Prologue
Who says that there are no trout in the rivers,
Blueness in sky, in meadows – flowers,
With shepherds – pipes, in the harp – strings?
Do you know who speaks?
Who says that in the songs there’s no consonances,
In hearts – love, in sky – nereids,
That life – is empty, stupid happenstance?
Do you know who speaks?
Only he, who’s alien to art in the soul,
Fantasy, love and splash of water.
Who does not let feeling develop in the chest
And chases it away – only he, yes.
***
And the ageless child that is the poet,
Fool, blessed and a prophet,
Whose thought is holy, whose hearing is thin-transparent,
Who knows the way into the beyond-cloud palace.
Oh, just the poet, daily awaiting Wonder,
Seeing the sad in the funny,
Great in little, in fornication’s country,
Having heard prayers about another.
He the possessor of the people’s souls
Reached, climbing the indestructible throne,
Which power nature hides in itself,
How he had been insignificant.
Insignificant are all, born in wretched
And brand new world of moral invalids,
But in moment, that poet became semi-God,
Man as a man has remained.
***
And in this is their difference. For light thus
It’s often hard to delve into poems’ essence:
Because of this, that to perceive the poet,
You need to know the language of the gods.
He cannot study in an earthly school,
For mortals and Parnasus inacceptable,
In woods, in mountains, in steppe and in fields
I can know the language, not learning it…
And in light moment, when will learn people
Language of gods, meaning of world will be simple.
Fresher than flowers the chest will sigh
And brighter glances of the stars will shine.
Thus can be silent prosaic ignoramuses.
Ah not for them is beauty and holiness,
Blessed, with hopes undying:
He is prepared to see wonders!
Part 1
In first year of revolution to dacha
In Gatchina we went. In the spring
Happened Tsushima. The unexpected
Catastrophe completely struck me:
At that time I was a big patriot
And believed in my squadron’s might.
I gathered collection from pictures
Of vessels of all ships; on place dignified,
About one hundred and ninety pennants,
Russian fleet hang on wall, and
Separated are all vessels in squadrons:
From Baltic, to the left – from Pacific Ocean
And Black Sea. Then was I
Just eighteen years old. In that time
My poems were born under the influence
Of classic poets. Decadence
Organically was in my nature,
Simple and healthy essentially,
Far-off and alien. I grew up
On count Alexei Tolstoy and Lermontov.
Thus, we lived in Gatchina: I, mother
And old servant, for fifty years
Having lived with us. Her child
We took into the home, he was no older than nine.
I love Gatchina: its lakes of silver –
With what can they be compared?
And Priorat, and farm, and menagerie,
And tsar’s garden, where’s pavilion of Aphrodite,
Cannot be liked by those, who really
Love nature, but, certainly,
Her neighborhood, approximately Poverty,
Where water mill and the park
With hunter palace of Paul’s epoch
Is much closer to my heart.
But I learned this place later,
Almost a year thence. Another summer
I spent subsequently, all understood,
Already at mill. Although
I tell this afterwards. Woe,
Tormenting me in connection with Tsushima,
Did not allow me to enjoy the summertime
And even park was not for me a park.
In July we left Petersburg,
Not making acquaintance with anyone,
And if to forget Timothy,
The old dacha janitor,
And I will not be able to recall this summer.
But we can’t fail to remember Timothy.
And I will now explain to you the reason:
I, having talked with him,
Let it slip from boredom. He invited
Me to himself. I, democrat since childhood,
Once came to him. We chattered
Until late night. In conversation
We drank bottle of vodka.
He introduced us to Zlata, his daughter.
She’s also eighteen. A blonde, tall,
And with face color wonderful.
She came back from work in the night
And, bowing slightly, went to the closet
To herself. I looked toward her with a glimpse,
But could differentiate the freshness
Of her face, and beauty of her gait,
And general elegance. Is it not strange,
But once the attraction I felt
To that girl. I did not meet
Her any time in the summer. Soon
We left for the town.
***
In September
It pulled the poet into autumn garden,
And I went to Gatchina. All day long
I wandered in Priory devoid of men,
And in the evening I went to old man,
To father of beautiful daughter. He was friendly
To me and gave me tea.
And in this time we drank considerably
Of potion deadly-living.
I casually asked about Zlata, but
She has not worked for a month.
And at fashionable dressmaker in Petersburg,
Near Stremyannaya Street she lived.
Her sisters – Masha, Anna, Liza
And Fenya – were near the father.
Two first, married, had
Two to four years old kids.
And they were not exceptional in grace.
But Liza, younger than Zlata, was a child
Comely, fragile and refined,
Who was coming on twelve years old.
And tiny Fenya, nimble frolic,
Was dear; she was only seven years of age.
Two more months passed. Came
The winter – to go to winter park I desired.
Ah, Gatchina, place beloved
Of my walks on the Norwegian skies,
Museum of my spring, when I one day
Called you in one poem, a lot
You tell me to my soul and my heart!
I love to repeat blessedly
Name elastic and sonorous.
Ah, Gatchina, which are you now?
I fear to think. Hide, topicality,
Don’t desecrate the past with you!
And in this time I went to Timothy
To rest from park and to sit down;
I came to him in noon to warm;
Frost cracked rosily in the garden.
All were at home: it was Sunday,
And, like pleasant to me surprise,
Zlata from Petersburg arrived,
Dressed with taste, very humbly,
She played with the little Fenya
And joked happily. Admiring,
I stared at her unwillingly.
She caught my sight momentarily,
Lightly embarrassed, straightening the hair,
And humbly sat at the tea chair.
After tea I offered to her with me
To go to the park; she willingly
Agreed without any breaking.
And, speaking at ease barely,
We went with her, thus youthfully laughing.
O white snow, cold and fluffy,
O slumbery and shady old park,
O the first sacred love!
***
Yes, I believed then in the purpose,
In inspiration of meetings, in such tenderness,
Which covers suddenly
All things, owning foolishly
The heart and soul. Intuitively
I suddenly understood, that Zlata met me
For a reason, and was sent by fortune.
And sharper to look at the maiden
I started then, and I noticed this:
Under external revival apparent
Hid in her some sadness,
Some pain to me unclear.
I carefully came up to her,
And, touched tenderly,
The girl opened up trustingly to me.
***
“I see, you are a noble man, -
Thus started its narration,
And to know you it is good,
Believe, it was to me, but don’t get mad,
Hides in this the little “but”:
Because you’re good, honest, clean, kind –
And in this I do not wish to doubt, -
How could you, once you did decide
To hold acquaintance with my dad?
