Introduction
Not for fame, not for exhilaration
With the Onegin’s lines I write
The unpretentious chapters,
Where spirit of poetry is alive.
I simply like the drawing
Of slippery Pushkin’s verse.
He’s near to the soul strings
Of poet on Nieva’s shores…
Truly they invest in octaves,
In gazelle, sonnet and rondeau
Poet’s feelings? Why there’s no verse
Among them of singer of Poltava?
Awe to him in fact?
But with Petrarca is made sonnet.
These arguments I will not accept.
And here – I write a bright poem!
May poet be torn apart “in lint”
And may they caress the crown –
Means nothing: “You are highest court!” –
Artist was told by Pushkin.
Part I
1
On one day in the start of May,
In ancient park upon the pond,
Got busy, coming alive,
The landowner’s deserted home.
Waking the park, in it trumpeted
The automobiles that arrived,
And servants, falling in happy rage,
Into the room brought the baggage.
Estate was from the capital
No more than hundred versts away,
And for this reason the carriage
Is quite simple. Makes merry
The servant, celebrating arrival, -
And noise and hubbub go around…
2
Who did not get drunk from May?
Who charm of spring resisted?
Aristocrat and proletarian
Are equal before the world.
And there’s little amazing,
And thus anxiously listened
The self-same lady to nature,
Hurrying to pond. Winter
Bored her in capital
Long ago. Fell
Season in sleep cataleptic.
Pulled her to curtains, beds,
To oblivion of annoying faces:
In spring there’s no time for capitals.
3
It appealed to my Helen
To be together with Kiriena,
Aiming at the married prison
Arrow of negligence. We will understand
Her invariably once:
She’s passionate, but not depraved,
Loved by husband, but his
Love – is not triumph for the wife…
He’s – general before the lord,
Arrogant, dry and cold,
A disciplined spirit,
Briefly: “man in a casket.”
She is a complete impulse –
Her head is circled by precipice…
4
She’s thirty-two, forty – husband:
In years a trivial difference.
Her life is even; she needs a slide.
She is all in deeds – all in dreams.
But what did them unite?
Feather, paper and ink
Did not participate in it.
He said, “I’d like to see
Your wife herself.” Not thinking, -
Behind by twelve years, -
She gave agreement. The garden
Was full of emerald noises,
Boiled blood, and – no one there,
With whom him to compare…
5
And thus she simply got married,
As we exit through the door,
When ones close to the churchyard,
Not piercing in losses’ core,
We accompany vacantly,
And she is almost unhappy,
And the number “thirty-two” reminds
That the leaves
With every spring fade,
And with her the tone of the cheeks,
And shining of eyes. Deadline is coming,
When binoculars’ solemnity
At her will not take aim:
Summers, flying, take their own…
6
Years fly, and heart is young,
Still not having known love,
Surface of life a surf demands
And nightingales sing: “Catch!”
But what and how Helen to catch,
When with her the genius is not met,
The marriage to break in fragments
And to love yourself, loving?
Her cousin, Kiriena, had been
The only soul to her near.
Big light obliquely
Looked at Kira: stage masterfully
Pulled her to it – born
She had been as a thespian.
7
She’s only twenty, only twenty years!
And in twenty years how much faith!
It’s time to give yourself to happiness,
Not knowing there’s no happiness…
Barely Smolny she did end,
In the school she is again –
Dreams of the dramatic bench,
In family awakening rage.
Then they both ran, -
One from husband, from family
Another, - my maidens:
To a married young lady,
Love not knowing, bunch of ladies
Won’t impose on me without causes…
8
She early had children, -
Zealous in her was fervor of mom:
Two boys golden-curled
And Alvian, and Aryan.
Of deceased daughter being sad,
In them pieces she loved
But part of the husband
Dimmed the mother’s passion
In her hot love for the children.
And for this in her two feelings
Frequently battled. Cloudless
Celebration in this case
We will not meet: the kids
Loving, herself she did kill.
9
Though offered to come to Sorrento
To his wife the general
(Gave him the right of rent
There, where he chose the locale),
Although the dear Kiriens
Hoped that the changes
Of countries, moods and ways
Will help her to be remedied
Of wild thought to be an actress,
Cousins, loving backwoods,
Decided to live in woods, and husband
Is partly glad: gardener bald
Each week one-day
My wife and I accompany on the way.
10
Into village having come, Helene
Successfully accepted measures,
That not one soullessness alien
Into the dacha would wander:
Unbearable are impersonal faces,
Insidious is tuxedo’s buttonhole,
That on the heartless chest
Carnation to wither having nailed,
Lisps, burrs, is a fool
The galvanized veil.
Beau-monde – like some caliphate,
Where tastelessness directs the taste,
Where from maidens, or from Rome,
Drags the foot ramoli…
11
In the far south grew Helene
In estate of a uncle – old man
Without an inspiring girlfriend,
Without the native tongue,
Without incomparable of mother’s,
Beloved theoretical,
One caress, without father,
Without a figurative model…
She was not three years old, when slept
Already parents in the land,
Before the village in big manor.
Ah, fell twenty nine years
Since when will rest in coffins
Dear leaves on the oak trees.
12
Her oaks! To ask from them
About much, memorable just to them:
About days till sorrowful marriage,
About, with blue silk, bedroom,
Of solitude spiritual,
Corporate – all kinds – equal
Current of springs, summers and winters,
Whose equal splash can’t be expressed,
About mother’s brother – about uncle,
A sick and sad old man,
With a permanent book in hand
Sitting by the window, by sight
Dumb and by him recalled,
Like the whole – now burned down – home.
13
She grew, and, besides
Fekla and Englishwoman Harrington,
Did not reflect in home of glass
Any faces. Not a moan,
Not people’s laughter flew in
In the sworn circle of her sadness.
And when she turned ten,
Of the miss remained only a trace:
English language, lines of Shelly,
The beloved poet of the miss,
And Atkinsonian “Iris,”
Absorbed by bedroom. Really
The line of memories went silent,
And no, life hurries ahead.
14
As if there’s not. But in fact… in fact,
Allow to recall: it seems, there is
Poor uncle of granddaughter – stepfather.
He’s taken into governors – to read
The school course. He teaches
The native tongue and bulges eyes,
When a child coming beneath him,
“I ask you” in “if you please,”
Forgetting himself, will transform. Philologist,
For tenderness to Gersen, withdrawn from service,
Was glad to teach from conscience,
And honestly long was teacher’s class.
In about seven years
She passed in all grades.
15
She recognized in seventeen years
All that she could recognize,
From the magazine of the youth
Attempting to fathom life, gainless.
