Ocenite etot tekst:


---------------------------------------------------------------
     Wystan Hugh Auden
     Translated by Mikhail Feldman (Erosmart@aol.com), Brooklyn, NY
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     The archaeologist's spade
     delves into dwellings
     vacancied long ago,

     unearthing evidence
     of life-ways no one
     would dream of leading now,

     concerning which he has not much
     to say that he can prove:
     the lucky man!

     Knowledge may have its purposes,
     but guessing is always
     more fun than knowing.

     We do know that Man,
     from fear or affection,
     has always graved His dead.

     What disastered a city,
     volcanic effusion,
     fluvial outrage,

     or a human horde,
     agog for slaves and glory,
     is visually patent,

     and we're pretty sure that,
     as soon as palaces were built,
     their rulers

     though gluttoned on sex
     and blanded by flattery,
     must often have yawned.

     But do grain-pits signify
     a year of famine?
     Where a coin-series

     peters out, should we infer
     some major catastrophe?
     Maybe. Maybe.

     From murals and statues
     we get a glimpse of what
     the Old Ones bowed down to,

     but cannot conceit
     in what situations they blushed
     or shrugged their shoulders.

     Poets have learned us their myths,
     but just how did They take them?
     That's a stumper.

     When Norsemen heard thunder,
     did they seriously believe
     Thor was hammering?

     No, I'd say: I'd swear
     that men have always lounged in myths
     as Tall Stories,

     that their real earnest
     has been to grant excuses
     for ritual actions.

     Only in rites
     can we renounce our oddities
     and be truly entired.

     Not that all rites
     should be equally fonded:
     some are abominable.

     There's nothing the Crucified
     would like less
     than butchery to appease Him.

     CODA:

     From Archaeology
     one moral, at least, may be
     drawn,
     to wit, that all

     our school text-books lie.
     What they call History
     is nothing to vaunt of,

     being made, as it is,
     by the criminal in us:
     goodness is timeless.

     August 1973




     Lopata arheologa
     vskryvaet
     pustuyushchie s davnih por zhilishcha,

     stol' strannye svidetel'stva ukladov
     toj zhizni, zhit' kotoroj nikomu
     segodnya dazhe ne prishlo b na um,

     nahodki, chto tut govorit',
     kotorymi on dokazal:
     schastlivchik!

     U znaniya est' sobstvennye celi,
     dogadka zhe vsegda
     kuda zabavnee, chem znan'e.


     Da, my konechno znaem, CHelovek
     ot straha li, a mozhet ot lyubvi,
     vsegda svoih horonit mertvecov.

     CHto vse napasti, muchavshie gorod,
     potoki izvergavshihsya vulkanov,
     voda razbushevavshejsya reki

     ili prishel'cev polchishcha,
     chto zhazhdali rabov i slavy
     tak ochevidny,

     i my uvereny, chto tol'ko
     vozvedya sebe dvorcy,
     praviteli ih

     prisytivshis' razvratom,
     iznezhennye lest'yu,
     dolzhno byt', i pozevyvali chasto.

     No razve raspoznat' po yadram zeren
     golodnyj god?
     Ischeznuvshie serii monet

     svidetel'stvuyut razve o
     kakoj-nibud' global'noj katastrofe?
     Byt' mozhet. Mozhet byt'.

     Vse statui i freski
     lish' nameknut na to, chemu
     kogda-to poklonyalis' predki,

     no nikogda na to,
     chto zastavlyalo ih krasnet'
     i pozhimat' plechami.

     Poety nam povedali legendy,
     no sami ot kogo uznali ih?
     My v tupike.

     A normanny, zaslyshav grom grozy,
     dejstvitel'no li verili, chto
     slyshat molot Tora?

     Net. YA by skazal: b'yus' ob zaklad,
     vsegda vse lyudi uzhivalis' s mifom,
     schitaya ego prosto nebylicej,

     edinstvennoj zabotoyu ih bylo -
     najti prichinu, tu, chtob opravdala neobhodimost' ritual'nyh dejstvij.
     Ved' tol'ko v ritualah my sposobny preodolet' vse strannosti svoi
     i celostnost' v itoge obretaem.