You’re still a youth, almost a kid,
And in each way you must apprehend
Evil influences and sinful men
Spoiled, to try to leave.
And my father (Lord, forgive me these
Words for the daughter dangerous!)
Drunkard, scoundrel, he is a creep,
Unhappy man. You drink with him.
Besides, it seems to me, there is much
More than it should; did it not sound dumb,
That we should drink vodka, so vile,
Murdering the body and the soul?
I am her enemy; she has caused me
So much grief; she accelerated
My mother’s death, because my father
Always inebriated, with unscrupulous
Behavior made her dead..
I am her enemy, and her father is a drunkard,
It’s certain that I am his rival.
And if you really desire
To be my friend, dear, don’t drink any more,
And do not go to this cursed home,
Where wine inseparably rules.”
***
We spoke this evening for long
And with each phrase got closer in thought,
From start with winter Priory wandering,
And on alleys-streets in the evening,
With electric glow flooded
And with white blanket covered.
Snow dropped, and, in flashlight’s flashes,
Love bloomed in Zlata’s eyes;
I could not see love in my eyes,
But the eyes of the girl spoke
To me so clearly, that in my eyes
They noticed the blossoming of love.
I could not fail to feel this.
On the last train we regressed.
Into the capital, I drove her from the house
And, taking word to meet, and in mail
To converse, I came back to myself.
***
That year I was every evening
In theaters, mainly in the
Conservatory Hall, where
Tsereteli held a large troupe of opera.
I idolize music no less than
Poetry, and I need to wonder
That attendance of opera has been
My necessary need.
At Guida, in season of great fast,
I listened with rapture to Italians.
On Sundays twice a day I
Went to the theater: In morning, in eventide.
Plays performed unfrequently
Were given them: “Germany” by Franchetti,
“Zaza” by Leoncovallo, “Andriena
De Lecouvreur” by signior Chilea,
We could listen to “Gioconda,”
To temporarily take a fancy to Ponchielli,
Where is the inimitable Titto Ruffo…
Ah, those names were star-bearing:
Sang there Lydia Berlendi,
And Baronat, and Gaius with Pellingioni,
And Arnoldson with Anselm, Battistini,
And Sobinov, and Figner, and Klemetiev.
Lipovskaya made a career there,
And Monska like a meteor flashed,
And sorceress Van-Brandt
Made us drunk on Titanic’s coloratura.
She was a great baby, as is sure,
And this name – the whole era
In my musical experiences.
And Mravina Eugenia Konstantinna,
My second cousin, Fairy Tale,
Spring Lark and Snowgirl,
In that year gave her farewell concert,
Sorrowfully finishing action,
With seal of death, with traces of the past,
With beauty that sometimes shines.
Zlata liked to come with me to the theater,
And young old woman “Traviata”
Made us near a lot, glory to her!
And how “Traviata”we did not scold
For disrepair, primitivity and sweetness,
Not to give in to this sound’s charms
I’m not in strength and of “weakness” proud:
In the final days her loving,
I am myself loyal to dear Zlata,
And, giving what is due Puccini
And Debussy, I didn’t reject Verdi.
***
In evenings, when she did end
Work at the workshop, to her I came
And waited at the staircase. She descends.
I kissed her hands,
Looking into the eyes, and repeating
In delight my name, sweet to the ear,
And cried, and laughed, like a child…
Oh, how she was to you kind,
My friend, Zlata of gold!
How deeply and sunnily she loved,
Always justifying me in all!
I aimlessly went on streets with her,
But aimless way was full of goal:
It went to the heights of young feeling,
And in this hid the blissful aim.
We frequently met there, and we sent
Quite a few letters to each other,
And my poem, if to collect now,
Please, will be infinite,
And not her unearthly letters,
Written by earthly hand,
Gave you, O Russia, a pearl poem:
“It cannot be! You lie to me, dreams!”
***
I have been poor. I lived on uncle’s means.
He gave my mother monthly sums
Until the day when happiness smiled on me,
Translated correctly-neatly,
But so scanty had been translations,
And life in capital was not penniless.
Sister, owning a house, gave us
A bit of cash and apartment gratis.
I had been poor, but stubbornly avoided
Joining the service: spirit of offices
Was for me, free one, disgusting.
And to feel authority over myself
Seemed to me shameful disgrace,
But always with me shared mommy
The last, and frequently denying
Herself necessities, delivered
Ability to visit theater and acquire
Books. I was about sixteen,
When mother came to me from Kwantung,
Where in Far Port more than half a year
I spent with my sick dad. Alone later
He went to Yalta, and on fourth spring
Of the new century, in Russian time –
Of war with Japan, died of jade.
I’ll notice among other, that in real
Still studying, I started gathering books.
In two years, spent in Petersburg,
I could, in five hundred tomes, lovingly
Gather the library, where were
All classics and many
Foreign fictions with chapter about Marietta.
To literary fiction since childhood
I held a strong penchant:
For the poor red-skinned ones’ nobility,
For brave Amazons’ purity,
For beauty of tropical nature,
For attractive plot everywhere.
Gustav Emar, Mayne Reid, Jules Verne and Cooper,
Andre Laurie, Louis de Boussenard,
And Pamberton… Do I not owe
To you the living plot of my poems?
But Jack London, Conan Doyle and Edgar Poe
Sometimes fascinated me.
In mystics I liked Maeterlinck
And in Lokhvitskaya I caught his flight.
Among Scandinavians Henrik Ibsen
Is almost the first ego-futurist.
Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw clearly
Had influence over me.
Among classics Turgenev and Goncharov
Were loved by me; they understood
Essence of Russian women. Maupassant
Raised humaneness in me, and Pushkin
Always carefully clarified my spirit.
Thanks to constant walking
To operas and attraction to music
My poems were put to melody.
***
I was poor – my soul was wealthy.
I was happy: Zlata loved me,
But parting with her tormented me,
And that she had to labor,
So as to live and help her sisters,
Constantly tormented me. I did
Desire to live with her, but for this
I needed considerably much cash:
She didn’t decide to take me into her flat,
Fearing to subject her to insults
Not of mother, of course, no – she
Loved me too wholeheartedly,
And she was raised beautifully.
I feared another: husband of the sister
And housekeeper – on our floor
Above their flat - we could force
My sister to deprive mom of flats
For the indulgence of my quirks.
And Zlata herself, I am sure,
Rejected this project.
