inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flow'r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Te, kto obladayut siloj, chtoby ranit', no _nikogo_ ne ranyat, ne delaya togo, chto bol'she vsego predpolagaet ih vid; kto, privodya v dvizhenie drugih, sami kak kamen' - nepodvizhny, holodny i nepodatlivy na iskushenie, - te po pravu nasleduyut milosti nebes i sberegayut bogatstva prirody ot rastraty; oni - vlasteliny i sobstvenniki svoej vneshnosti, _togda kak_ drugie vsego lish' upraviteli ih sovershenstva {**}. Letnij cvetok darit letu sladostnyj zapah, hotya by on zhil i umiral tol'ko dlya sebya, no esli etot cvetok vstretitsya s nizmennoj zarazoj, samyj nizmennyj sornyak prevzojdet ego dostoinstvom, tak kak samoe sladostnoe prevrashchaetsya v gorchajshee iz-za svoih deyanij, - gniyushchie lilii pahnut huzhe sornyakov. {* Sonet 94 otnositsya k chislu teh, kotorye vyzyvayut bol'shie spory kommentatorov, no ne stol'ko v svyazi s prochteniem otdel'nyh slov ili fraz, skol'ko otnositel'no obshchego smysla soneta. Soglasno odnoj versii, stroki 1-10 opisyvayut nekij nravstvennyj obrazec, dostojnyj podrazhaniya, a stroki 11-14 preduprezhdayut ob opasnostyah, s kotorymi mozhet stolknut'sya takoe nravstvennoe sovershenstvo. Po drugoj versii, soderzhanie pervyh desyati strok - ironiya, podvodyashchaya k zaklyuchitel'nomu ekspressivnomu osuzhdeniyu. ** Smysl strok 7-8 ne vpolne yasen i zavisit, v chastnosti, ot istolkovaniya togo, k komu otnositsya prityazhatel'noe mestoimenie "their" v stroke 8, to est' upravitelyami ch'ego sovershenstva yavlyayutsya "drugie" - svoego ili "vlastelinov i sobstvennikov".} Kto vlastvuet, no ne dopustit zla, Ne priukrasit svoj obychnyj vid, Kto dvigaet drugih, no, kak skala, Nekolebim, nesoblaznim stoit, Tot milosti nebes dobit'sya smog V bogatstvah, rassypaemyh nad nim, Tot - vlastelin, vladyka, car' i bog, No chtit' ego nisposlano drugim. Cvetok prelesten v poru letnih dnej, Hot' zhizn' ego bezmerno korotka, No esli stal dobychej dlya chervej, To cenitsya on nizhe sornyaka; Prekrasnoe stat' mozhet sgustkom gnili, A sornyaki prekrasnej sgnivshih lilij. Perevod A. Kuznecova Kto, vlast' imeya, vlastvuet bez zla, Hot' zlo vsegda s mogushchestvom soglasno, Kto, dvigaya drugim, sam, kak skala, Nezyblem, tverd, svoboden ot soblazna, - Tomu daetsya milost'yu bogov Bogatstvo muzha - chest' i blagorodstvo. On gospodin bozhestvennyh darov, I ne priznat' nel'zya ego gospodstvo. Cvetok dlya leta kopit aromat I, srok pridet, zavyanet sam soboyu, No esli v nem dusha vpitala yad, Prostoj sornyak zatmit ego krasoyu. Vedet k urodstvu porcha krasoty, I lilij krashe sornye cvety. Perevod V. Savina 95 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair that eyes can see! Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege: The hardest knife ill used doth lose its edge. Kakimi milymi i prelestnymi ty delaesh' pozornye dela, kotorye, kak porcha v dushistoj roze, pyatnayut krasotu tvoego yunogo imeni! O, v kakie prelesti ty oblachaesh' svoi grehi! YAzyk, rasskazyvayushchij istoriyu tvoih dnej - delayushchij frivol'nye zamechaniya o tvoih razvlecheniyah, - ne mozhet osudit' _tebya_ inache kak v vide hvaly, _tak kak_ upominanie tvoego imeni delaet blagim durnoj otzyv. O, kakoj roskoshnyj dom u etih porokov, kotorye v kachestve zhilishcha vybrali tebya, - gde zavesa krasoty pokryvaet lyuboe pyatno i vse prevrashchaet v prekrasnoe zrelishche dlya glaz! Beregi, dorogoe _moe_ serdce, eto velikuyu privilegiyu: prochnejshij nozh, esli im zloupotreblyat', teryaet ostrotu. Kak tvoj pozor pripravlen krasotoj! On, slovno cherv' na lozhe lepestkov, Maraet shchedro yunyj obraz tvoj, Pitayas' sladost'yu tvoih grehov. I peresudy, kak oni ni zly, V podspudnom sladostrastii slepom Tebya hulyat lish' v vide pohvaly, Tak mnogo bleska v imeni tvoem. V kakom dvorce krasuetsya porok S teh por, kak on tebya zapolonil! Kak on vse pyatna prelest'yu oblek I lozhnym blagorodstvom podmenil! I vse-taki bespechno ty zhivesh': Zazubrit' mozhno samyj tverdyj nozh. Perevod Ign. Ivanovskogo O kak prekrasen ty v grehe svoem, Kotoryj, kak chervyak v butone rozy, Na imeni tvoem lezhit pyatnom, - No oblik tvoj otvodit vse ugrozy! Ob igrishchah tvoih molva poshla, Glumyas' nad pohozhden'yami tvoimi, No iz huly vyhodit pohvala, Edva ona tvoe pomyanet imya. Dvorec prekrasnyj oskvernyaesh' ty, YAviv sebya pristanishchem poroka, CH'i pyatna pod prikryt'em krasoty, Kak ni glyadi, nevidimy dlya oka. Hot' v prave ty svoem, podumaj vse zh: Ved' rezat', chto ne rezhut, - portit' nozh. Perevod S. Stepanova 96 Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. As on a finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteemed, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so; I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Nekotorye govoryat, chto tvoj nedostatok - molodost', nekotorye - chto besputstvo, nekotorye _zhe_ govoryat, chto molodost' i blagorodnye razvlecheniya sostavlyayut tvoe ocharovanie. Tvoi ocharovanie i nedostatki lyubimy lyud'mi vysokogo i nizkogo polozheniya; ty delaesh' ocharovatel'nymi poroki, kotorye v tebe poselyayutsya. Podobno tomu kak na pal'ce korolevy na trone samyj plohoj kamen' budet pochitaem, tak pregresheniya, kotorye vidny v tebe, prevrashchayutsya v dobrodeteli i pochitayutsya chem-to dobrodetel'nym. Kak mnogo yagnyat mog by obmanut' svirepyj volk, esli by on mog svoj vid menyat' na vid yagnenka! Kak mnogo glyadyashchih _na tebya_ ty mog by soblaznit', esli by ispol'zoval v polnuyu silu vse, chto tebe dano! No ne delaj etogo: ya lyublyu tebya tak, chto ty _ves'_ moj i tvoya reputaciya - moya. Te v shalostyah mladyh tebya koryat, A teh plenyaet molodost' shal'naya; No ty v sebya vlyublyaesh' vseh podryad, Svoi grehi pod prelest'yu skryvaya. Fal'shivyj kamen' primut za almaz, Kol' v persten' korolevy on opravlen, - I tvoj porok dlya voshishchennyh glaz Pokazhetsya dostoinstvom obstavlen. Kak mnogo agncev obmanut' by mog O, skol'ko b ty serdec k sebe privlek, Kogda b krasoj svoej reshil uvlech' ih! Ne delaj tak! Ty mnoj eshche lyubim! I chest' moya - pod imenem tvoim. Perevod S. SHestakova Inoj vinit tvoi mladye leta, Inoj v nih vidit prelesti zalog; Po-raznomu glyadyat na to i eto, - A ty ryadish' v dostoinstvo porok. Vot tak almaz my otlichit' ne mozhem Na pal'ce korolevy ot stekla; I tochno tak na istinu pohozhim Poddelkam rodilas' tvoya hvala. O skol'ko agncev volk provel by zlobnyj, Kogda b ovech'yu shkuru on imel! O skol'kih ty krasoyu bespodobnoj Sgubil by, esli b tol'ko zahotel! Ne nado! Ibo vse tvoe - moe. Moe i imya dobroe tvoe. Perevod S. Stepanova 97 How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness every where! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute; Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. Kak pohozha na zimu byla moya razluka s toboj, _o_ radost' mimoletnogo goda! Kakoj moroz ya chuvstvoval, kakie temnye dni videl! Kakuyu nagotu starogo dekabrya _videl_ krugom! A ved' eto vremya razluki bylo letnim vremenem, plodovitoj osen'yu, chrevatoj bogatym urozhaem - nosyashchej pyshnoe bremya vesny, kak utroba vdovy {*} posle konchiny gospodina; i vse zhe etot obil'nyj urozhaj kazalsya mne ne bolee chem nadezhdoj sirot {**} i plodom bez otcovstva, tak kak leto i ego radosti prisluzhivayut tebe, a kogda tebya net, sami pticy nemy, ili, esli poyut, to izdayut takie unylye zvuki, chto list'ya bledneyut, opasayas', chto zima blizka. {* V originale - stilisticheskaya figura: "widowed wombs", bukval'no: "ovdovevshie utroby". ** Trudnoe mesto. Vozmozhnoe istolkovanie: "...nadezhdoj na rozhdenie otpryskov, obrechennyh na sirotstvo".} Tak na zimu pohozheyu byla S toboj razluka, drug lyubimyj moj! V dushe takoj moroz, takaya mgla! Takoj Dekabr', otzhivshij i pustoj! A bylo leto, vse v gustoj trave, I osen' shla, nesya tyazhelyj gruz, Podobnaya beremennoj vdove, Oplakavshej schastlivyj svoj soyuz. No shchedrye dary osennih dnej Kazalis' mne podachkoj dlya sirot: Ved' bez tebya, bez prelesti tvoej I ptica ne po-letnemu poet. Ona edva svistit, i vidim my, Kak list bledneet ot shagov zimy. Perevod Ign. Ivanovskogo O, prelest' uskol'zayushchego goda! Ostalsya bez tebya ya v dekabre Sred' mrachnyh dnej, s moroznoj nepogodoj, Kak broshennyj na zimnem pustyre. A v eto vremya uhodilo leto, I osen' shla, ot bremeni plodov, Vo ispolneny; veshnego obeta, Osvobodivshis', slovno chrevo vdov. No eto izobil'e mne kazalos' Pustoj nadezhdoj gorestnyh sirot. Mne tozhe tol'ko zhdat' tebya ostalos', Kak ptic, letyashchih s pesnej v nebosvod. Ih vyalyj lepet istomil mne dushu. I zhuhnut list'ya, ozhidaya stuzhu. Perevod V. Rozova 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. S toboj ya byl v razluke vesnoj, kogda gordelivo-pestryj aprel' - oblachennyj vo ves' svoj naryad - pridal vsemu duh yunosti, _tak_ chto tyazhelyj Saturn {*} smeyalsya i plyasal vmeste s nim, no ni pesni ptic, ni sladostnyj aromat cvetov, razlichnyh po zapahu i cvetu, ne mogli zastavit' menya rasskazat' nikakoj istorii leta ili sorvat' ih {**} s velikolepnogo lona, na kotorom oni rosli. YA ne voshishchalsya beliznoj lilii, ne hvalil gustoj puncovyj ottenok v roze; oni byli vsego lish' milymi, vsego lish' simvolami ocharovaniya, spisannymi s tebya, _togda kak_ ty - obrazec dlya nih vseh. Pri etom kazalos', chto vse eshche zima, i v otsutstvie tebya, kak s tvoej ten'yu {***}, ya igral s nimi. {* Schitalos', chto iz chetyreh chelovecheskih temperamentov melanholicheskij upravlyaetsya planetoj Saturn, byvshej simvolom tyazhelovesnosti i letargicheskoj medlitel'nosti. ** Cvety. *** Sm. primechanie k sonetu 53.} Kak byl ya odinok vesennim dnem, Kogda naryadom shchegolyal svoim Gordec-aprel'. Duh yunyj byl vo vsem, I sam Saturn smeyalsya vmeste s nim. Ni pen'e ptic, ni aromaty eti, CHto vse cvety tak lyubyat rastochat', Ne navevali mne syuzhet o lete, Ne zvali iz loshchin cvety sryvat'. Ne izumlyalsya beliznoyu lilij I aloj roze ne vozdal pohval. Oni tebya soboyu podmenili, S tebya ih slovno kto-to srisoval. Za zimu prinimal vesennij den' ya, Vsem etim teshas', kak tvoeyu ten'yu. Perevod V. Nikolaeva Kogda prishli nezhdanno dni razluk, Pestrel i pel Aprel' - Vesna burlila, Hmel' yunosti darila vsem vokrug I hmurogo Saturna veselila. No ko vsemu ya byl i slep, i gluh: Cvetam navstrechu serdce ne otkrylos', I treli ptic ne uslazhdali