     Ne vse iz nih, konechno,
     nam po nravu:
     inye vyzyvayut omerzen'e.



     Net nichego Raspyatomu protivnej, chem
     v ego zhe chest'
     ustroennaya bojnya.

     KODA:

     Iz arheologii odnu,
     po krajnej mere, izvlechem moral',
     a imenno, chto vse

     uchebniki nam lgut.
     Tomu, chto my Istoriej zovem,
     na samom dele, vovse nechem hvastat',

     lish' porozhdenie
     vsego durnogo v nas -
     lish' nasha dobrota v vekah prebudet.

     Avgust 1973






     The Ogre does what ogres can,
     Deeds quite impossible for Man,
     But one prize is beyond his reach,
     The Ogre cannot master Speech:
     About a subjugated plain,
     Among its desperate and slain,
     The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
     While drivel gushes from his lips.

     September 1968




     Lyudoed tvorit, pohozhe,
     To, chto CHelovek ne mozhet,
     Odnogo ne odolet' -
     Svyaznoj rech'yu ovladet',
     Po isterzannoj doline,
     Po slezam i mertvechine
     On, stupaya ruki v boki,
     L'et becsmyslicy potoki.

     Sentyabr' 1968












     (d. January 1939)



     He disappeared in the dead of winter:
     The brooks were frozen, the air-ports almost deserted?
     And snow disfigured the public statues;
     The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
     O all the instruments agree
     The day of his death was a dark cold day.

     Far from his illness
     The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
     The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
     By mourning tongues
     The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

     But for him it was last afternoon as himself,
     An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
     The provinces of his body revolted,
     The squares of his mind were empty,
     Silence invaded the suburbs,
     The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers.

     Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
     And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections;
     To find his happiness in another kind of wood
     And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
     The words of a dead man
     Are modified in the guts of the living.

     But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
     When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
     And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
     And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom;
     A few thousand will think of this day
     As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
     O all the instruments agree
     The day of his death was a dark cold day.



     You were silly like us: your gift survived it all;
     The parich of rich women, physical decay,
     Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
     Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
     For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
     In the valley of its saying where executives
     Would never want to tamper; it flows south
     From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
     Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
     A way of happening, a mouth.









     Earth, receive an honoured guest;
     William Yeats is laid to rest:
     Let the Irish vessel lie
     Emptied of its poetry.

     Time that is intolerant,
     Of the brave and innocent,
     And indifferent in a week
     To a beautiful physique,

     Worships language and forgives
     Everyone by whome it lives;
     Pardons cowardice, conceit,
     Lays its honours at their feet.

     Time that with this strange excuse
     Pardoned Kipling and his views,
     And will pardon Paul Claudel,
     Pardons him for writing well.

     In the nightmare of the dark
     All the dogs of Europe bark,
     And the living nations wait,
     Each sequestered in its hate;

     Intellectual disgrace
     Stares from every human face,
     And the seas of pity lie
     Locked and frozen in each eye.

     Follow, poet, follow right
     To the bottom of the night,
     With your unconstraining voice
     Still persuade us to rejoice;

     With the farming of a verse
     Make a vineyard of the curse,
     Sing of human unsuccess
     In a rapture of distress;

     In the deserts of the heart
     Let the healing fountain start,
     In the prison of his days
     Teach the free man how to praise.

     February 1939













     (umershego v yanvare 1939 goda)



     On rastvorilsya v smerti, kak v zime,
     Zamerz ruchej, pusty aeroporty,
     Nerazlichimy byli statui pod snegom,
     U gibnushchego dnya vo rtu tonula rtut',
     O, vsem soglasno izmeritel'nym priboram,
     Den' ego smerti byl i holoden, i mrachen.

     Vdali ot muchavshej ego bolezni
     Bezhali volki cherez les vechnozelenyj,
     Krest'yanskaya rechushka prevzmogla soblazn naryadnoj naberezhnoj;
     I yazyki skorbyashchih o poete
     Smert' otdelili ot ego stihov.


     No dlya nego to byl poslednij, kak i sam on, den',
     Den' medsester i sluhov;
     Pereferii tela podnyali myatezh,
     Na ploshchadyah soznan'ya bylo pusto,
     I v prigorody vtorglas' tishina,
     Ostanovilis' toki chuvstv:
     On stal odnim iz pochitatelej svoih.