She was proud, self-loving,
And to “sit in the neck,” to speak vulgarly,
To my crone-mother, it is clear,
Her nature would forbid her.
To marry her, to tell truthfully,
It was to me wild and funny a bit
Not because similar step I feared,
And simply because I did not
Have the work soon in sight,
Did not know what successes would await.
I lived in literature like a bird –
Well, briefly to say, I was a poet!
My only sister Zoe,
From mom’s first marriage, loved
Art in all industries, possessed
Subscription in Mariinsky Theater,
And Fofanov and Lokhvitskaya were
Always her tomes table-top.
And under her attentive tenderness
In versification I exercised.
She listened with great favor
To my exercises courageous
And tenderly encouraged them in every way.
Zoe, only sister of mine,
Had a husband, of alien creed,
The retired sapper lieutenant,
In whom she fell in love as an
Unexperienced seventeen-year-old, -
But afterwards, I think, but don’t accept, -
She cooled to the chosen one a bit,
Looking on his worthlessness closer.
But never did the mind she show,
That can be unhappy, whole-heartedly
She gave all to happiness of her man.
She was highly moral at this,
And nowhere nobody could hear
Complaint from my Zoe, not a phrase
Of her life’s displeasures:
She had been quite self-loving
And proudly closed. My sister had home
Near Morskaya and resort
Under Oboyanya, but I could not
Decide to call her wealthy.
Yes, she always good to me wished,
But, as another raised
Than me, giving toll to conventions,
Did not justify all in me: then,
Since I loitered all day without work
And fell under bad influence
Of people, sometimes of one round,
I started to drink frequently, not having
Either money, or classes, and was to her
Quite unpleasant, and could I
For this my sister judge?
It’s not because of this, and nearer
I’ll be to aim, if I will figure,
That Claudia Romanova, initially
In days of Zoe’s childhood, governess,
And after wedding – housekeeper in house,
Playing in family big part,
Together with sister’s wife did attempt,
Protest to me not forgiving
And for the ridicule unloving
Over us, to quarrel us, that Zoe
Gave strict ultimatum to me,
Like an old, married sister:
To somehow take the place, much better
Patronage was had, or to learn,
As an external student exam to hold
And to receive qualification, like mayor’s passport.
In this it was advised to me – to barricade
All acquaintances with dear Zlata,
And even, truly, very delicately,
There was a hint, that she’s to me “not a couple”
And nothing good will come out
Of our friendship and love.
O, I listened to nobody’s advice
And as in past my acquaintance continued
With him, with whom I wanted, developing on the field
A large and independent talent.
And, as in the past, in this direction
Zoe, only sister of mine,
Lovingly encouraged me in all times.
***
I was poor, and the poorer was I
The more I wanted to live, and I
Decided in the celebration of love
To bring a big sacrifice.
Listen, do not laugh, for the poet
And youth a hundred tomes
Wrapped in Morocco and calico,
To sell beloved writers – is it not sacrifice?
He’ll be deprived of them on one unhappy day,
Barely the books from childhood gathering,
Shaking off dust weekly from them,
Is it not sacrifice? How for you – I don’t understand,
But this step for me had been hard.
And from the Alexandrian market
I ordered to call the bookkeeper’s land,
And, sorrowing, the library sold
For… seventy rubles! For this cash
I rented for Zlata a flat
Near to me and every day since the morning began
To walk and with her to spend the days.
***
O, on fifth floor on Offitserskaya
The corner near Kazansky part!
I sing you excitedly and loudly,
And inspiredly shine eyes!
What are books to me! Ah, what to me is all in the world!
I fully have acquired a girlfriend!
She to me in this room pathetic
At once submitted, having granted
Me happiness, to which more in life
Could not be given to be repeated!
Such happiness, that to me, a poet,
Mage of wondrous expressions and words,
Could not in words be conveyed!
Such happiness, strong, big,
Living, so unrepeatable,
That it is scary, that in the world
I can still live, having lost happiness!
Such happiness, true happiness,
Which after sixteen springs
And having from that time stopped loving fifty women,
I am experiencing with all my soul!
Such happiness is bright-golden,
What now to remember him,
I must squint the eyes of dream,
The heart will tear otherwise.
Otherwise I’ll go crazy – this,
She gave such happiness!
***
For three weeks all this went on,
And money was spent. In vain
I tried to reach them: was out of nowhere.
That he wouldn’t change his mind now and here,
Seeking the methods! The girlfriend
Decidedly resisted, pitying
Me with all her heart, and found work,
Not paying attention to my prayers
At the general lady courtier.
For five hours I did not see her
And came to the moment of her
Return from work. It was very painful,
That he couldn’t help her. Yes, Zlata
In other conditions would make the name
Some another field upon.
She was capable, developed,
Remarkable girl. The worse,
That I was so criminally frivolous.
***
At end of Fast I came from the estate
To capital to uncle Misha on business.
He invited me to come to him
To celebrate Easter. The whole family,
Except for the married daughter,
My cousin Lilia, gathered
In estate. I loved Novgorod land,
Where I had spent my teens.
I joyfully agreed to go,
But it was painful to part Zlata
For two weeks. If to go with her
Alas, could not, conventions interfered:
A mistress of mine she had been,
And not a wife. In uncle’s family strictly
They thought of celibacy. I, embarrassed,
Hesitated for a long time. Seeing
My wish to go, delicately
She went to meet me,
As she encountered my health shaky a bit
And village air useful to me.
***
We were in morning at the azure Vessel.
From station no more than five miles,
Estate of uncle, near Kemza’s confluence
Into my river that can’t be replaced.
A purple home on a tall shore,
Around the dense forests of conifer.
My cousins – Koka and Volodya –
Loved in its variety the sport;
We ran on skies since the morn,
Lowering to rivers from sharp waterfront,
In day we harnessed in “Sybarite’s”
Sleighs or “Verochka” and ran Across The Lake,
And rushed with us the forest dark.
My past love I am recollecting,
The love of soul of twelve springs
To a five years older person, -
I remembered love for Lily my cousin,
Looking at these dear places
Under childhood’s impressions.
Is it not strange, they were not upsetting
Me, like before: with Zlata I was full
Physically, spiritually – whole,
She sent to me a letter,
In which, tenderly-motherly blessing,
She wrote that the customer had chosen
To go in summer to Gatchina, where
She found herself a dacha, that, understanding
My love for nature, Zlata also
Will come with her, but will not
Together live in the dacha, but will find a home,
Where it would be better for me to visit her.