But how here could you frolic,
When there was no more than thirty in
His possession of the books;
Books were not written by old man,
Content with his permanent,
Only one, whose binding
He inevitably put in commode,
In his secret case hiding.
What had been after that,
Nobody knew of it.
16
She asked him more than once
To buy her books (not about Yaga!)
And only the soap received
And candy from Balabucha…
He spoke ten words in a month
(The spring plot for the plays!)
And in seventeen years five times
Horses were harnessed to the tarantass,
Although Kiev was in eight versts…
On her tearful requests
The kind man the mushrooms chewed
And incoherently he said:
“Winter crop will ripen,” and then
For two weeks dumb he became.
17
No wonder, when Fostiriy
Suddenly in their hole appeared
(Their home was given to flat-headquarters
For time of maneuvers on Dnieper)
And with him Lena became acquainted,
Having of decay despaired,
Surrounded, no wonder,
That it was decided by her
To immediately accept the offer,
Life only to change,
Tearing with corpse thread,
And to rush in tiredness,
Since there is no exit,
Perhaps, in highest light!
18
They live half a year,
Having thrown away etiquette.
They chase croquet’s squares,
Almost in love with croquet…
Simple calico dresses
In green embraces call
To their located branches,
And captivates nightingale,
And with Rzhevusskaya to compare,
And with Zembrich’s northern ball,
What could not charm him so,
They love not in joke: to Russian soul
This feeling is accessible:
She – more transparent than Vatteau.
19
How good it is from the stifling bedroom
In the orange dewy hour
To run to bridges of bath, laughing,
To be by social doll forgotten…
How good in the chilly water,
Admiring the chocolate skin,
To put into a knot the hair,
For half an hour splashing…
How good it is with hands to capture
The elusive crucian carp,
And again, again asking water,
To gutter bedroom with the rounds.
In water it’s at ease and natural…
How youthfully! How well!
20
And is it bad, shouting to Gryun,
To walk for “mushrooms-berries”
In June and in forests in June
To meet the fortune, maybe?..
And if badly the ones of ice
Upon the milk mushrooms
With honor carefully to place?..
At agaric laughing to heart’s content?..
And, dirtied in blueberries,
With blueberry to darken teeth,
And, having lost thread of the path,
Raising tunic to the knees,
Hanging out in woods till night,
Taking fox for the rabbit?
21
Five days a week have been days,
And two have been not this –
Not that: he came, and momentarily with shades
Everything all around twitched…
The flighty jokes went silent,
The dogs in the booths huddled,
On tiptoes lackey went,
And blew over the whole estate
The palace spleen. And our maidens,
Five times changing costumes
And listening to “the high” mind,
With dreams into the chants dived
The coming days five,
Calling to the time, “Fly!”
22
But the wingless time,
It seemed, evilly smiled,
Knocked with boredom in crown
Of young hostesses, crawled.
However, on Sunday noon
Are obvious the beginnings of wings,
And only given is limousine.
It over the grove of aspen
Grows the wings already.
When the auto will be hiding,
It will fly into what height,
Emerging from impotence,
And life is visible to eyes again,
More audible to ears… If for five days!
23
Elena into park walks.
Mooned and blown away is dewy park.
Transparent Bunin – on her lips,
In her eyes – Joan of Arc’s radiance…
And Kiriena behind piano grand,
All with Graal filled,
Forgot about cousin Lugne,
And Lugne came with soul in June…
She entered and dissolved
In its moonlit foliage
And, with thought of God,
She sat by the pond.
It happened: she saw in the shade
The oak’s woeful flame.
24
She did not understand – where what,
And only woe did them understand
And, heeding distant notes
Of piano, thought: “What haze
Hides? Where from these glares?
What shining exclamations?
How sad is their turquoise!”
And suddenly reached: that – eyes!
She did not fear: were awaited.
Shuddered a little: already!
Her costume’s negligee
Did not recall. How feelings are strange!
How smells the lilac white!
And like moonlit day – is this night…
25
Leander asked: “What’s your name?”
Elena answered: “Lugne”…
And there was something third with them:
Harrier – the melted moon…
Kiriena played afar,
And sonata’s foam did melt,
And suddenly asked Leander:
“Who robbed you of your strength?”
And Elena did not respond…
And silence arrived,
Amazed by their meeting…
In bushes shied away treason…
The owl hooted in fear…
And “in thirty-two,” Lugne whispered…
26
And suddenly she came to senses, and tartly
Asked: “What will you please?”
He stood, - branch lashed the eyes.
He did not find words to the phrase…
He came to her, modest, slender,
Desired and worthy of her,
From their dear distance
Familiar for many centuries…
“You do not recognize?” he asked. She did want
To answer “yes” but said “not,” –
And darkened the moon light,
And all her body was thrown in paint…
“You do not recognize? Dream of yours?...”
And Lugne whispered: “I recognize…”
27
She whispered and… awoke. In park
Damp and silent was the moon,
And were unbearably sharp
The details of the forest dream.
House slept. Kira went silent long ago.
And because, it had been muggy
And late, Lugne went home,
Repeating: “You are mine… you’re mine…”
And since that time in soul of Helen
Are the unique eyes;
In tears praying to the icon,
She felt their prisons,
And the anticipated love
Painted anew the lives.
28
Riene with wide eyes
Heard Helen’s dream
And with the lips gone white:
“Leander… Leander… But who is he?”
“Oh my thought!” and Kiriena,
Fearing a strange refrain
On lips of cousin, since that day
Did not lead a conversation
About this drivel. And went quiet Lugne,
Between, about dream still thinking,
She with herself alone
Remembered all from the beginning,
And truly ready the dream was,
But suddenly all again got confused…
29
Already day of Transfiguration,
And then it’s time and in the homes
For the silent battles –
The lots of virgin dames…
It’s a shame to ride out of the village,
When is more beautiful every day
Old maple having stretched out leaves,
Like paws of geese on balconies,
When mountain ash is piled up
And garden smells of apple trees,
When row of wives is striped,
And cobweb is being gilt,
When in nasturtiums is lawn,
But Petersburg said: “Season.”
30
In her hands – a week only,
And she herself is in hands
Not of intoxicating Lelya,
But husband with English mustache…
Lugne and Kira greedily catch moments
And, putting away for time books,
From morn till night in the forests,
Listening to winged voices,
In full rapture they wander,
From the sorrow faded,
Yellow leaves kissing,
And, hearing song of tired reapers,
Compassionate to peasants’ fates,
Are ready to get themselves into dress…
31
In forest, on mountain, over the lake,
The women’s nunnery is white,
Where in each cell, as in a mink,
Is a cypress desert.