sluh, I dazhe Leto v skazku ne prosilos'. Ni kraski roz, ni belizna lilej Menya, uvy, sovsem ne volnovali, Ved' byli blednoj kopiej tvoej I navevali zimnie pechali. V dushe byla Zima - s cvetami ya Igral, grustya: v nih mnilas' ten' tvoya. Perevod I. Fradkina 99 {*} The forward violet thus did I chide: 'Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robb'ry had annexed thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. Rannyuyu fialku tak ya branil: "Milaya vorovka, otkuda ty ukrala svoj sladostnyj aromat, esli ne iz dyhaniya moego vozlyublennogo? Purpurnoe velikolepie, kotoroe stalo cvetom tvoej nezhnoj shcheki, ty slishkom sgustila v venah moego vozlyublennogo" {**}. Liliyu ya osuzhdal za _to, chto ona obokrala_ tvoyu ruku, a butony majorana ukrali tvoi volosy. Rozy byli ot straha kak na igolkah {***}, odna krasneyushchaya ot styda, drugaya belaya ot otchayaniya, a tret'ya, ni belaya ni krasnaya, obokrala obeih i k svoej krazhe prisoedinila tvoe dyhanie, no za ee vorovstvo vo vsem velikolepii ee rascveta mstitel'nyj chervyak poedaet ee nasmert'. YA nablyudal i drugie cvety, no ne videl ni odnogo, kotoryj by ne ukral sladost' ili cvet u tebya. {* V sonete 99, vopreki sonetnoj forme, soderzhitsya pyatnadcat', a ne chetyrnadcat' strok. ** Neyasnoe mesto. Fialka, kotoruyu poet obvinyaet v vorovstve, v stroke 5 okazyvaetsya, naoborot, istochnikom purpura dlya ven Druga, gde etot cvet slishkom sgushchen. S bol'shej natyazhkoj, no bolee logichno bylo by istolkovat' eto v tom smysle, chto fialka ukrala purpurnyj cvet iz ven Druga, grubo sgustiv ego. *** V originale: "on thorns did stand" - frazeologizm, sootvetstvuyushchij russkomu "byt' kak na igolkah". Pri etom imeetsya ochevidnaya igra s bukval'nym znacheniem slova "thorns" (shipy).} YA rannyuyu fialku uprekal: Otkuda, mol, ukrala aromat, Kak ne iz milyh ust? I esli al Izlishne lepestok, na strogij vzglyad, On ot tebya rumyanec etot vzyal. U majorana - cvet tvoih volos, U lilii - tvoih prekrasnyh ruk, A tam izobrazhayut kraski roz Rumyanyj styd i belyj tvoj ispug. A eta, i rumyana, i bela, Dyhanie pohitila tvoe, I tut zhe za grehovnye dela CHerv' pozhiraet lepestki ee. Cvetki drugie tozhe im srodni: Vse kraski u tebya kradut oni. Perevod Ign. Ivanovskogo Fialku ya vesnoj koril: "Plutovka! Blagouhan'e druga moego Pohitila iz ust sladchajshih lovko; Cvet lepestkov - iz alyh zhil ego Zaimstvovala, milaya vorovka". Za beliznu ya liliyu zhuril: "Vzyala u druga - cvet belejshej dlani". A aromat volos lyubimca byl V blagouhannom, pryanom majorane. Tri rozy szhalis': strashno poblednev, Odna; vtoraya - rdeya ot smushchen'ya; Ukrala tret'ya roza, osmelev, Vse kraski - cherv' poest ee v otmshchen'e. Tvoej krasoyu sad zapolonen, I zhiv tvoim blagouhan'em on. Perevod I. Fradkina 100 Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Dark'ning thy pow'r to lend base subjects light? Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make Time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. Gde ty _obretaesh'sya_, Muza, chto zabyvaesh' tak nadolgo govorit' o tom, chto daet tebe vse tvoe mogushchestvo? Tratish' li ty svoe vdohnovenie {*} na kakuyu-nibud' nikchemnuyu pesnyu, delaya temnoj svoyu silu, chtoby dat' svet nizkim predmetam? Vernis', zabyvchivaya Muza, i nemedlenno iskupi blagorodnymi stihami vremya, tak prazdno potrachennoe; poj dlya togo uha, kotoroe cenit tvoi pesni i soobshchaet tvoemu peru i masterstvo, i temu. Ochnis', lenivaya Muza, osmotri miloe lico moej lyubvi, _prover'_, ne vyrezalo li Vremya na nem morshchin; esli da, to stan' satiroj protiv uvyadaniya i sdelaj tak, chtoby dobycha Vremeni byla povsemestno preziraema. Sozdavaj slavu dlya moej lyubvi skoree, chem Vremya unichtozhaet zhizn', tak ty ostanovish' ego kosu i krivoj nozh. {* Soglasno rashozhim predstavleniyam epohi, poety tvorili v sostoyanii nishodyashchego na nih neistovogo ili dazhe bezumnogo vdohnoveniya (sr. "poet's rage" v sonete 17, stroka 11).