     Teper' rasseyan on po sotne gorodov
     I otdan neznakomym oshchushchen'yam,
     CHtob schast'e obresti v inyh lesah,
     I byt' nakazanym po kodu chesti chuzhezemcev.
     Slova umershego
     Teper' voploshcheny v naitie zhivushchih.

     No v shume i znachitel'nosti Zavtra,
     Gde v zalah Birzhi brokery revut, kak zveri,
     Gde bednyaki tak svyklis' so stradan'em,
     I kazhdyj, v kletke samogo sebya, pochti uveren v sobstvennoj svobode,
     Ob etom dne pripomnit tysyacha-drugaya,
     Kak chem-to neobychnyj v zhizni den'.
     O, vsem soglasno izmeritel'nym priboram,
     Den' ego smerti byl i holoden, i mrachen.




     Ty glup byl, kak i my: vse perezhil tvoj dar;
     Bogatyh prihozhanok, fizicheskij raspad,
     Sebya; Irlandiya, soshedshaya s uma, tebya nizvergla v stihotvorstvo.
     Teper' v Irlandii pogoda i bezumie ee vse te zhe,
     S poeziej v poryadke vse: ona prebudet
     V dolinah svoih slov, kuda chinovniki
     ne vzdumayut sovat' svoj nos; ona techet na yug
     Ot pastbishch odinochestva, gde zanyaty vse gorem,
     V syrye goroda, kotorym verim, umiraya; ona perezhivet
     vozniknoveniya istochnik - rot.






     Primi, Zemlya, dostojno gostya,
     Uil'yam Jejts slozhil zdes' kosti:
     Upokoj irlandca tut,
     Vypityj stihov sosud.

     Vremya, chto tak neterpimo
     K dusham smelym i nevinnym,
     CH'e nedolgo uvazhen'e
     K krasote teloslozhen'ya,

     CHtit yazyk lish', vsem proshchaya,
     kem on zhiv i nasyshchaem;
     Dazhe trusam i ubogim
     CHest' svoyu kladet pod nogi.

     V svoem strannom snishozhden'e
     Kiplingu prostit vozzren'ya
     I Klodelyu, pod predlogom,
     tem, chto pishet divnym slogom.

     Uzhasy vo t'me vitayut,
     Psy po vsej Evrope layut,
     Pryachas' v nenavist', narod,
     zataivshis', chto-to zhdet;

     Tupost' rascvela na rozhe
     V kazhdom vstrechnom i prohozhem.
     Skovannym lezhit vo l'dah
     More zhalosti v glazah.

     Tak derzhat', poet, pust' prochat
     Put' tvoj k samoj bezdne nochi.
     Ubedi neprinuzhdenno
     ZHizni radovat'sya denno;

     Vyrasti na pole strof
     Vinogradnik brannyh slov.
     O neschast'e poj v ekstaze
     Gorya, bedstviya i gryazi;

     Pust' iz serdca - iz pustyni
     ZHizn' fontanom b'et otnyne.
     Nauchi iz sten temnicy -
     Kak svobodnomu molit'sya.

     Fevral' 1939














     Over the heather the wet wind blows,
     I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

     The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
     I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

     The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
     My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

     Aulus goes hanging around her place,
     I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

     Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
     There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

     She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
     I want my girl and I want my pay.

     When I'm a veteran with only one eye
     I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

     October 1937




     Nad vereskom veter unosit rosu,
     Pod tunikoj vshi i prostuda v nosu.

     Dozhd' merno stuchit v barabany vojny,
     Ne znayu zachem, no ya - voin Steny.

     Zdes' serye kamni tumany zastelyat,
     Podruzhka v Tangrii; odin ya v posteli.

     Aulus povadilsya k nej na kryl'co,
     V nem vse nenavistno: manery, lico.

     Pizo - hristianin: rybeshka - ih bog,
     Zapret celovat'sya by vvel, esli b mog.

     Produl ya kol'co, chto dala ona, gde-to,
     Hochu ya devchonku moyu i monetu.

     Kogda odnoglazym ujdu v veterany,
     Glyadet' budu v nebo, zalizyvat' rany.