There are – prayers of repentance,
Humility, sighs, weakness,
Soul and body’s heavy fast…
But not to all is simple this art,
Not all accept soul for rest,
Not all bodies submit, -
Being done are secret deeds,
Ears hear words of protest,
And saw the upcoming day
The shadow shying away…
32
Kira offers her friend
Somewhere to go on foot –
I take cliché – “in abode of the world,”
With a knapsack and rod,
How walk crowds of Russian wanderers,
That for spinners and croquettes
From city it is laughable,
But with joy illuminated
For our dear praying mantises.
And, plan not putting off, -
To the wonder of peasants, -
They go on country road
And with receding forests
They walk twenty five versts.
33
In knapsack there’s bread, in flask there’s water.
In eyes there’s feat and the delight.
Every bug is to them dear,
Business of bargaining is alien to life.
And there’s no trace of society dame
In peasant woman, listening to gamma
Of leaves, awakening in her ecstasy,
With blue eyes lifted to the heavens.
Every rustle them takes up.
Every bush them attracts.
Drink in the smile of these lips!
Drink in the smile in these eyes!
And if you say: “What, caprice,” –
For this I will five first prize…
34
Caprice! What does this word mean?
Into the essence delve deeper!
Cannot anything alien
You in him inspire?
Every caprice is different. In the world
Caprice, please… But the kids
Can differentiate shapes.
Caprice to cure the ill,
A musician, lawyer to be,
To love that and not this,
In ugliness to see loveliness
And compare orange with sunset…
Not in this is question – in moan or laughter,
Question: do we like him?
35
“Riene! My friend, are you tired?”
“A bit, Lugne. And you?” “A bit.”
It got chilly at sunset,
Already ends their trip.
They dream of spending the night.
Come to meet them: two carts.
“Is it till the monastery far?”
“Still the dawn will not glimmer,
As you go. Behind ravine
Trail to right from the village.”
Happy, Lugne jumps like a squirrel,
Kira follows her with cheerful walk.
Birches stood in row of brides.
And here the church cross shines.
36
Thus they went. In temple there was mass,
We quickly washed, and – to the temple,
Standing in pines, as though in a frame,
Prettier than all frames on the planet.
On that day we could not see pilgrims,
Which, certainly, is not offensive:
Prayer loved fewer eyes.
Blessed is he, who feat of prayer saved.
Who can sincerely pray
And understand the meaning of the prayer!
Copper in dawn of lamps’ rays
Goes orange, and the capital
With all its faithlessness
Is disgusting to my travelers.
37
In the choir sing the nuns,
And barely alive is priest older,
He leads a mass. “Great is our sin,” –
Sighs the old woman, having folded
In trembling cross of hand the parchment,
With faded look on the ornament
Peering, as if there’s God in her,
And echo the sigh prolongs.
Around the church the blue incense curls,
And, as if in the blue fog,
Elena leaned with her forehead
To cold plates. Suddenly separated
In confusion is Kiriena’s sight,
Barely turning behind.
38
Helen stood up. “Lugne, dear,
Forgive, but you look behind”…
And, emitting a slight cry,
Helen saw: these fires!
Yes, it’s him – but do not shudder,
Stand strong! The long familiar,
Whose name is precise, oleander,
Guest of sleep in lilac – he, Leander!
“Do you know him?” “I do, eternally!”
“But who is he?” “He is my thought!”
“I do not understand, forgive…
Lugne, you’re sick?” Rigne with heart
Looks into her eyes. But aside
Helen from church: “In wind! In night!”
39
Behind them – him. On an alley,
Leading to the lake. The boat,
With crumpled in the day lily,
Got stuck in the pink sand!
Boat tried to push in vain
Riene, while still unnoticed
But, subordinate to strong hand,
On the corrugated sand
Did not crawl on the lake. She peered:
Leander before them, having taken off the hat:
“Maybe I’m wrong, forgive,
That I am without agreement…”
Evening wind carried a wave,
And someone muttered: “I will deceive…”
40
Not blinking, stared she,
Not taking away eyes dewy.
How his sorrow, to her dear,
Poured from the eyes of Leander.
Kira was silent in consternation,
Taking autumn’s reflections,
And like a mirror slept water,
And moments were, like years.
Then all three sat in a boat
And, about nothing talking,
They sailed, where the dawn
Burned – to far-off swamp.
This evening did not hear words.
Purple and woeful was sunset.
41
They awakened on the sunrise,
And in noon met them the old house.
Fulfilled are heart’s rhapsodies:
They left in twos, they came in threes.
On way at once they became friends:
Throwing a phrase after a phrase,
Laugh after laugh, sight after sight, -
One by the other all were embraced.
To write to each other gave the word
All three, gave addresses,
Remembering the voices,
And, having parted, for long in the distance
Of fields they peered, where he walked -
Great and little, rich and naked.
Part II
1
Be true to vow secretly given,
Inhale the dear love’s ozone!
Already in theater of Mariyin
With Glinka opened the season.
Already cocottes and weavers
Come to Nieva from Riviera,
Already repair has ended,
Put out the carpets the beau-monde,
Having all paintings degassed,
Took away covers, rubbed the parquet
And, observing the etiquette,
Having from sun behind curtains hid,
And again hangs in the air:
Model. Jourfix. Visit. Theater.
2
Already draws me Sorin,
Tchaikovsky writes feuilleton.
Already with critique I quarrel,
And take with her arrogant tone.
From morning fly envelopes –
In them invited to concert
Row of patronesses and youth.
Hubbub from morning stands
In my work room
From voices, and row of maidens, -
That flatter the loins in mass, -
Playfully twirling the curls,
Call me strenuously
Here and there to read.
3
Already – is it not laughter in the moan?
No oinking of pigs in the singing dream?
To us Chekhov in the oyster wagon
Is from abroad carried.
Like never before the tsar Susanin,
Saves the body the young Sanin
From souls too spiritual,
In which indeed there is no soul…
Already Kuprin challenges to duel
A military man from the pits,
Already glories Leda
Sir Kamensky, like dispassionate eunuch,
And lets out the clean “sigh,”
Taking four by the way…
4
The first number of “Apollo,”
Darkening the golden fleece,
Comes to light, and from heaven
A new comet is seen:
Gumilev’s “Captains,”
Where is not seen an extra word,
And in number of word sounding
Is added: Gumilev.
