Стихотворения - Владимир Набоков

440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM{*}

«No hands have wrought my monument; no weedswill hide nation's footpath to its site.Tsar Alexander's column it exceeds   in splendid insubmissive height.

«Not all of me is dust. Within my song,safe from the worm, my spirit will survive,and my sublunar fame will dwell as long   as there is one last bard alive.

«Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend,and all will name me, all tongues in her use:the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend   of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz.

«And to the people long shall I be dearbecause kind feelings did my lyre extoll,invoking freedom in an age of fear,   and mercy for the broken soul».

Obey thy God, and never mind, О Muse,the laurels or the stings: make it thy ruleto be unstirred by praise as by abuse,   and do not contradict the fool.

441. THE UPAS TREE{*}

Deep in the desert's misery,far in the fury of the sand,there stands the awesome Upas Treelone watchman of a lifeless land.

The wilderness, a world of thirst,in wroth engendered it and filledits every root, every accursedgrey leafstalk with a sap that killed.

Dissolving on the midday sunthe poison oozes through its bark,and freezing when the day is donegleams thick and gem-like in the dark.

No bird flies near, no tiger creeps;alone the whirlwind, wild and black,assails the tree of death and sweepsaway with death upon its back.

And though some roving cloud may stainwith glancing drops those leaden leaves,the dripping of a poisoned rainis all the burning sand receives.

But man sent man with one proud looktowards the tree, and he was gone,the humble one, and there he tookthe poison and returned at dawn.

He brought the deadly gum; with ithe brought some leaves, a withered bough,While rivulets of icy sweatran slowly down his livid brow.

He came, he fell upon a mat,and reaping a poor slave's reward,died near the painted hut where sathis now unconquerable lord.

The king, he soared his arrows truein poison, and beyond the plainsdispatched those messengers and slewhis neighbors in their own domains.

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

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

                  It may seem a little,but what incalculable human cares,deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations,have weighty representatives here seated!

Where was that old doubloon?.. Here 'tis. This eveninga widow paid it me — though only aftershe'd stood, with her three children, many hoursunder my window, on her knees and wailing.It rained, and ceased to rain, and rained again:the shamming creature never budged. I might havesent her away, but a faint something told methat she had brought the sum her husband owedand would not care to be in jail next day.And this one? this was brought me by Thibault:whom did he get it from, the fox, the loafer?Stole it, I wager; or perhaps… somewhere,at nightfall, on the highway, in a coppice —Ah, yes! if all the tears, and blood and sweat,that have been shed for what is in my keeping,out of deep earth might suddenly gust forthwe'd have a second flood, — and with a splutterI'd perish in my trusty vaults.                                       And now —

Strange — every time I want to open oneof my good chests, I feel all hot and shaky:not fear (oh, no! whom should I fear? I havemy gallant sword: one metal guards the otherand answers for it), but a heart-invadingmysteriously enveloping oppression…Physicians claim that there exist queer peoplewho find in homicide a kind of pleasure;when I insert and turn the key, my feelingsare similar, I fancy, to what theymust feel when butchering their victims: pleasureand terror mingled

                      This is lovely, lovely…

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

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

443. FROM «A FEAST DURING THE PLAGUE»{*}

Pushkin's version of a scene in Wilson's tragedy «The City of the Plague»

A Young Man Most honorable chairman! Let me nowremind you of a man we all knew well,a man whose quiddities and funny stories,smart repartees and pungent observations,— made with a solemn air that was so pleasing —lent such a sparkle to the table talkand helped to chase the gloom which nowadaysour guest the Plague unfortunately castsover the minds of our most brilliant wits.Two days ago our rolling laughter greetedthe tales he told; t'would be a sorry jestif we forgot while banquetting to-dayour good old Jackson! Here his armchair gapes;its empty seat still seems to be awaitingthe wag; but he, alas, has left alreadyfor a cold dwelling-place beneath the earth.Though never was so eloquent a tonguedoomed to keep still in a decaying casket,we who remain are numerous and haveno reason to be sorrowful. And solet me suggest a toast to Jackson's spirit,a merry clash of glasses, exclamations,as if he where alive.

The Chairman                          He was the firstto drop out of our ranks. In silence let usdrink to his memory.

The Young Man                          Have it your way.

The Chairman (to one of the women) Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accentsof native songs reveals a wild perfection:sing, Marry, something dolorous and plaintivethat afterwards we may revert more madlyto merriment — like one who has been tornfrom a familiar world by some dark vision.