} Gde, Muza, ty? Kak mozhesh' ty molchat' O tom, chem ty vsegda byla sil'na? Ne svetish' li nichtozhestvu opyat', I ottogo-to moshch' tvoya temna? Zabyvchivaya Muza, naverstaj Vse to, chemu upushchena pora, Sluzhi lyubvi i snova obretaj ZHivuyu silu ostrogo pera. A esli po licu moej lyubvi Uzhe proshelsya Vremeni rezec, Nasil'nika satiroj uyazvi, K vostorgu negoduyushchih serdec, Ty poj, i my lyubov' uberezhem Ot Vremeni s ego krivym nozhom. Perevod Ign. Ivanovskogo O Muza, otchego zabyla ty Svoj istinnyj istochnik vdohnoven'ya I tratish' sily v debryah suety Na pesni nevysokogo znachen'ya? Vernis' k dostojnym temam, iskupi Utrachennoe vremya slogom znatnym, Iskusstvom, chto zhivet ne dlya tolpy, No v istine, i potomu ponyatnym. Vglyadis' v prekrasnyj lik lyubvi moej: Vdrug gody ej chelo izborozdili? Togda satiroj Vremya ty ubej, CHtob zlost' ego povsyudu osudili. Proslav' moyu lyubov', poka ona Vo vlast' smertel'noj t'my ne otdana. Perevod V. Rozova 101 O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my love depends; So dost thou too, and therein dignified. Make answer, Muse, wilt thou not haply say, 'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; But best is best, if never intermixed'? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how To make him seem long hence as he shows now. O lenivaya Muza, chem ty iskupish' svoe nevnimanie k istine {*}, rascvechennoj krasotoj? I istina i krasota zavisyat ot moego vozlyublennogo, i ty tozhe _zavisish'_ i tem vozvyshena. V otvet, Muza, ne skazhesh' li ty, vozmozhno: "Istina ne nuzhdaetsya v priukrashivanii, imeya sobstvennyj postoyannyj cvet; krasota _ne nuzhdaetsya_ v kisti, chtoby zamazyvat' istinnuyu sushchnost' krasoty; luchshee ostaetsya luchshim, esli ne podvergaetsya smesheniyu"? Ottogo, chto on ne nuzhdaetsya v hvale, budesh' li ty nemoj? Ne opravdyvaj etim molchaniya, tak kak tebe dano sdelat' tak, chtoby on nadolgo perezhil _lyubuyu_ pozolochennuyu grobnicu i byl voshvalyaem v gryadushchie veka. Ispolnyaj zhe svoyu sluzhbu, Muza; ya nauchu tebya, kak sdelat', chtoby on dolgoe vremya spustya predstavlyalsya takim, kakim vyglyadit sejchas. {* Sm. primechanie 2 k perevodu soneta 14.} O Muza, ne lenis' - krasu vospoj I vernost', chto, krasuyas', ne lukavit: Dostoin pesen drug bescennyj moj - Vosslav' ego, a mir tebya vosslavit. Uzheli ty otvetish', Muza, mne: "Net! Vernost' horosha bez ukrashen'ya, Hvataet krasok u krasy vpolne, Ih smeshivat' - pustoe uprazhnen'e"? Pust' ne nuzhdaetsya krasa v hvale, Ty, Muza, ne molchi, - tvoya zabota, CHtob obraz druga svet daril zemle, Kogda sletit s nadgrob'ya pozolota. YA nauchu tebya - ty dlya lyudej Navek ego krasu zapechatlej. Perevod I. Fradkina O Muza neradivaya! Kak ty Mne ob®yasnish', chto ne poesh' o druge? Ved' bez nego net v mire krasoty, Net istiny - i net tvoej zaslugi. Il' skazhesh', chto u istiny est' svoj Cvet postoyannyj i drugih ne nuzhno, CHto krasote ne nuzhen kraski