Already “Libra” breaks the string,
Has become harmless “Scorpio,”
Has become wilted Jordanian peony,
More often comes to the gin
Free applications’ Marx:
Over “Nieva” the caw of the crow!
5
Still more impotent is Burenin,
From his feather water pours,
And, wiping away snot, Esenin
Already ripened the flock’s jaws…
And Menshikov, idol of canteens,
As Judas from Golovlev’s
Works, as a mortician,
The new-timer omnipotent.
And Rozanov Vasily Vasilich,
Desiring to prickle Christ,
Contrasts flesh with spirit,
And how you ask him to lie
On narrow bed, the old man
Is in love with double jacket of down…
6
In boudoir of Merezhkov
On heated argument of Sergiev
Of divinity and mediocrity,
Rushing at full speed.
Already sparkles Pilsky,
And the philistine in Rilsk
Squints the eyes, reading evil pamphlet
More brilliant than epaulette.
The stoic decadent already,
Intoxicating sober feather,
Composes songs of Pierro,
Where is epilepsy’s nursery…
The factory of saving poles
Build Berdyayev and Shestov.
7
Mournfully daring Blok sees Madonna
In demi-mondaine landau,
And seagull weaves on Officers
Its immortal nest!
Patent to Alexandra having given
For temple, with its game Davidov,
Dalmatov, Vedrinskaya are reaping
Successes of centuries’ minutes.
And on cabbage field of Uncle Kostya, -
The thinned-out fatso, -
Pours a river of fans –
The laughter owning guests
Where evil-tongued Marie
Is brighter than all – whatever they speak!
8
Spoiling the school character,
Giving to minds a vulgar tone,
On all corners shout Nick Carter
And mister Holmes, and Pinkerton.
Uncountable Conan Doyle’s
Servants (hide me, O Toila,
From them!): in quotes “risk” and “mind”
And without quotes: detective work and blood.
The books lurid!
Rot! A diddled splint!
You’re even wretched in appearance…
The officials’ wives are reading,
The grandson of general reads,
And tomorrow knocks Kolya on the forehead.
9
Already battle Ego and Kubo,
And a host of twisted Berlyukovs
Goes to war on Sologub
And the symbolic gods.
Already scores to burn Sens-Sans –
The puzzles of neo-Decadence,
And with “the ship of modern times”
To throw him, with whose lines I
I lead romance, fashion has come,
And if sinned I
In that time, decided sin to discard,
And, boor, not for you is my ode…
I weave for innovator the wreath,
I whet for criminal the blade.
10
Say nothing the fools-all
(Thus, for no reason!)
And nothings vainly
And all this – like nothing.
With an unchildish smile
Gorodetsky is building
The Acmeist babble,
Adam’s awkward style.
“The gild of poets” appears
(Where to mediocrity, if not to gild!)
Where they teach those, they teach these,
That without triolets we can live
And without rondo, and without… poems! –
But not without donkeys!..
11
Feet of a deer, gazelle’s eyes
Are so expressive without words,
And Anna Pavlova with Liliani
Sing Skalkovsky and Petrov.
Who saw Kneshinskaya Matilda,
Who to Felia is Litvin – Brunhilde
Is imprinted in his soul,
Envious lot to them falls.
Accentuating aria, Medea
Sings: “Ni jamais l`tendre…”
(Since Emperor Alexander,
In dreams from Mravina
Getting lover for son, the nose
Welcomed in temple notes and poses).
12
“Toska” crowds “Dinora” already,
And, thirsting for his face,
Slightly sounds my glorious namesake –
The son of a renowned dad…
“Love of three oranges” already,
Wishing to Garl Gozzi’s son
To be worthy, daredevil-player,
Feeling, as gives lesson
His final Prokoffieff Sergei.
Already – tell him mersi! –
In huge demand is Debussy.
Artur Luvie lead us to nonsense,
And in the flat of Kulbin
Tremble the “nets” of Kuzmin…
13
And here is sphere of “passion tender,”
A reserve of gypsy songs.
Smile of Valtseva (Nastya’s genre!)
And Panina’s base…
The happy star of Plevitskaya
And mage of orchestra Kusevitsky
And (give valerian, Ferrein!)
You, adventures of Olga Stein.
Process of comtesse O’Roark-Tarnovsky
Two styles – comte’a Roniker
And (farewell, court chronicler!)
The studio of Mrozovsky,
Where to know on glass of matte
And Severyanin in that count!
14
On that day the proud became docile,
When in the bonfire of his passions
Scryabin sounded in echoing halls –
Prometheus in coat in fashion.
And before “Poem of Ecstas”
The unfading vase
Is set since those times.
Fire Antonov, don’t touch these flowers,
How touched genius! And on the ice
Of searching the greedy crowd
Slides (o, shaky trail!)
To Evreynov, Meierhold
And even… to Karpov. Mute,
Yevtihi, are poems about you…
15
And here on the throne is Wagner.
And “Nibulengov’s wreath,”
Until then dim in Russia,
Throws heat to crowd on the face.
But I will not describe,
How to “Parsiphal” and “Tristan”
Under thunder of Yershov and Litvin,
Hurry gourmets of notes and wines…
And here you are in favor,
Rimsky, epic writer and charmer!
Excites your strings’ interplay,
Like a blooming Crimean day,
And I am ready hundred miles to walk
To a meeting with “The Cock…”
16
And Benya? And Dobuzhdinsky?
And Samov? And Serov? And Bakst?
Cliffs on a lowland Finnish,
Fires of bonfires warming us.
And with them you, thundering in prairies’
Lands, universal Rerich,
And the etchers (ecoutez!)
Rudaltsov and old man Matee.
Vrubel, the summit of mountain ranges,
By whom was caught the fallen angel,
With your mind you paid the price
For bravery! The loss is immense
With your loss, and since that time
Russia itself is without mind…
17
Mask is torn off from Gapon,
By Burtsev Azef is caught,
And – obstacle to revolution –
Are bared again gendarmerie’s jaws.
Already coming soles of boors,
Enemies of arts, icons and temples,
At once are heard from afar,
And Gorky drifter’s
Lot for the youth is bright
(Better the treasures hide!)
In notes doctor repents,
Already wandering candle end
Is warmed up in young hearts
Trembles in horror at dads…
18
The restless Purishkevich
Fanned for years in Duma uproar,
And in “Russian Word” Doroshevich
Sailed to the foreign shores…
Friend of birthday girls and theaters,
The hippopotamus of amphitheaters,
The scarlet bite’s big lover,
Gave birth to the lord Obmanovs.
And Vitte made millions
On the government wine,
And shined the dark ray
From the emperor’s crown,
And, for government style,
The peasant drank away his wine.