“Ah you,” she wrote, “with mother to Pudost
Come for the summer, there is trout,
And boat, and river, and all that you need
To have, nearer to me
From Gatchina – the fourth verst.”
How soon holidays did end,
And soon I returned into strict Petersburg.
The spring is coming in a cape of lilac,
In a wide pale-blue hat.
And invisible trickles of lily of the valley
Sound in the air with bells.
Laughing, she is tickling my nerves,
Dearly and sharply flirts,
Tenderly into dreams weaves pastorals
Of spring village beauty of the fields,
With meadows blooms, with birds chirps,
She – half ghost, half real…
I hurry to her and by golden Zlata
Suddenly one spring is complete,
Coming in cape of lilac,
In a wide pale-blue hat.
***
The next day upon return
I walked from Petersburg out of town
In morning, here were reasons two:
At first, I sought to Zlata to prove
My love, to which is not perilous
The dusty forty-three year old’s boldness
Excursion on the sleepers, nor a waste
Of energy, so as her not to see;
And secondly, I emphasized to these
The meeting’s pathos and solemnity,
How to be like a pilgrim,
Hurrying to Mecca reverently.
I walked the Baltic line. My rest
Was in Dugergiere, sweet-picturesque,
By lake, looking like a pond.
Then I went to Taitsy, met Pudost
At first upon my way, where the river
Izhorka with its malachite water
Spellbound me absolutely
And where I hired the dacha in passing.
By ten I was in Gatchina at Zlata’s,
Who from the joy of unexpected
Rendezvous, in addition knowing,
That to one I love I had walked,
Began somehow all numb for a moment,
Then, weeping, she threw herself
Upon my neck, kissing my face
And laughing through tears, of delight.
How tenderly she had fed me!
How joyfully she met me!
Lovingly in her arms she rocked me…
I bent my head to her knees.
She cradled me, and, bending near
Looked in my eyes tortuously:
“Oh cannot we part sometime?” –
She quietly whispered.
And I, with unacceptable thought smitten,
Said clearly, “Zlata, don’t fear,
While I’m alive I always will be with you.”
Sorrow to me: I did not keep the vow!
***
I often came to her. Having moved
To dacha soonest, almost every day
I saw her. Thus was kept brightly
One meeting in a shining memory,
The only one in a certain kind.
Once, having walked plenty in a park,
I and her went to Warsaw terminal
She conducted on to the final
Train, coming to Petersburg at night.
It was a June’s languid time,
The lilac bloomed, drinking enchantment,
And, walking in station garden,
We sat upon a bench over the pond.
With a sheer wall blooming and fragrant
Carefully bushes of damp lilac
Separated us from the public.
Zlata! Do you remember the lilac night?
Did light carry our kisses in firmament?
Why now don’t they to us present it?
We need to give life to payment!
Zlata! Do you remember the lilac night?
The rapture with lilac and love,
Frenzy and raving, and kisses again,
And sorrow, and joy, and alarm,
And frenzy of caresses… O Zlata, Zlata!
Do you remember the night of lilac?
To unite and kiss our faces
In redolent lilac wetness
Threw drunkenness... O Zlata,
Do you remember, do you remember the night?
You could not forget it, I know,
And every year I am blessing you,
Anticipating the coming lilac!
***
Coming to the dacha, I went
In first order to builda little boat.
The master of the plan of ours
Peasant Alexander Stepanych, was
Excellent carpenter. In two weeks
It had been fully complete.
With the sail cabin and front,
Sharp and harshly cut, it has been
Similar to a cruiser with its construction.
I gave it the name – “Princess Dream.”
It had intended me for our
Walk on Izhorka. Thus for Zlata
Was readied a little surprise.
She brought me afterwards the flag and the prize
Andreyev’s, the sea’s, of her work,
And I have kept it
Until my departure to foreign land.
***
White is the night, exquisitely sick,
The night ghostly and mystic.
May sighs, invisible to eyes,
And rests, lying before the distant path
To the south till the spring to come.
July is in all: and in a dreamy whisper
Of the green streams of trout river,
And in the gold-yellow water lilies,
And in the fir of caught secret delirium
Of the intoxicating air of the night,
And in the dragging of beloved eyes.
She sings in a half-voice,
Bending her face to the wave, at once
Sharply stretches out her arms to me
And presses to my chest fiery,
Endlessly me on the mouth kissing,
Or, with quiet woe, barely audibly whispers,
With tortuous premonitions complete:
“O, may we sometime part?”
And bitterly, bitterly she weeps,
Palace ahead, dilapidated and frowning
And park, - from cedars, larch trees and firs, -
Went quiet on the river shore.
It dreams of feasts of the emperor, when
The sovereign neurasthenic went insane
In shadow of its alluring branches.
As speaks the legend, Paul the First
Was scary in the secret frenzies
And killed the disgraced courtiers
In time of flashes of evil neurasthenia.
And who knows? Maybe these screams
Of bats, flying over the river,
Of a voice innocently murdered?
Make noise, make noise the falling rapids.
Running, running is wave of green.
From under the dam with foam and splashes
Pours the crystal clear river.
Dragged by alacritous current,
“The Princess Dream” leans to the whirlpool.
Held back by the skillful hand,
Like feather, is reeling back.
Transparent is river’s bottom. With noiseless arrow
There or here the pound trout
Slide in the water, and the fisherman’s heart
Only freezes in the sweet languor.
White nights, trout, greenness of streams
And fanning of invisible jasmines,
And with the lyric of the saturated speech, –
How charming on this background
Is Zlata, unrepeatable for centuries!
From Gatchina, where almost every day
I came to her, returned at nights,
And every time my girlfriend
Conducted me to our very dacha.
Then I went with her to half-station,
And in the train, coming at dawn,
She hurried directly to her work.
When did she sleep? To my prayers –
To keep herself – she was deaf.
***
The August ended. On the “Princess Dream”
I quickly sailed to mail at the half-station,
And almost crashed under the bridge,
In speed, into a boat stuck there,
In which there were three passengers:
One of them was a crone,
Another was a girl in her teens,
And the third dame was about twenty seven.
The last one tried in vain with her oar
To push off from the piles. It was visible,
That boat got stuck very firmly,
Fell on a stone, hidden under water.
I came to them and gentlemanly
Offered to them my help, and the dames
Scattered in gratitude: strange to them
Seemed their position. I quickly came
Behind to them with the stern,
I took their boat in the tow,
And at once it slid off from the stone. It all took place
In the duration of several moments.
