old man with a violin.

          Some Mozart, please!

The old man plays the aria from «Don Giovanni»; Mozart roars with laughter.

Salieri And you can laugh?

Mozart           Oh, come, can't you?

Salieri                                 I cannot.I am not amused by miserable dauberswho make a mess of Raphael's Madonna;I am not amused by despicable zanieswhose parodies dishonor Alighieri.Be off, old man.

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

The old man goes out.

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

Salieri          What have you brought?

Mozart                                      Oh, nothing —a trifle. My insomnia last nightwas troubling me, and one or two ideasentered my head. Today I dashed them down.I wanted your opinion; but just nowyou're in no mood for me.

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

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

He plays.

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

Mozart You like it, do you?

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

Mozart What, really? Maybe so… If so His Godheadis getting to be hungry.

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

Mozart A capital idea. But let me firstgo home a moment: I must tell my wifeshe's not to wait for me.

He goes

Salieri           Don't fail me now.— Nay, now can I no longer fight with fate:my destiny's to stop him — else we perish,we all, the priests, the ministers of music,not I alone with my dull-sounding fame....What worth are we if Mozart lives and reachesnew summits still? Will this exalt our art?Nay: art will sink so soon as he departs:he will leave us no successor — will have servedno useful purpose. Like a seraph swooping,he brought us certain songs from Paradise,only to stab us, children of the dust,with helpless wingless longing, and fly off!— So fly away! — the sooner now, the better.

Here's poison: the last gift of my Isora.For eighteen years I've kept it, let it season —and often life would seem to me a woundtoo bitter to be borne — I have often satwith some unwary enemy at table,yet never did that inward whisper win me;though I'm no coward and feel insult deeply,and care not much for life. Still did I tarry,tormented by the thirst for death, yet brooding:why should I die? Perchance the future yetholds unexpected benefits; perchanceI may be visited by Orphic rapture,my night of inspiration and creation;perchance another Haydn may achievesome great new thing — and I shall live in him…While I was feasting with some hated guest,perchance, I'd muse, I'll find an enemymore hateful still; perchance a sharper insultmay come to blast me from a prouder eminence

— then you will not be lost, Isora's gift!And I was right! At last I have encounteredmy perfect enemy: another Haydnhas made me taste divine delight!. The hourdraws nigh at last. Most sacred gift of love:You'll pass to-night into the cup of friendship.

<12 декабря 1940> SCENE 2. A PRIVATE ROOM IN A TAVERN, WITH A PIANO. Mozart and Salieri at table.

Salieri What makes you look so gloomy?

Mozart           Gloomy? No.

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

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

Salieri                   Oh, you're writinga Requiem? Since when?

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

Salieri                         No.

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

Salieri You what?

Mozart           I'm ashamed to say it.

Salieri                                    To say what?

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

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

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

Salieri                                                No,I doubt it. He was much too droll a fellowfor such a trade.

Mozart                   And then he was a geniuslike you and me. And villainy and geniusare two things that don't go together, do they?

Salieri You think so?

He pours the poison into Mozart's glass.

          Drink your wine.

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

He drinks.

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

Mozart (throwing his napkin on the table)                                 Enough:I've eaten.

He goes to the piano.

            Listen to this, Salieri:my Requiem.

He plays.

              Are you weeping?

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

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

Salieri                                 Until we meet.

Alone.

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

<21 апреля 1941>

440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM{*}