19
In fire of worries about him and clash
The student got into a jumble:
The Cossack burned him with the lash
Near the Kazan cathedral.
Although in those days were the trips
Everywhere student gatherings,
But thought of soap lather
Left us before the tsar,
Like tsar left without courtiers,
Before all his advisers –
Flatterers evil-minded and dashing,
Among the nimble and cunning,
And doomed to give response
For that, there is nothing in thoughts.
20
Making trouble over royal home
In still invisible wreaths,
Wheezing “bell” calls to pogrom
Under the “Russian banner” shanks.
And Dubrovin, crawling like a “Spider,”
Is already with rage full-blooded,
To the Jews bears hatred,
Carries “Zemchina” with manure,
And for “devil’s settlement”
Grows the anti-Russian spirit,
And, the denser the featherbed down,
The more with a dream vengeful,
Closing in angst disenfranchised mouth,
Languishes the “despised” people.
21
Turning to Ibsen, Russia
Remembered the “ego” of mine
(I ask this mark, Brandeis,
To put in your another tome!)
Show, Meterlink, Wilde –
Each has his own trail
To pillar road in the soul,
For each artist his own.
Aesthetics, mysticism, satire
And individuality – from parts
Of all the Russians, with birds’ hearts,
Flesh of the “War and Peace’s” author,
Already was being formed, but
To form it could not…
22
In those days, when shined Bolska,
Like Cordon Rouge gold-needled
As Illiodor from Tobolsk
One husband digs for evil.
And at Ignatieva in salon,
Like sun on heaven,
Ascended the Siberian man.
And once on cheeks of Nieva women
Faded color with crimson was made,
Because there was something in it,
That we will not call it simply,
A not using a cliché ready,
And – to spite my homeland –
There was luck for the hypnotist…
23
And how the woman does struggle,
He can’t be overthrown at all:
Verbitska gave her key to disaster
And key to happiness it is called!..
And what to hide, brothers-friends:
To tear of women’s dresses we helped
To the unbridled males,
In poems bed extramarital
Erected with prodigal delight
And the sins glorified, -
At what to marvel, what verses –
For the tablet’s admirers, -
Having taken redoubt of chastity,
Lead us to foxtrot distances?
24
And they led, like company,
Like a countless army
To international fox-trott
Upon a vertical bed!..
Holds us in nasty regime
Bawdy dancer of passion – Shimmi,
From the Negro savages
Accepted by whole universe:
In idiocy with flowing Europe
And trans-Atlantic “rusk,”
With finance tsar in our century;
Who Indian an antelope did count,
Like game, pursuing him,
What reach I cannot…
25
America! Evil land, in which
The car displaced the spirit,
You look like a complete fitter,
And your soul’s light has dimmed.
Your “secured” worker,
Not knowing dreams eyes having opened,
Counts the gains.
For the soul in his requests
There’s no request. In you poet
To be born simply cannot.
Where leads you the path?
With what you’re justified before world?
In the marionette land
There’s nothing to do for sun and moon.
26
And in you, land of Columbus,
Once was on fire human spirit
In those days, when seaman at rumba
Saw you in the sea’s distance.
When at the baobab ranch
Suddenly announced call of the kamancheh,
And the air cut, like a whip,
Its guttural eagle’s scream,
When into the wavy pampas
Attempted the brave filibuster,
When in withered eras’ bloom
Hostilely races were aflame
And the noble guerillas
Gave life to the white more than once…
27
But, now, Europe, however
Will give hundred points to America:
From dill there is more use,
Than from petals of flowers!
And Mister Dollar, certainly,
Shines brighter, than from down
Day’s growing luminary –
The trap for the impractical…
This is Asia… perhaps,
It is more backward than others…
But in century of flying steam cars,
A century stupidly crazed,
Ah, not to weave into braids roses,
And it is China without braids…
28
Its ignorance the culture
Gave to us unexpectedly in days,
When in the living troubadour
Of war (war is akin to beasts!)
Found without complication: in chest
Meaty collided foreheads and breasts,
For “good of homeland” in battle
Their life upon a map laying.
A bloody and learned butcher,
Aesthete and humane cultivator –
A steel knuckle them did compare,
And, in the sooty atmosphere
Of battles, white spiritual sheen
And returned to atrocity the brain…
29
Yes, like dry souls, dry are the days,
And souls are dry, like flowers,
Perished from the scorching land…
In what is sense of culture bustle?
In politics of weaponry?
In suffocation of gas battles?
In fratricidal massacre?
In party arguments and bickering?
In dreams of equality universal?
With a fist threatening brother?
In neo-philosophers with their evil?
In the masculine female gender?
In crucifixion the Christ’s land,
Closing lips behind the world?
30
Then down with this culture,
And may resurrect that time,
When woven for the poet were garlands
And his feathers read the flame!
When we saw heaven in heaven –
Not souls, in bread living grain,
When the free waterfall,
Unbridled by yoke of obstacles,
Was not an engine for the plant,
But was for the eyes delight,
When the whole world was no one’s,
When innocent is nature, -
Not raped by the mind, -
Shined with a luminous celebration.
31
Centuries passed, and we are in time
When Moet by the foam is beaten,
When, like some lark,
My Lipkovskaya is singing!
When, with lily of Sharon filled,
The Monsky voice I sing
And glorify my talent,
The beautiful Van Brandt!
In our epoch differences’ host
From the earlier lived epochs,
But everywhere the same sighing,
The same barbaric custom:
To take life away from another,
With which to doom to torment mother.
32
All had been painted
In the nineteenth century,
When there was much ardor in the spirits,
In – still more! – ice in activity…
I ask to ask for exhaustion
Attention of era of degeneration, -
Not all in it, I think, is dead:
Clear is the triumph of the art,
And it is quite enough,
In order with joy to recall
The way made by you and us,
And if I confused unwittingly
Course of events, to you it’s more invisible:
I am my guide to wilderness!
33
How easy it is to judge a man,
But to be him it is hard…
From guardianship we will set free
The nearest forehead:
No one is judged by another,
Reckless, on least measure,
Another approach to the living.
May he live year after year,
As show breast and reason,
As to live he can and wishes:
Feeling is – best pitchfork.
We will believe phrases and eyes,
And moods, and all,
That gives to him this life…
34
… Coming to city, Lugne wept
Unconsolably, like a kid,
Where she the general amazed
And not joking was outraged.
He tried to understand the reason,
But, fearing to fall into abysses
Of intemperance, he went
To the side, cold and irate.