Midst jokes, conjugate with catastrophe,
I made acquaintance with them, and Dina,
Sitting on the oars, turned out to be
A dear, interesting brunette,
Coquettish, joyful and spicy.
Together we returned into the township,
And the boat went on my side.
Parting, the aunt of Dina invited
To be with them, and Dina gratefully
Strongly shook my hand and with eyes
That she liked me, eloquently
And she gave to understand expressively.
***
I sat in the evening, in a boat reading,
And dreamed, like always, of Zlata dear,
Whom I did not see in that day.
I shuddered frightfully, made awake
From my dreams: the beautiful contralto
Violated my dreams: “Of whom do you
Dream and don’t for me you wait?”
Dina, with whom I did acquaint,
Came up noiselessly in a boat and, mooring
By board of “Dream,” suavely asked:
“Come to me sooner,
And we will sail somewhere far away:
I’ll take you to a distant island,
Onto the island of blue and kind Fairy.”
To tell the truth, I got confused
At her unexpected appearance
At our harbor, and jumped, almost
Not reasoning, to her. The villain,
Glad at the obedience of mine,
Slyly smiling, extended
Arm with capricious gesture, and we sailed
On river to the distant island.
***
The unkind and blue fairy
Ruled over this island, and evil
Insidious, intoxicating reason.
And name of this fairy was – Madness.
And we fell under her influence.
We obeyed all of her quirks,
We became weak-willed playthings
Of countless excesses
Of the corrupted cruelly-lustful fairy Madness.
I raved: it seemed not wild to me,
That woman, alien to my soul,
Convulsively kisses me on my lips,
Belonging to another one.
And with the opened widely eyes,
In which is glowing the clear madness,
She says to me, “I want you! You – are mine!”
In this moment it seemed not to me wild
And could not seem: in drunkenness
In revelry of sonorous-sensual excesses,
I lost the ability to think.
Be cursed the island of sensual sorceress
And you, sent by hell to meet me,
And the seductive fairy Madness!
Because of you I lost the innocence
Of my soul, unshakable loyalty
To one, to one! I lost the satellite
Of my irreplaceable dear Zlata.
***
You were the signal in sweet fall of sin.
Thus the tortuous romance began.
I was delirious, but in flashes of consciousness,
I wept, cursing in bitterness
Myself for weakness, did repent,
And for Zlata, not daring to look in her face,
Was ready to kill the Dina flighty.
However, only heard the dress’s rustling,
With temptations of the saturated, only
Her eyes, looking for my own,
Squinted with impudent promise
Of the incredibly-perverted caresses,
I forgot about all, and I tore
Into her embraces, like into a boiling waterfall.
I sharply stopped to be at Zlata’s,
Did not return her letters,
Drank a lot, got drunk on a new passion, suffering.
Completely in counter-feelings wound up.
And soon I moved from dacha to the city,
Where I mucked the whole autumn about with Zina,
When she, finding in café-chantant
Engagement, left for Archangelsk.
And in October she suddenly to me did come,
Hardly within herself resisting the pride,
To say farewell – Zlata lost by me.
“I came to tell you farewell, my dear,
Don’t speak, rid of explanations.
I don’t need them: my dear, I’m too in pain.
You’re always right, you cannot be wrong.
We need no excuses, that with a lie
You would not have your truthful lips defiled.
Forgive me for my insolence: I did not want
To say this; how to lie you don’t know.
You’re always right, and you’re always dear to me.
You’re honest, wonderful, clean,
Just. In all guilty is only I: rudely I
Violated, my dear one, your trust:
I have betrayed you five times.
Forgive me, I pray, I will make it painful
To you with my acknowledgement, my amour.
But I’m so dirty. I am ill.
Give me the water, please.
Thank you. I’m vile, I’m nasty. I’m not worthy
Of you at all. My dear, I have come
To you to say goodbye, that with no alteration
And not looking on all your failings,
I love you. Almighty’s blessing
Be over you. Forgive me from the heart,
And I will get off from your road.”
***
What anguish she has occasioned
Me with her heart-tearing words!
How I hated her for a moment
And, cursing, in rage’s blindness
Raised his arm above her, so as to hit her
In the face beautiful and dear
But I held back and, in exhaustion
Bitterly, tearfully, childishly weeping,
Fell to her feet, and prayed to return
And shouted, “It’s untrue! It is untrue!
You slander yourself! Innocent
Are you in actions directed upon you.
Tell me, calm me, that you are still
My sacred, infallible…
Return to me…” But dolefully bowing
With head, she said, “No,
I won’t return, I cannot come back:
I’m fallen!..” – and, not ending the phrase,
She shuddered over table in weeping.
Exclaimed I: “I don’t believe! It can’t be!
You’re purer than purity. But if –
Although I do not allow this –
And you betrayed me, o, really,
Loving you, I will not find forgiveness
And justification in my heart, living only
With you, the more, that I am
Really criminal before you?!”
I told Zlata about meetings with Dina
Sincerely in all details,
I prayed to her – she was relentless.
And, stubbornly on her love insisting,
Blessing me, crying and forgiving,
She left – and plunged the night.
O Lord! Rest in peace in azure sky
Classical happiness, that has been killed
With my unbridled feelings.
And my frivolity, and my youth,
And weakness before temptation, justify.
O Lord! Rest in peace in azure heaven
Until the second coming of yours
All our tender speeches, all thoughts,
Intended for one another, happiness
Of the spring meetings, of the union
Of night and soul, and bodies in your covenant.
But our love, O merciful
Great God, accomplishing wonder of meeting
Of two halves of an only soul,
Let live eternally and create her memories
For all eternities. Amen.
Part 2
My only sister Zoe
Died on the ninety seventh spring,
By thunderous cerebro-specific
Deadly meningitis struck her down.
She was only thirty two, and this
Sudden clumsy end
Created a strong impression
On whole family and all our acquaintances,
Who had loved her sincerely. Struck down
By misfortune, to think I forgot,
That she died without making a will,
And for this I was inheritance denied:
The house went to the cousin,
The property was family’s.
Me and my mother moved immediately
To beloved dacha in Gatchina.
The most illuminated Georgian princess,
The born German countess,
Gave two rooms in her apartment.
She was an artist. She loved art,
But she was “toquee” a bit.
And she often drank a lot.
At forty years having become a widow
Of dignitary, closed, solitary
She lived on pension. Her stories,
Accomplished imagery, gave
Later the topic for my poetry.