     Oktyabr' 1937












     Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
     And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
     He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
     And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
     When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
     And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

     January 1939




     Svoego roda sovershenstva dostich' vsyu zhizn' mechtal.
     On izobrel poeziyu dostupnuyu narodu,
     Kak pyat' svoih zhe pal'cev znal on gluposti prirodu.
     Schital on armiyu i flot vazhnej vsego na svete.
     Na smeh ego, ot hohota drozhal Senatskij zal,
     Pod plach - v lyudskom vodovorote ulic gibli deti.

     YAnvar' 1939






     Say this city has ten million souls,
     Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
     Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

     Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
     Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
     We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

     In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
     Every spring it blossoms anew:
     Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

     The consul banged the table and said,
     "If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
     But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

     Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
     Asked me politely to return next year:
     But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

     Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
     "If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
     He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

     Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
     It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die":
     O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

     Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
     Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
     But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

     Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
     Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
     Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

     Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
     They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
     They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

     Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
     A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
     Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

     Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
     Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
     Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

     March 1939




     Millionov desyat' v etom gorode mira
     Dush, zhivushchih v osobnyakah i dyrah.
     Nam zhe pristanishcha net, dorogaya, pristanishcha net.

     Byla u nas tozhe kogda-to strana.
     Vzglyani-ka na kartu, ona tam vidna.
     No nel'zya nam tuda, dorogaya, vernut'sya nazad.

     Staryj tis ros na sel'skom cerkovnom dvore.
     On vesnoj obnovlyalsya listvoj na kore.
     No ne pasport, moya dorogaya, prosrochennyj pasport.

     Konsul bil po stolu i skazal pod konec:
     "Esli pasporta net, vy, formal'no, - mertvec".
     No my zhivy, moya dorogaya, my vse eshche zhivy.

     V Komitete ya vezhlivyj vstretil narod,
     Usadiv, poprosili pridti cherez god.
     No kuda nam segodnya idti, dorogaya, kuda nam idti?

     A na mitinge nekto prorochil bedu:
     "Esli vpustim ih, totchas nash hleb ukradut."
     On imel nas s toboyu v vidu, dorogaya, menya i tebya.

     Nad Evropoyu grom prodolzhaet revet' -
     |to Gitler o tom, chto dolzhny umeret'
     My s toboj, dorogaya, dolzhny umeret', my s toboj.

     Videl pudelya v kofte s blestyashchej zastezhkoj,
     Videl dveri, raspahnutye pered koshkoj.
     No oni ne evrei, moya dorogaya, evrei Germanii.

     Spustilsya k zalivu, skovavshemu vodu.
     V nej ryby rezvilis', igraya v svobodu.
     Lish' v neskol'kih futah, moya dorogaya, lish' v futah ot nas.

     V tenistyh lesah pticy ishchut priyut.
     Politikov net - vot oni i poyut.
     Oni, ved', ne lyudi, moya dorogaya, ne lyudi oni.
     Vo sne videl dom ya, v kotorom po tyshche
     Okon, etazhej i dverej. No ne syshcheshch'
     V nih nashih okon, dorogaya, i nashih dverej.

     YA stoyal na placu. Skryl menya snegopad.
     Desyat' tysyach proshlo mimo v marshe soldat.
     Nas iskali s toboj, dorogaya, tebya i menya.

     Mart 1939




     Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
     That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
     But on earth indifference is the least
     We have to dread from man or beast.

     How should we like it were stars to burn
     With a passion for us we could not return?
     If equal affection cannot be,
     Let the more loving one be me.

     Admirer as I think I am
     Of stars that do not give a damn,
     I cannot, now I see them, say
     I missed one terribly all day.

     Were all stars to disappear or die,
     I should learn to look at an empty sky
     And feel its total dark sublime,
     Though this might take me a little time.

     September 1957?




     Glyazhu ya na zvezdy i znayu prekrasno,
     CHto sgin' ya - oni budut takzhe besstrastny.
     Iz zol, ravnodushie merknet, pover',
     Pred tem, chem strashit chelovek ili zver'.