For week we sat in the bedroom,
Allowing to themselves only Riene,
Then went silent. Veins’ threads
Of the temples became sad,
And in early morning of eighth day
Lugne became herself again.
35
External exposure sometimes
Is enough, that life
Stood in track, and I, I don’t hide,
In that way to fix I love
One’s own misfortunes’ holes,
Subordinating passions to reason.
I did not think thus in youth,
Because I was a big moron.
Now here, in non-Russian land,
And well having aged,
Suppress passion and rage in myself,
Quite content with the snack,
Which gives me fate:
Wise is the Estonian hut!..
36
May a wise mope be Foster,
May in village be poetry.
Lugne always dreams of Leander,
Who gave dream on the earth to her,
Who with her met
There, on the orange sunset,
On monastery on the lake…
Thanking his fate
For meeting, feeling betrayal
Of body – spirit without shackle:
He’s free for centuries, -
Which is very important for Helen,
She does not seek new meetings
With him who could set her a-blazing.
37
Instead, when Kira to her
Gave hint at meeting with him,
Not carrying to mouth the ice cream,
With one movement of brows,
With brows tightly drawn together,
The girlfriend him embarrassed.
And frequently speaking of him
With an unquenchable flame,
We were quiet of meetings every day
And from him a letter we await.
And Christmas was nearing,
Winter was at its beginning,
And although it was winter,
He didn’t give them a single letter…
38
Leaving every evening
To theater, to guest, to ball,
Unchangeably to all alien
(How they are dumb! How they are evil!..),
Melting in soul love to the gorgeous
Eyes, clear with their sadness,
And having from love became beautiful,
Although barely gone pale,
She expressed on her face
A wife most glad,
And more than one envy
She awoke in ladies,
Not embarrassed, embarrassed them,
Her laughter was new to whom…
39
“How Battestini sang today!
How Barronat sang like nightingale!”
Taking the Provencal to sturgeon
And giving spinach to the husband,
Lugne said in enchantment
And of Maskania beloved,
And of trotter’s flight…
Husband ate, looking from above;
Poured is Kantinak’s glass.
Dinner finishes. The husband
Comes to her hand. On the cheek
Slide Lugne’s lips.
She’s in herself. Table before her.
Table in mirror. On it – letter.
Part III
1
Leander’s letter: “How strange it is,
That I, seeing you only once,
In soul with you am constantly.
I see Ye. I hear Ye.
I sense Ye everywhere.
I, probably, will not forget you ever.
You about me –
Reality in dream or dream in reality? –
You recollect a bit: that evening
On the lake of monastery,
Dawn flooded with the water,
And eyes without speech, speeches of eyes,
And forests on the following day,
You, Kira, I and sky?..
2
I did not write – I did not want
With newness your antiquity to violate,
What sang like nightingale in the spirit…
I listened to singing, having put
Tender image on altar of love,
Which, condescending, smiling fate,
Helped to find me in life.
You – light, all else is mist…
I did not write a day, two weeks,
Four months. I wonders did await
Some. I knew not,
At once, were you indeed
Sent to meet me, -
Did I not see you in the dream?
3
Then and now, claimant of the past,
I do not hope to give response
Not because you didn’t recall,
But because… suddenly you aren’t at all!
And more unexpected is this,
That not this summer for first time
I met the sky of your eyes…
Reality merged with dream:
We foreshadowed dreams till meeting
Your voice, eyes, curls, face.
I got used to you in dreaming,
To your requests and to sadness,
How now in reality
I knew you – I awake and live.
4
And suddenly, what shined me with reality,
Turned out a deceitful dream?
And having known Arabian desert,
All day and night about the same thing
I will be tormented, that you are undead,
Whom I am used to caress
In dreams of mine beloved,
That you, life-giving in my dreams,
Is the vague wraith in your reality…
And is spirit has become flesh,
To your calls you’ll be deaf,
More cunning than you there is no woman,
That at all, you’re not the same,
As must have been my dream…
5
Who then you are – answer straight,
When you yourself know:
A vain capricious dame,
With which are filled Russian homes,
Fruitless wraith, deadening spirit,
With soul that gives life,
By my predestined fate,
Clear-blue satellite?
‘Who are you? Who are you?’ to know I worried,
‘Forgive the strange tone of the letter,’
It seems I am losing my mind, -
Such terrible thick-witted…
And if in medieval times
You… Well, I’ll be quiet…”
6
“Take comfort – I live in the world,
No madness, no mirage, no tale…
I’m row of centuries of yours…
I comprehend your diseased soul:
You are a typical neurotic,
You are a man in whose life shades
Touched to the clear forehead.
I received and I read
With soul – not eyes – lines.
With you I fully sympathize.
To me you are near and dear.
You’re lonely in life like me…
I have been married for twelve winters.
My husband is my alien: it’s hard to be with him.”
7
“Throw away husband,” Leander said in response,
“Come, I will give you happiness, -
Frozen by cold you are.
I’m younger than you by many years:
I’m twenty two. I’m very pale.
But conquered is my genius, Helene,
And soon rich and glorious
I’ll be. From my sonatas
Now again in an intimate round
Are music lovers without mind,
And while winter will not pass,
With an anthem my country greets,
And composer’s coronet
Genius accepts in the end.”
8
And Lugne told Kiriene:
“O joy! A musician is my friend!”
But shaky are steps of staircase:
Why did he his talent praise?
This retinue will kill him…
My duty – to tell him openly
Your look, warn him:
The self-assured speech frightens me.
With this aim
I must greet him.
Amazed is his soul
With dangerous conceit. In cell
Of the composer’s dream flew in
Spirit of darkness: joyless portion…
9
And on the Moika they had met,
By the Kissing Bridge.
Leander’s thoughts were persistent,
And closed were his lips.
How tenderly trembled hands!
What torment expressed
Two merged pairs of eyes!
What ecstasy that did agonize
Embraced their souls winged!
What fire bloomed in blood!
But not to speak of love,
And alert ears
Did not catch tender words:
Was wandering donkeys’ hour…
10
She said, “My friend – modesty -
Is the lot of talented men…”
He responded: “But I am enormity:
I’m higher than all in your land!
I feel it, I know it…
I gather sounds in a flock,
And this flock in its flight
All the faithless will involve.
Of what shall I be ashamed?
Why belittle talent to me?
You are for me – mother, girlfriend,
The ethereal woman, queen, -
All in the light, but… to ask you
It’s pity: did you hear my piano?
11
Of course, not. For what reason
Do you of modesty speak?
Is not alike the bird’s song
The buzzing of a proud bowstring!
