Стихотворения

Набоков Владимир Владимирович

SCENE 2. A PRIVATE ROOM IN A TAVERN, WITH A PIANO.

Mozart and Salieri at table.

Salieri

What makes you look so gloomy?

Mozart

Gloomy? No.

Salieri

Mozart, there's surely something on your mind. The dinner's good, the wine is excellent, but you, you frown and brood.

Mozart

I must confess it: I'm worried about my Requiem.

Salieri

Oh, you're writing a Requiem? Since when?

Mozart

Three weeks or so. But the queer part… didn't I tell you?

Salieri

No.

Mozart

Well, listen: three weeks ago I got home rather late — they told me someone had been there to see me. All night — I know not why — I lay and wondered who it could be and what he wanted of me. Next day the same thing happened: the man came; I was not in. The third day — I was playing upon the carpet with my little boy — there came a knock: they called me, and I went; a man, black-coated, with a courteous bow, ordered a Requiem and disappeared. So I sat down at once and started writing. Now from that day to this my man in black has never come again. — Not that I mind. I hate the thought of parting with my work, though now it's done. Yet in the meantime I…

Salieri

You what?

Mozart

I'm ashamed to say it.

Salieri

To say what?

Mozart

I am haunted by that man, that man in black. He never leaves me day or night. He follows behind me like a shadow. Even now I seem to see him sitting here with us, making a third.

Salieri

Come, come! what childish terrors! Dispel these hollow fancies, Beaumarchais was wont to say to me: «Look here, old friend, when black thoughts trouble you, uncork a bottle of bright champagne, or reread „Figaro“».

Mozart

Yes, you and Beaumarchais were boon companions, of course — you wrote «Tarare» for Beaumarchais. A splendid piece — especially one tune — I always find I hum it when I'm gay: ta-ta, ta-ta… Salieri, was it true that Beaumarchais once poisoned someone?

Salieri

No, I doubt it. He was much too droll a fellow for such a trade.

Mozart

And then he was a genius like you and me. And villainy and genius are two things that don't go together, do they?

Salieri

You think so?

He pours the poison into Mozart's glass.

Drink your wine.

Mozart

Your health, dear friend: here's to the frank and loyal brotherhood of Mozart and Salieri, sons of Music.

He drinks.

Salieri

Wait, wait! You've drunk it off. You've left me out.

Mozart (throwing his napkin on the table)

Enough: I've eaten.

He goes to the piano.

Listen to this, Salieri: my Requiem.

He plays.

Are you weeping?

Salieri

These are tears I've never shed before — painful yet anodyne, as if I had discharged a heavy debt, as if the surgeon's knife had lopped away a sick and throbbing limb! These tears, dear Mozart… You must not mind them. Oh, play on, make haste, flooding my soul with sound…

Mozart

If all could feel like you the force of harmony! But no; the world would crumble then; for none would care to bother with the baser needs of life; then all would seek art's franchise. We are few, the chosen ones, the happy idlers, we who have no use for what is merely useful, who worship only beauty — do we not, dear friend? — But I'm not well — some leaden languor… I must have sleep. Adieu!

Salieri

Until we meet.

Alone.

Your sleep will be a long one, Mozart! — Nay, it cannot be that what he said was true, and I no genius.

«Villainy and genius, two things that do not go together». Wait: that's false — for surely there was Buonarroti. — Or is that but a legend, but a lie, bred by the stupid mob, by their inane vulgarity, and that great soul who wrought the Vatican had never sunk to murder? <21 апреля 1941>

440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM ^{*}

«No hands have wrought my monument; no weeds will hide nation's footpath to its site. Tsar Alexander's column it exceeds in splendid insubmissive height. «Not all of me is dust. Within my song, safe from the worm, my spirit will survive, and my sublunar fame will dwell as long as there is one last bard alive. «Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend, and all will name me, all tongues in her use: the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz. «And to the people long shall I be dear because kind feelings did my lyre extoll, invoking freedom in an age of fear, and mercy for the broken soul». Obey thy God, and never mind, О Muse, the laurels or the stings: make it thy rule to be unstirred by praise as by abuse, and do not contradict the fool. <1944>