sloj, CHto uluchshat' ih - tol'ko delat' huzhe? Dolzhna li ty molchat', raz v pohvale On ne nuzhdaetsya? Ved' sdelat' v silah Ty tak, chtob ostavalsya na zemle On dol'she pozoloty na mogilah. Ispolni dolg! YA dam tebe urok, Kak sohranit' krasu na dolgij srok. Perevod A. SHarakshane 102 My love is strength'ned, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song. Moya lyubov' usililas', hotya stala slabee po vidu; ya lyublyu ne men'she, hotya eto men'she proyavlyaetsya vneshne; ta lyubov' prevrashchaetsya v tovar, ch'yu vysokuyu cennost' yazyk vladel'ca obnaroduet povsyudu. Nasha lyubov' byla molodoj i tol'ko perezhivala vesnu, kogda ya chasto privetstvoval ee svoimi pesnyami, kak Filomela {*} poet v nachale leta, no ostavlyaet svoyu svirel', kogda nastupaet bolee zrelaya pora rascveta - ne potomu, chto leto ne tak priyatno, kak _to vremya_, kogda ee {**} pechal'nye gimny zastavlyali noch' zatihnut', no _potomu_, chto _teper'_ dikaya muzyka otyagoshchaet kazhduyu vetv', a prelesti, cvetushchie povsemestno [dostupno dlya vseh], teryayut dragocennoe ocharovanie. Poetomu, kak ona, ya inogda priderzhivayu svoj yazyk, ne zhelaya naskuchit' tebe svoej pesnej. {* Poeticheskoe naimenovanie solov'ya, proishodyashchee ot imeni geroini mificheskogo syuzheta iz "Metamorfoz" Ovidiya. ** V originale, kogda rech' idet o Filomele (solov'e), putayutsya mestoimeniya "his" (ego) i "her" (ee).} Moya lyubov' rastet, hotya slabee Teper' vo mne zvuchit ee motiv, No cennost' chuvstva rynochnoj cene ya Ne upodoblyu, vsyudu razglasiv. Edva l' byla lyubov' dlya nas novej, Kogda, v vostorge ot ee rascveta, YA vospeval ee, kak solovej, CHto umolkaet v seredine leta: Edva li nochi prezhnim ne cheta, CHto skorbnym gimnam otdavalis', nemy, No muzyka iz kazhdogo kusta Vsem bujstvom zaglushaet sladost' temy - I ya, kak on, smolkayu to i delo, CHtob pesn' moya tebe ne nadoela. Perevod I. Asterman Lyubov' sil'nej, hot' kazhetsya slabee; Lyublyu ne men'she, hot' slabej na vid: Korystna ta lyubov', ch'e proslavlen'e Povsyudu s ust vlyublennogo zvuchit. Dlya nas lyubov' nova byla vesnoj, YA pesni pel svoj, ee vstrechaya, - Tak Filomela veshneyu poroj Poet, no posle niknet, umolkaya. Ne to chtob leto huzhe stalo vdrug, Ne slysha flejty gorestnoj ee, No muzyka, gremyashchaya vokrug, Teryaet obayanie svoe. I mne poroyu hochetsya molchat', CHtob pesneyu tebya ne utomlyat'. Perevod V. Nikolaeva 103 Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, That, having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not if I no more can write! Look in your glass, and there appears a face That overgoes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tend Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; And more, much more than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. Uvy, kakoe ubozhestvo rozhdaet moya Muza, imeyushchaya takie _shirokie_ vozmozhnosti blesnut', _i pri etom sama_ tema bez vsyakih ukrashenij ostaetsya bolee cennoj, chem togda, kogda k nej dobavlyaetsya moya hvala! O, ne vini menya, esli ya bol'she ne mogu pisat'! Posmotri v zerkalo - tam vozniknet lico, kotoroe prevoshodit polnost'yu moe tupoe voobrazhenie, delaya moi stroki skuchnymi i pozorya menya. Ne greshno li bylo by togda, pytayas' uluchshit', iskazhat' predmet, kotoryj do togo byl horosh? Ved' moi stihi ne stremyatsya k inoj celi, kak rasskazyvat' o tvoih prelestyah i darovaniyah, i bol'she, gorazdo bol'she, chem mozhet vmestit'sya