She was quite pleased with me.
And sitting with her on balcony frequently,
We conversed till late night.
But the restless princely character
And her constant extravagances
Our nerves, shattered by Zoe’s death,
Affected badly, and after
Two weeks, heeding the advice
Of familiar professor, I and my mother
Found another dacha for ourselves,
Leaving her Luminosity in dusk.
***
Then frequently came to us guests.
Professor of singing, Kievite ancient,
The existing system’s opponent
Of horizontal notes, the reformer
With vertical inscriptions’ project,
Fanatic of idea made by them:
And colonel of the general’s headquarters,
Spirit and mystic, having loved Zoe,
Thus hopelessly having her name to cult raised,
Came weekly to visit us;
Then a friend of Zoe, a student,
A big music lover and linguist,
Aesthete Alexandra Alexanna,
Companion of my walks, beautifully
Understanding nature, was guest
Also in this summer for two weeks.
***
Once with her, towards the Priory heading,
We went through city. At the palace
Hospital I met a black-wearing maiden,
Who, having seen me from the distance,
Suddenly turned abruptly
And went afar with a familiar gait;
I recognized her as Zlata. My dear,
What prompted you my suffering to me
To cause? Why did you turn around
From loving heart? Ah, in this time
You were to me especially close:
At death of Zoe the circle of friends
Narrowed in the spirit again, and you were such by the way.
The sensitive Alexandra Alexanna,
Having sympathetically asked about sadness,
I told the mournful narration
Of happiness interrupted by meeting with Dina.
I long on the lake sat with her.
And my hands softly caressed she,
And wearable mourning over my sister
Thus sacredly with her, shading
Her thin profile spiritualized
And beautiful, and making paler her face,
I was sadness’s personification
With my refined and exquisite form.
She loved me, it seemed to me,
For long ago, and, maybe,
My admissions caused to her pain.
***
We lived in the dacha till autumn
And with chambermaid of Fraulein Queen,
With brown-haired Liza, elegant young woman,
Living next to us, somehow before storm
I met her last night in the garden
And made acquaintance casually.
I became friends with her. She in free minute
Came to garden to me, and frequently
We conversed till the night.
She then was my bride,
But felt a strong attraction
To me to friendship. Even kissed
Me several times, but with kisses clean.
And never to us arose
The proposition to corporally merge.
I later came to her dacha as a guest
And it was gratifying her to meet:
A good human being she has been.
***
I received the letter in the post.
Zina, sister of singer Dina, that in the boat
Stopped on the stone, was marked by me
On the embankment, by Winter Ditch,
As teenage girl, intended
A meeting with me. Alone I lived,
Leading nomadic way of life,
Being only in opera like in the past.
But, with a new heart interested,
I went to hear the motives readily,
Vaguely appearing in it now.
At seventeen years old she was blonde,
Miniature, plump, not flawed
In charm. Her blue eyes
Looked openly and without sin.
November’s snowy evening
Over Nieva thickened already
Its purple dusk. And far-off chimes
Proclaimed the evening festivities’ coming hour;
As first Zina stopped me, -
I almost went past absent-mindedly.
With her all the evening I did part,
And I heard confessions from her
In the past love, “from the first sight”
She lived with her aunt of old,
Near some lawyer.
I liked Zina, and then I offered
Her to come to Pudost.
She at once willingly agreed.
And soon we went to the village,
Where Alexander Stepanych, that peasant,
Who built me “Princess Dream,”
Erected partition in his hut
(There were in the big dacha no stoves),
And Zina settled there in warmth
And comfort, and I from Petersburg
Began coming to her twice a week.
***
Did I love that girl? For certain.
I loved all in my way. And how
Could I take women without mutual love?
With love only and immortal,
And unchanged, I loved only Zlata,
And love to her – incomparable with others.
But from this does not follow,
As consequence, that I have stayed loyal
In old sense to just one, and killed
The passion my living heart
And tenderness unnecessary
To me and Zlata. Without female touches
My artist’s soul would have withered.
It was comfortable for me and Zina:
She wrapped me with a languid love.
And I loved the lazy movements
And warmth of her strong embraces.
She was earthly, indifferent
To art and bourgeois in full sense.
But for me to meet her
It was occasionally pleasant.
***
Colonel Dashkov,
Spirit and mystic, Fonfanov’s
Stances, loved by my sister,
Remembered by chance and to me offered
To come, to make acquaintance with poet,
Living at the time in Gatchina. We came
To Zina’s to have breakfast, taking
With us bucket of Sleur with Madeira
And different snacks. From there
We went through woods to the poet at dusk.
… Gate. Old clocktower. Rails.
November evening. Moon and stars.
A man in a warm coat toward us,
Tanned, in felt boots, in hat disheveled.
“Do you not know, dear, where lives here
Writer Fofanov?” – Heartfelt
Look of the man at us from under glasses
And barely caught grin:
“Fofanov – I am.”
***
O, Mikhailovich Konstantin!
Could I forget you in a state?
You are such a beauty, indeed! –
Hero, prophet and Russian man,
And from head to toe a great poet!
You are a hero because you do not heed
“The great worlds of the mortal one,”
And biting and angry epigrams
You frequently said to the face of men,
Who stood at the black power’s food trench.
You are a prophet because you have predicted
To me my future, foreseeing her,
Not to mistake in people, to whom it happened
To meet you on life’s paths.
And for this you are Russian man,
That, born to them, proud of your origin,
You rejected all the conventions
And to your apparel manly
You remained loyal in the simplicity of soul.
You are a poet because… you are a poet!
***
He led us to himself, where he acquainted us
With wife and son of Kostya. This boy
Following Olympus, futurist,
Has gone insane when his father died.
Point – megalomania. He undoubtedly
Was a degenerate. I pity him.
There were ten children. I know them.
About them I have nothing to say any longer.
Lydia Konstantinovna, the wife of the poet,
At forty years old gray-haired,
Made a heavy, sick impression:
She sat on the binge and conducted
Herself immorally. I must not
Hide this – vice versa completely.
It is hard to figure out the causes, truly.
Either the poet made his friend drunk –
Or she him – it’s difficult to judge.
The miserable one lost her mind seven times.
***
Enthusiastically greeted the poet
In me ecstatic Fofanov! And on the first
Day of acquaintance he dedicated to me
Acrostic. For four years since then we have been
Familiar. I saw him in another way:
When he was sober, shy,
Frequently inspired with genius,
Impossible in drunkenness’s minutes:
And cheeky, and brutal, and feisty.