And I’m not a bird – I am a hunter,
A carefree freeloader,
And with myself to delight me –
Like shining of day for Ye.
I am thus full of potency
And inspiration, and dreams,
Of which I’m conscious. The moles,
Descendants of grave and the Blue Doves,
Living corpses, pitiful populace,
Will not understand this of course…
12
And not understanding, him will judge he,
Who in self self will recognize,
Will mock above the power.
In great one not loving might,
Of envy and indignation…
Such a pitiful creation
I despise. To me it is
Disgusting. And to notice
For you I must: in our
“Sans gene” time, in century
Of clowns and moral cripples,
Where the counterfeits
In holy cups poured the squirt,
A crown of true talent.
13
Attempting to put on,
In century of pseudo-smart morons,
Attempting to sting aspiring minds,
Artist must have been such,
Like you: be humble don’t
(Otherwise mediocre one will cope!)
Must be poured as from steel –
Hard and brave, with routine in battles,
Not giving to absurd abuse
And not getting drunk from praise.
Raising talent, like stormy wave,
He must gush over the edge
And all obstacles from the way
With gushing wave must be swept away.”
14
He went silent, having heated,
He looked down and became dejected:
Lugne with a smile embarrassed
Did not understand his language…
Full of reproach was tender stare.
The argument she did not bear
And whispered: “You aren’t right,” –
Went along Nieva from the arch
For Hermitage, on Millionth.
He silently went behind her
And thought: “How much time
For her, naïve and in love,
All prejudices to overcome?”
He bowed, and soon – gone.
15
Have stood up the walls unknown
Between them since first time,
And crept in pain in dreams of Helen…
Somewhere axes chopped down
Magic gardens… and heavily
Trunks fell… Porridge sluggishly
By the stump went pink…
Sorrow sat on the log
In cap and mantilla of mourning…
The flowers faded, trembling…
Curled up the ivy leaves…
Birds knew oppression of winglessness…
Sun shone without heat…
And life on stomach crept…
16
Love does not bear quarrels and friction,
Misunderstanding and insults.
But who loves without stumbling?
Who does not grieve among ones in love?
But for love it’s in time not needed,
That friendlily people reason.
Across – frequently argument light
Sets alive our tired sight,
Pouring into us new cheerfulness,
And behind argument again in trace
We want to tenderly embrace
Him, whose living happiness
Can awaken in us response:
It’s boring to live without arguments!
17
On the gray trotters of the fathers,
In Main headquarters, under blue net,
Awakening delights in officers,
Lugne rides with husband. And Agape
Is luxurious in the green
Quadrangular velvet-king’s! –
Hat of Russian coachman…
Fashionable-keen
Look having in a wadded caftan,
Weaving into one of Nieva’s bands,
He directs. Braid of the hat
Shines in the sun. On the way
Lugne drives to Weiss: there
Are shoes, to dreams near!
18
From there we must go to the princess:
It is Wednesday there, it seems,
When she chews a melon’s piece,
Like melon, boring medium…
But how it does not want! I need:
Husband demands… “I’m very glad,” –
Princess squeaks: “O, mon enfant!”
And praises powder Houbigant,
Scolding L’Orsay and Piver, -
“Not that nuance… vous comprenez?”
About a foreign tour
Tells, and Riviera
Loses its whole color,
When the princess utters…
19
Dressing Parisian rotunda,
In a chinchilla wrapped,
Suddenly remembers “Esclarmonde,”
Coming into Thursday. Wicked,
Like a girl, from mezzanine
Runs downstairs, as has been –
In the lines’ beginning
Of the novel – in meadows green!
Taking cake from Korchukoff,
She hurries home
And suddenly becomes dumb,
And severely frown the brows:
The clock in Duma beats five hours, -
And thus it’s easy to understand her…
20
To brown eyes of cousin Kira
Is given a pleasant surprise:
Foster is sent by the mister
On personal business in Tabriz.
Burdock of incident is mowed down
And tenderly is asked Leander
To come to cousins in evening
To play themselves. And he, drawn
By dream to shine before loved one,
Though I poorly believe in that,
Put on the upper coat,
Hurries to them, chased by cold,
And in rapture enters hall. –
He is met by… general!
21
In everyday, domestic jacket,
With George, all in ice,
With a prosaic tower standing
Over the romantic wife,
He looks with sight at Leander,
In whom have chilled for all times
The bureaucratic dryness,
The diplomatic nonsense!
The stripes of lips are arrogantly compressed,
And bald is his sloping forehead…
The airy stomp is heard afar
And peals of loud laughter,
From hands on table flies beret
And, suddenly eclipsed with self… portrait,
22
Gladly Kira walks
To meet the guest – charm you can’t blow away!
In her eyes – “abode of the world”
And lake. And here Lugne,
The past bitterness having forgotten:
“I’m glad of you, Petrovich Leander…”
And looking fixedly in eyes,
“We, unfortunately, since those times
From Riene not once did hear
Your motives. Tea earlier?
As you want! Nicholas!
There’s no more acceptance.” And vase
With narcissuses moving further,
She sits in the corner:
23
“It will be easier for me to hear…”
Kira sits down on the divan.
Is ready to bring down Leander
On women noise of hurricane.
He hit on the keyboard, -
And in storm sounds spun around,
And from first notes carrying storm –
Accomplishment of unprecedented forms:
He thundered, he moaned, he laughed, he wept,
Went quiet and increased again,
And someone went to pedestal,
Fell into abyss, clanged and howled,
Stood, shouted and climbed, trembling,
The sea flew, the forest ran…
24
Grew the stalked roses,
Swinging in air. Giant
Went to threats, to prayers…
Got settled talent,
Always shining and on fire,
The fiery soul burned,
And opus, inspired,
It seemed, resurrected the dead.
Chord. And pause. And beads
Are scattered by gnome that jumped out,
And suddenly got up in sleep…
Rushed someone’s wings into height:
Weeping, someone carried his gift…
Prayer. Call. And – hit.
25
Piano went quiet. Sharply from the chair
Rose the fiery player
And becoming, more than temple’s fresco, white,
Bent before the feet of the beloved,
Kissing the icy hands,
Fell into bottomless from torments
Unloved eyes,
Raised on images,
Images of games not to see,
Under ceiling hovering…
And Lugne said: “Not familiar
Is your demon. To insult I fear:
In him evil triumphant…”
From her the player recoiled…
26
And flew in the quiet hall,
With the wings duskily rustling,
Among azaleas and hyacinths,
The full soul of pride.