v moem stihe, tvoe sobstvennoe zerkalo pokazyvaet tebe, kogda ty smotrish' v nego. Uvy, uspehi Muzy tak skudny, CHto blesk i yarkost' krasoty tvoej V prostoj oprave bolee cenny, CHem v pohvale rascvechennoj moej. Ne stav' v uprek, pisat' ya ne mogu, Kol' v zerkale i oblik tvoj, i vzor Sotrut moyu bessil'nuyu stroku I mne ob®yavyat strogij prigovor. Ne greh li to - stihami uluchshat', No iskazhat' tvoj svetlyj obraz v nih? Ved' ya v strokah ne v silah peredat' Hot' chast' dostoinstv i shchedrot tvoih. Namnogo luchshe, chem v moih stihah, Ty vyglyadish' v pravdivyh zerkalah. Perevod A. Kuznecova Moya podruga Muza oskudela - Palitry krasok ne hvataet ej, I ya hvalu otbrasyvayu smelo: Prostoj syuzhet vo mnogo raz sil'nej. Menya ne osuzhdaya za molchan'e I glyadya v zerkalo, sumej ponyat': Tebya, stol' sovershennoe sozdan'e, Moj vyalyj stih ne v silah peredat'. Da razve ne pozor, ne greh zhestokij, Meshaya kraski, divo iskazit'?! YA na pero nanizyvayu stroki, Tshchas' divo divnoe izobrazit'. Ved' v zerkale tvoe otobrazhen'e Kuda prekrasnej moego tvoren'ya! Perevod I. Fradkina 104 To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived; For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. Dlya menya, prekrasnyj drug, ty ne mozhesh' sostarit'sya, ibo kakim ty byl, kogda ya vpervye uzrel tvoi glaza, takoj _mne_ po-prezhnemu predstavlyaetsya tvoya krasota. Tri holodnye zimy otryahnuli s lesov velikolepie treh let, _i_ tri prelestnye vesny prevratilas' v zheltuyu osen' v hode _cheredovaniya_ sezonov, - _vot chto_ ya nablyudal. Tri aprel'skih aromata sgoreli v treh zharkih iyunyah s teh por, kak ya vpervye uvidel tebya, kotoryj po-prezhnemu yun. I vse zhe krasota, kak strelka chasov, ukradkoj udalyaetsya ot svoej cifry {*}, _hotya_ dvizhenie nezametno; tak i tvoya prelestnaya vneshnost', kotoraya, kak mne kazhetsya, ostaetsya neizmennoj [nepodvizhnoj], na samom dele menyaetsya [nahoditsya v dvizhenii], a moi glaza mogut obmanyvat'sya; strashas' etogo, _ya skazhu_: poslushaj, vek nerozhdennyj, _eshche_ do tvoego rozhdeniya leto krasoty umerlo. {* V originale - "figure", chto sozdaet igru slov na znacheniyah "cifra" i "figura".} Ty ne stareesh' dlya menya, moj drug. S teh por, kak ya pojmal tvoj pervyj vzglyad, Vse tot zhe ty. Pust' pod naporom v'yug Lesa ronyali trizhdy svoj naryad, Preobrazilis' v osen' tri vesny, Obychaj sovershaya godovoj, I tri aprelya znoem sozhzheny - Po-prezhnemu prekrasen oblik tvoj. No krasota, kak strelka na chasah, Mgnoven'ya u sebya samoj kradet, I, mozhet byt', menya, drugim na strah, Obmanyvaet tajnyj etot hod. Kto v zhizn' vojdet, kogda ischeznesh' ty, Tot ne zastanet leto krasoty. Perevod Ign. Ivanovskogo Ty dlya menya prebudesh' molodym, Takim, kak v den', kogda vpervye vzor YA tvoj uvidel. Holoda treh zim S lesov sryvali letnij ih ubor. I tri vesny stremitel'no leteli, Osenneyu smenyayas' zheltiznoj, Sgoral v iyunyah aromat aprelej, - Vse tak zhe bezuprechen oblik tvoj. No krasota, kak strelka na chasah, Spolzaet s cifry, gde byla ona, I, hot' ty yun i svezh v moih glazah, Mne peremena prosto ne vidna. Pust' znayut v pokoleniyah inyh, CHto leto krasoty proshlo do nih. Perevod V. Nikolaeva 105 Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse, to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. 'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument, 'Fair, kind, and true', varying to other words, And in this change is my invention spent,