     CHto skazhem my zvezdam, daruyushchim plamya
     Lyubvi bezotvetnoj, nemymi ustami?
     Tak esli vzaimnoj lyubvi net, to pust'
     Byt' lyubyashchim bol'she mne vypadet grust'.

     Smeshnoj vozdyhatel', ya znayu otlichno,
     CHto esli zvezda tak ko mne bezrazlichna,
     YA vryad li skazhu, chto lovlyu ee ten'
     I zhutko skuchayu za neyu ves' den'.

     A esli sluchitsya vsem zvezdam ischeznut',
     Privyknu ya videt' pustuyushchej bezdnu,
     I t'my torzhestvo ya uchuyu dushoj,
     Hot' eto i trebuet srok nebol'shoj.

     Sentyabr' 1957?





     Perfectly happy now, he looked at his estate.
     An exile making watches glanced up as he passed
     And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast,
     A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
     Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
     The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

     Far off in Paris where his enemies
     Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
     A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write,
     "Nothing is better than life". But was it? Yes, the fight
     Against the false and the unfair
     Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.

     Cajoling, scolding, scheming, cleverest of them all,
     He'd had the other children in a holy war
     Against the unfamous grown-ups; and like a child, been sly
     And humble, when there was occasion for
     The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
     But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

     And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
     Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
     Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
     And only himself to count upon.
     Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
     Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

     Night fell and made him think of women: Lust
     Was one of the great teachers; Pascal was a fool,
     How Emilie had loved astronomy and bed;
     Pimpette had loved him too, like scandal; he was glad.
     He'd done his share of weeping for Jerusalem: As a rule,
     It was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.

     Yet, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
     Earthquakes and executions: Soon he would be dead,
     And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
     Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
     Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead,
     The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

     February 1939


















     On, oglyadev imenie, byl schastliv v etot mig:
     Izgnannik-chasovshchik vzglyanul neulovimo,
     Znakomyj stolyar shel na strojku mimo,
     Tuda, gde gospital', kak sazhenec vshodil.
     Pochti vse prinyalis' - sadovnik izvestil.
     Sverkali Al'py beliznoj. I bylo leto. I byl on tak velik.

     V Parizhe zhelch'yu izoshli vragi,
     Rugaya nravstvennost' sidyashchej v groznom kresle
     Slepoj staruhi, zhdushchej smerti i pis'ma.
     On rek: "Net slashche zhizni!" Tak li? Da, ves'ma.
     Bor'ba za pravdu, spravedlivost' stoit zhizni, esli
     Dobavit' sadovodstvo k nej i ostrye mozgi.

     Lest', bran', intrigi... Buduchi umnej,
     On, vse zhe, predpochel inye sredstva
     V vojne s posredstvennost'yu, naprimer, smirennost',
     Po nadobnosti, hitrost' - atributy detstva,
     Dvusmyslennyj otvet, poroj, neotkrovennost'.
     I terpelivo zhdal paden'ya ih Pompej.

     Ne somnevalsya on, kak D'Alamber, chto pobedit.
     Odin Paskal' - dostojnyj vrag, drugie zh, Bozhe,
     Otravlennye krysy; a vperedi eshche tak mnogo del ,
     Rasschityvat' pridetsya na sebya - takov udel.
     Didro - tot prosto glup i delaet chto mozhet,
     Russo vsplaknet i pervenstvo prostit.

     V nochi emu vdrug vspomnilis' podrugi. Vozhdelen'e -
     Velikij pedagog; Paskal' - durak.
     |miliyu vlekli i zvezdy, i postel'. Pimpetta - klad,
     Ego lyubila tak zhe, kak skandal, i on byl rad.
     Otdav Ierusalimu skorbi dan': itak -
     Nespravedlivym nenavistno naslazhden'e.

     Emu ne spitsya, budto chasovomu. Pokoya net
     V nochi. Zemletryasen'ya, kazni: smert' tozhe na chasah.
     Po vsej Evrope nyanechkam-vampiram
     Ne terpitsya svarit' svoih detej. I tol'ko lira
     Ego ih ostanovit. Za rabotu! A zvezdy v nebesah,
     Ne vedaya zabot, slagali pesn', besstrastnuyu, kak svet.

     Fevral' 1939


Last-modified: Mon, 08 Nov 1999 10:28:50 GMT
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