And with ice breezed from the summer…
Faded the chairs’ gild…
Closing face, went quiet Leander…
Was still warm, still sounded
Piano, chopping block resembling…
Suddenly Kira to the player
Came up, and, to temple bending,
Kissed, and with a bang
Fell on her back and screamed:
“Glorified is all-glory fame!”
27
And late at night two cousins
Had a great conversation.
In impassable quagmires
He led us. And from those times
How bewilderment in them went
One before other, was violated
The unity, and friendship of theirs
Faded at once. For the others
The compromises could appear,
But not for the wholesome natures –
Such ways. Mournfully glum
Is image of actress to come,
And sharp are the pale features,
When had parted the two sisters…
28
“You’re genius of divine mercy,
Artist you are Par Excellence!
O, I reached you today,
And by me was deified your trance.
Understand, she’s – a tiny
Before you. For your reason
You’re unreachable. You – are titan,
Another lot to Helen is given.
She loves you – I don’t understand…
But, thinking thus, does not lie,
But nobody would you comprehend
And won’t come to you, as to Sinai.
Don’t believe truth of these slight:
In it there’s ruin for the great.
29
I loved on the sunset, -
On lake of monastery, -
And the soft handshake,
And your blue eyes’ sea,
I loved your fingers, -
Keyboard wanderers, -
I loved you all,
Not knowing myself what for.
I never of you dreamt,
Not before, not after, - never.
I waited for you for years,
But we loved and met.
But I can’t be yours:
I’m muse to your shore.”
30
Leander read, and, remembering Kira,
Gratefully, barely paled
And, wanting for time the lyre,
Love… wanted Helen!
And I wrote: “To forest I go.
You want together. Tomorrow, Wednesday.
Baltic Terminal. In two o’clock.”
To the forest they went,
There, to monastery deaf,
Where the first meeting had been,
Where service went on sunset,
Where he conducted women home,
Where evening leaked without words,
Where the woeful west was purple…
31
Night quietly swung the bell,
Bestowing blessings on the area.
How quiet troika pestered them
To white walls of monastery!
It’s warm in Siberian coat for friends,
It’s warm in monastery cell
Sitting on floor by the stove,
Looking at the ash – symbol of ours…
Of main disagreements there
Fell silent the heavy line:
They speak without labor,
Full of impressions
Of the snow-fringed forests
And the crippled old times’ tenderness…
32
Gray is dusk – all more near
Is time of evening tenderness,
With seal fat wipes Leander
With the self taken skies,
At the stove him warming
And with light layer covering
The polished surface,
Living cargo carrying…
How to hold on, when cannot be gloried
The sport of skiing on the way?
To me, proud in nature to be living,
Must come almost every minute
On winter slippery board,
On which the sorrow is slammed…
33
She goes outside the gates,
In dark they descend on ice.
And it seems, that third someone
Behind them, sneaking, comes.
And are flakes thrown by firmament?
Or, drowning, his thought
Rustles its wings in silence?
For whom it is to be here in wilderness?
Lake under snow fell asleep.
On skis afar they slip
Through the snow, - like veil to flies, -
With their mileage glad.
We can’t see moon or stars.
All are free to tell the heart.
34
“What are you waiting for?” – she asked.
“To call you my own I wait.”
“In me powerless is might
To leave the husband and kids.”
“But, Lugne, wait, I await divorce.”
“Don’t wait, Leander, my liberty
Is without wings, and no longer soars,” –
Thus conscience responds to me.
Not for betrayal I’m made:
In betrayal lie: truth I respect.
In each other we see Dream, -
Enough for us. Don’t torture Helene.
Let there be light. I don’t need darkness:
We are together outside one another.
35
You talk: Divorce, - as if
Divorce will correct something.
Divorce – is trifle, divorce – is minute,
And do you know what the year means?
Not only year of happy passion,
Of love faded, full of sweetness, -
And year, my year of heavy torments?
And here’s not year, Leander, think:
Twelve years, twelve years,
Twelve years, where’s no happiness,
Twelve years of sullen sorrow,
And other’s husband, but one’s own,
Is habitual, living man!
36
He lovers your Lugne, as can be.
Where is to hurt him the strength?
His fortune is disturbing me.
At this price I will not accept,
Believe me, happiness: this holiday
Is worse than execution, maybe.
No, not for others’ misery
Of my joys I can think
Calmly? Kids! Kids!
How to divide you! O, what nonsense!
This conversation we will leave,
Will leave these evil thoughts:
Such freedom – than prison darker.
We are together outside each other.
37
Ah, great is your creation,
Like genius of darkness, fallen angel,
But the godless one’s face’s
Beauty is fearsome to me. But us
Combine all the difference
Of our souls, ecstasy knowing,
And in near, and in alien?
I am insane from your eyes,
From child’s light tenderness,
From your giftedness,
Not from hidden in her ideas,
Blasphemous and thinly clinging
And temptingly into hearts…
There’s no end… I’m without might!
38
Allow us to be friends, Leander,
As if centuries were till this time,
With enamored eyes peering
At one another… from distance!
In change of body – lie. In rendezvous
Fleshless – completely charm,
Glory is the truth of near souls…
Husband will not suffer from them,
And the unstirred consciousness
Of mine me will not disgrace.
Here’s one way, that’s open for us –
Innocence of meeting, that is,
Confusion having rejected minds
Outside each other is us.”
39
Said, shuddered, and with a sound
To her chest having pressed him,
In a losing fit wild,
She recoiled: “Do not come…
The only one! Made by God!
Do not tempt with your beloved:
I am powerless with strife, -
Leave, Leander, be with you God.”
… And he left on skis in darkness
Having said not a word,
When, cold and tired,
Lugne returned to cell, on red
Horses beat clamps,
And voice called out of darkness:
40
“Horses are ready. The gentleman
Ruled me to drive to station you.”
Luminous was face of Helen:
Hearts gave to each other the news!
She wished to give the sleigh
In a week, from wanderings
Soul tired, deciding
To fast in monastery.
For prayer the soul did thirst.
It was idle for all services.
Temple gave healing to sorrows,
And, with unchanged closeness
To Leander, you, little Lugne,
In winter went home…”
Epilogue
Leander thunders in universe.
Lugne has long left her man:
Lives with imperishable dream with kids.
A harrier has crept into chestnut strands…
And shot herself Kiriena,
Knowing, how the scene is evil to many,
And from century-old manor
Remains ash. The wind’s roar –
Over monastery ruin.
And still blooms lilac in the world,
Begins the spring day,
Charms the rumble of nightingale,
And people are seeing dreams
Of the deceiving spring…