And still indisputable is my kindness,
Talent is bright and reason is clear.
He wrote to me twenty funerals,
Was guest on days, was not drunk at all,
Then gaped this sobriety with a hole
On our life, and we fixed it
With familiar patch of drunkenness.
Like true poets, we fixed it.
Bumpy carousel drinking parties.
***
As formerly I was drawn to Zlata,
As formerly I was fulfilled by her,
Of what are saying eloquently
My poems of that era.
And here, not to hold back more in strength,
I again arrived at Timothy’s,
I wanted to ask him about her,
To feel the past gone by,
That appeared in janitor’s cellar.
The beautifully familiar ambiance
Stirred up in me such a despair
That I began to drink, and as result
I drank till the loss of perspective,
Where I was, what for and who with me…
In party’s full swing (see how it was pleasing
To my fate) door opened and Zlata
Appeared on the porch before us.
I fuzzily then understood;
However from meeting did appear a hard
Impression; the beloved one, at the start
Having chilled mutely and with angst
Looking at orgy, suddenly sharply
Having some impact on the heart
In indignation she threw me a word
And hid, indignantly slamming the door.
Thus happened the penultimate meeting.
In seven years we met for the final,
Last time – for several minutes.
***
Again the spring, second after happiness,
With eternally dear tried and tested.
Again the spring again, and heart again
Got drunk with fiery sunny wine.
Again the brown lips of the morels
Have swollen on the forest’s edge.
Again have turned blue the snowdrops,
And all the land again went bottom up.
With Penurchik, the anarchist poet,
Of my years, whom I suddenly met
We got closer in the spring to Fofanov,
We left for Pudost, where, renting
The hut on chicken’s legs, were catching
Fish, dreams, poems and village girls.
I parted in the beginning of the year
With the third lover: my behavior
Forced me. The master of the hut
Such things to me did communicate,
That I could not otherwise behave.
***
Kuma Matryona (with her I baptized
A boat repairman’s child)
Came in the evening to our hut –
To talk, to drink and to laugh.
She was only eighteen.
She had average height, her shape
Was fairly full, but fairer she has been
Than Matryosha – there was no girl in the village.
I had called her “Pre-Storm”: the name
I produced her stuffy: “before-storm.”
She languished, as before a lightning
Breath languishes us. With the simple
Full soul she loved me, and
Not wise was love of my Ingrian.
We were loved two summers. Many songs
Were sung about her, many kisses
Were mutually given to us.
Ah, good godmother Matryosha was!
***
Anton Antonych, red-cheeked miller,
Having had Katyulka as a lover,
A simpleton modest and sad,
Our constant ardent drinking mate,
Suddenly burned in passion for my Pre-Storm,
Not awaking the return in girl.
And once in time of our belated
Feast on the mill, he thought
To kill me from jealousy, waved
A huge knife over my head.
Perunchik, my buddy noble,
Roared, like a tiger, and taking by the shoulders
The miller, threw under table, my life saved.
In morning Anton Antonych with light cane
Came to our hut with forgiveness prayer.
And I, him completely understanding,
Did not think to be mad.
This evening we worldly joy did celebrate.
And he touched not Pre-Storm since that time,
Feeding sincere friendship to me.
Good, reader, it was time!
We were daredevils free,
And our youthful mischief
Are marked in my memories
With courage, straightforwardness, nobility.
***
Two years passed. Many ladies
Gave me their love and tenderness:
Annette, looking like geisha; Olli,
Estonian with aigrette; Carmenista,
The sweet tormentor; Flyorton,
The brain-tickling signiora,
And Shura with amazed eyes,
And Panya with offended lips,
And Dear, and Dun, and Maricon…
Enough. Sufficient. Go on, go on…
All these are only moments sweet.
All this was empty, shallow and brief.
Not real is all of this.
I recall another day, having played
Big role in my former life,
I remember day of Liza’s coming,
Sister of my Zlata idolized,
I remember day I with her began
A meaningfully powerful romance.
***
She came with her seventeenth
Spring dreamy and innocent.
She came, like a wounded chamois,
Having fiasco in her love found.
She came credulously, impulsively,
Intuitively attractive to me;
She came, as young women come
To temple of God or poet divine.
***
Prince Rusov, cuirassier of the empress,
Miss Lil corrupting half a year,
Achieved the result reverse:
He awakened in him adoration of her.
When the babe got bored with him,
He chose to marry an aristocrat
And left Liza, as is befitting
To a nobleman, rudely, abruptly.
Indignant at illustrious deception,
She, not long thinking, in a fit
Of indignation, wounded with dagger
The prince in his shoulder in his office.
But behaved like a knight the prince dull:
Hushed up trifling incident with girl,
He simply lackey Liza ordered
To put on coat and conduct out the door.
***
And so she came to me, and, crying,
She told me of her disgrace,
Of the abuse of virgin feeling.
Like a wounded sister, she came,
She came, as come young women
To temple of God or poet divine.
“I love in the world just two,”
Said Liza simply, “Prince and you.
You always to me, in Zlata’s time,
Appeared in the world with unprecedented pain.”
From her words he learned, that Zlata married
A stately bank official
Three years ago and already
Has a child: Tamara the girl.
I was smitten: he with this step ended
Me forever. Her cruelty
Again has given to me torment.
The final hope has melted,
Maybe vague, for reconciliation of ours,
For unification in future, maybe – far off.
And it seemed to me strange: Zlata, whom
Cleaner or kinder, I have not met in life,
Suddenly this Zlata, gracious Zlata,
Is capable of cruelty. How strange!
This time, as I could, I calmed down Liza
And looked with the sister at her face,
Her sister, having caused me sorrow,
Found great similarity. Served
That development with reason –
New deep connection with Liza the young woman.
***
In blue English dress, dear miss Lil,
Hugging the full figure,
When she walks to the park with me
From terminal, where she met me.
Dear miss Lil with piquant new fly
At her top lip; with little
Chestnut head shaking graciously.
Tall and supple, all attention
She unwillingly attracts.
Dear is Miss Lil, coming with stack
In a pale-lemon kid glove,
Like a bird chirpily lisping,
Phrases coquettish and dumb.
Dear is Miss Lil in heavy thinking,
When, throwing off foolishness, so clearly
And deeply life she can see.
***
“My dear friend, please, a little
Be alone and be bored – soon I will
Return: I need to demolish
Urgently the work” – chirps the girl
And, wearing hat, runs down the stairs.