Mary (sings) In times agone our villagewas lovely to behold;our bonny church on Sundaywas full of young and old;our happy children's voicesrang in the noisy school;in sunny fields the reaperswung fast his flashing tool.

But now the church is empty;the school is locked; the cornbends overripe and idle;the dark woods are forlorn;and like charred ruins the villagestands stricken on its hill:no sound; alone the churchyardis full and never still.

A new corpse every minuteis carried in with dreadby mourners loudly beggingGod's welcome for the dead.A new hole every minuteis needed for their sleep,and tombs and tombs togetherhuddle like frightened sheep.

So if an early gravestonemust crown my springtime bright,you whom I loved so dearly,whose love was my delight, —to your poor Jenny's body,I pray, do not come near,kiss not her dead lips; followwith lagging steps her bier.

And after I am buried, —go, leave the village, findsome place where hearts are mendedand destiny is kind.And when the Plague is overvisit my dust, I pray…But, even dead, will Jennybeside her Edmund stay.

The Chairman We thank you, Mary, melancholy Mary,we thank you all for this melodious moan.In former days a similar infectionhad visited, it seems, your hills and valleys,and one could hear most piteous lamentationssounding along the rivers and the brookswhich now so peacefully and gaily tumblethrough the wild paradise of your dear land;and that dark year in which so many perished,so many gallant, good and comely souls,has left but a vague memory that cloudsthe elemental minstrelry of shepherdswith pleasing plaintiveness. Nothing, I swear,so saddens us amid life's animationas dreamy sounds that dreamy hearts repeat.

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

Louisa                                     Such dittiesare nowadays old-fashioned; but one stillfinds simple souls eager to melt when seeinga woman weep: they blindly trust her tears.She seems to be quite sure that her wet eyesare most enchanting; and if just as highlyshe ranked her laughter then you may be sureshe'd always titter. Walsingham had chancedto praise the shrill-voiced Northern beauties; soforthwith she wails her head off. I do hatethat yellow color of her Scottish hair.

The Chairman Listen! I hear the sound of heavy wheels.

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

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

Louisa (regaining her senses)                             A dreadful demonappeared to me: all black with white eyes rolling,he beckoned me into his cart where laypiled bodies of dead men who all were lispinga horrible, a most unearthly tale.Oh, tell me please — was it a dream I dreamtor did the cart pass really?

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

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

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

The Chairman (sings) When mighty Captain Winter swoopsupon us with his hoary troops,leading against us all his grim       legions of frost and snow, —logs crackling brightly laugh at him       and festive wine cups glow.

Her awful Majesty the Plaguenow comes at us with nothing vagueabout her aims and appetite;       with a grave-digger's spadeshe knocks at windows day and night.       Where should we look for aid?

Just as we deal with Winter's pestagainst this one it will be bestto stay in lighted rooms and drink       and drown our minds, and jest.Come, let us dance upon the brink       to glorify Queen Pest!

There's bliss in battle and there's blisson the dark edge of an abyssand in the fury of the main       amid foam-crested death;in the Arabian hurricane       and in the Plague's light breath.

All, all such mortal dangers filla mortal's heart with a deep thrillof wordless rapture that bespeaks       maybe, immortal life,— and happy is the man who seeks       and tastes them in his strife.

And so, Dark Queen, we praise thy reign!Thou callest us, but we remainunruffled by the chill of death,       clinking our cups, carefree,drinking rose-lipped maiden's breath       full of the Plague, maybe!

The Clergyman What godless feast is this, you godless madmen?Your revelry and ribald songs insultthe silent gloom spread everywhere by death!Among the mourners and their moans, amongpale faces, I was praying in the churchyardwhither the thunder of your hateful orgiescame troubling drowsy graves and rockingthe very earth above the buried dead.Had not the prayers of women and old menblessed the dark pit of death's communityI might have thought that busy fiends to-nightwere worrying a sinner's shrieking spiritand dragging it with laughter to their den.

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

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

The Chairman                                 Our homesare dismal places. Youth is fond of gladness.

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

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

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

The Clergyman Mathilda's stainless spirit summons you!

The Chairman No, — promise me, — with your pale withered handraised heavenward, — promise to leave unuttereda name that death has silenced in the tomb.Could I but hide from her immortal eyesthis sight, this banquet… Once upon a timeshe thought me pure, free-spirited and proud,and my embrace was paradise to her.Where am I? Sacred child of light, I see youabove me, on a shore where my wrecked soulnow cannot reach you.

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

The Clergyman Come, come with me.

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

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

444–445. FROM EUGENE ONEGIN