Voices laugh through the door, and lively
Two strangers run into the room,
Are embarrassed, seeing me. Shyly
One of them, older, presses at door.
Another… But this is rapture!
Carelessly thrown is lilac lace
On the thin chiseled head.
Her haircut with the right parting
Gives away the brunette; with arrow brows
Face, like in measure, share of amazement
Give strictly; in the face the thinnest
Irony and passion; nostrils proud.
“For long Liza has gone” – it seemed
To me, she did not ask, but tooth pearly,
Thus she flashed blindingly.
“No, soon will be, you, mademoiselles,
Would like to sit down.” “Pardon, I am a dame.
And friend – young lady. We will not
Sit down: is it right in this weather
To sit in rooms? We strive for park,
And you, please, convey to her…
No, so no: rightly, much better,
Than to be bored alone without a book,
Is to walk half an hour – we’ll return together”
I was delighted at her bravery
(“Impudence” would say Pharisees!)
And all three of us left. I didn’t return
That day to Miss Lil. Tomorrow I came not,
Not in ten days. Again we met
Across the moon, so as not to part
For seven full moons. And Intassa – in guilt.
***
Yes, us three left. But the day of spring
Was so handsome, hot and golden
And in Instassa under lilac eyes
Shined so temptingly and importantly
Big dark-gray temptations
And she so intimately pressed my hand
That we… us two remained.
The girlfriend understood that she to us
Was hindrance; on the nearest
Crosswalk she bowed and disappeared.
And we went into park, in thicket of wood,
From which every evening, morning and night
The way back we could not find:
Passion got in the way, eclipsing the eyes,
Instassa came in two days
To me for an hour, and equally three weeks,
Taken by passion, was a guest.
Had this been life? I think I could
Sooner call her complete fool:
The lips were sick from passionate kisses,
Bitten in blood; paled the faces
And brain did not work in exhaustion.
But was so unbearable Insta’s jealousy,
And so wild, and so incredible,
That I rebelled, and we parted
Lightning-fast with flaming Instassa.
Thereafter, however, with her friends
We met, when for keeping
Prince took her… Tsimlyansky attraction!
I wanted to rest of ties with Intsa
And wrote repentant lines
To my Miss Lil. With an embarrassed smile,
Good-natured Liza came Into my house.
***
The great Rimsky-Korsakoff and Vrubel,
And Fofanov died in these years.
And with ringing of funeral bells
Were buzzing the vast spaces.
Three geniuses, like luminaries, dimmed.
Their creativity tripled, triune,
And their souls, saturated with Russia,
In their merger – is momentous.
Ah, unforgettable are Alexander Blok’s
Words over Vrubel’s fresh grave.
“In noise of wind just any genius
Can hear the phrase, full of meaning.”
All three possessed this gift
And constantly listened to the wind,
Expressing in creativity that voice,
Which Russian soul clarifies:
The Russian wind blows with Russian soul.
***
Romance with Miss Lil, uneven and wavy,
In tender fading, in splashes
Of “monster with green eyes.”
As Shakespeare spoke of jealousy, the flashes
Of my shaggy jealousy, dozing
Till that time and with awakened Liza,
Thanks to former novella with princes;
Romance with Miss Lil, giving torment’s darkness,
In which sparks of happiness are too dim.
Novel with inexplicable disbelief
In her sights, and actions, and words,
The more, that in filth he did not notice
Her in anything, was interrupted by new meeting.
Magdalene went on the fatal throne
Of my rebellious and anxious soul,
Of my soul restless like a whirl.
***
My gift blossomed at that time in full flower,
And the poems inspired by her
Gave me the name. I will not judge
Our relations, that did not come
To mutuality, as I interpret her.
I will not judge Madlena strictly,
So as not to tell her many unpleasant
And caustic words: What for? - Her cousin
Tiana told her a lot
In my defense. I only note
That with the husband, unfortunately, it’s too late,
I think, she parted; my heart
I then gave to the Thirteenth.
I’ll also note, that, remembering evil,
I’m always grateful to Madlena
For her Glory carried to me.
And till this time our friendship does not dim.
And now in Yugoslavia, in Apathy
I write to her desirably, receiving
The letters sad and prayerful.
In one of them a quote from the old
Romance – “For Lord’s sake, do not submit:
She was the poet’s dream” – sickly
It pricked my heart. O, Madlena!
Don’t cry, don’t be sad, it was needed,
It must be, to enroll, as enrolled
You and I… I don’t accuse thee.
***
I parted with Miss Lil on her goodwill,
Sensitively pointing my inclination to her
To Madlena, who did not want any more
To live with me. I held on to her
Tenderly, carefully; but it was in vain:
She left. I, standing on my knees,
Weeping, conducted her.
And, crying in reply, Liza hesitated
And suddenly left, left determinedly…
Confused as one, as reports Zlata,
She said to her: I chased her away
And even… abused… I cannot
Argue with dead one – I just go dumb.
And as it impacts upon her child,
With letter her sister asked me
To think of her in year the thirteenth.
I lived with her in manor “Pustomerzha”
In place of old princess Obolenskaya
With that woman, who had
My daughter, a six-month-old child,;
She, not looking at agreements
And requests to take the baby, energetically
Resisted. Is it jealousy or stupidity?
In either case – hearts’ cruelty.
***
Thus years went, and women flashed,
Like petals under spring apple trees’ wind:
Princesses Arusya, Sonna, Valentina,
And Nephthes, and Griselda, and Lyudmila,
And Fanny, and Brittanichka, and Vera,
And Nata – their names I don’t remember.
I was not bodily close with them,
But was bound with them in other ways.
And many feelings filigree
You, dear, tender ones, gave to me.
I gratefully all of you remember.
Thus went the years, and came the year
Of World War. And Liza again went to the poet.
In three years still kind
And loving, just as formerly,
She called me to herself. And somehow
In company of futurist-brothers,
Wonderfully having had dinner at Ernest,
I came after her in a limo.
At the site waited Aegisthus.
I called – door opened to me… Zlata!
She asked me to come in. Liza
Did not remain at home. Like in a fog
I went to her. I came faded,
Sluggish and the past palely recollecting…
And in this there was something fateful…
I was drunken and tired. Unclearly
I thought. All to me seemed a dream.
***
In seven years, in Estonia, in July
Came from Berlin a letter to Zlata.
From where did she learn my address?
But she did not give me hers.
O, Zlata! O, Woman! Your letter – a poem.
I put it, only verbatim
To music – to music of poetry.