441. THE UPAS TREE ^{*}

Deep in the desert's misery, far in the fury of the sand, there stands the awesome Upas Tree lone watchman of a lifeless land. The wilderness, a world of thirst, in wroth engendered it and filled its every root, every accursed grey leafstalk with a sap that killed. Dissolving on the midday sun the poison oozes through its bark, and freezing when the day is done gleams thick and gem-like in the dark. No bird flies near, no tiger creeps; alone the whirlwind, wild and black, assails the tree of death and sweeps away with death upon its back. And though some roving cloud may stain with glancing drops those leaden leaves, the dripping of a poisoned rain is all the burning sand receives. But man sent man with one proud look towards the tree, and he was gone, the humble one, and there he took the poison and returned at dawn. He brought the deadly gum; with it he brought some leaves, a withered bough, While rivulets of icy sweat ran slowly down his livid brow. He came, he fell upon a mat, and reaping a poor slave's reward, died near the painted hut where sat his now unconquerable lord. The king, he soared his arrows true in poison, and beyond the plains dispatched those messengers and slew his neighbors in their own domains. <1944>

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

SCENE 2. A CELLAR. THE BARON, ALONE.

The Baron

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

(Looks into his money-bag)

It may seem a little, but what incalculable human cares, deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations, have weighty representatives here seated! Where was that old doubloon?.. Here 'tis. This evening a widow paid it me — though only after she'd stood, with her three children, many hours under my window, on her knees and wailing. It rained, and ceased to rain, and rained again: the shamming creature never budged. I might have sent her away, but a faint something told me that she had brought the sum her husband owed and would not care to be in jail next day. And this one? this was brought me by Thibault: whom did he get it from, the fox, the loafer? Stole it, I wager; or perhaps… somewhere, at nightfall, on the highway, in a coppice — Ah, yes! if all the tears, and blood and sweat, that have been shed for what is in my keeping, out of deep earth might suddenly gust forth we'd have a second flood, — and with a splutter I'd perish in my trusty vaults. And now —

(He is about to unlock number six)

Strange — every time I want to open one of my good chests, I feel all hot and shaky: not fear (oh, no! whom should I fear? I have my gallant sword: one metal guards the other and answers for it), but a heart-invading mysteriously enveloping oppression… Physicians claim that there exist queer people who find in homicide a kind of pleasure; when I insert and turn the key, my feelings are similar, I fancy, to what they must feel when butchering their victims: pleasure and terror mingled

(Unlocks)

This is lovely, lovely…

(Pours in his gold)

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

(Lights candles and proceeds to unlock the chests)

Now I am king! What an enchanting shine! A mighty realm has now become my manor; here is my bliss, my blazon, and my banner! Now I am king! — But who will next enjoy this bounty when I die? My heir will get it! A wastrel, a disreputable boy, by ribald fellow-revellers abetted! With my last sigh, him, him! this vault will hear come stamping down into its gentle silence, with crowds of fawning friends, rapacious courtiers; and having plucked the keys from my dead fist he will unlock chest after chest with glee, and all the treasures of my life will stream through all the holes of tattered satin pockets. Thus will a sot destroy these holy vessels, thus mud will drink an oil for kingly brows, thus he will spend — And by what right, I ask you? Did I perchance acquire all this for nothing? Or with the ease of a light-hearted gambler that rattles dice and grabs his growing winnings? Who knows how many bitter limitations, what bursting passions curbed, what inner gloom, what crowded days and hollow nights — my wealth has cost me? Or perhaps my son will say that with a hoary moss my heart is smothered, that I have had no longings, and what's more, that conscience never bit me? Grizzly conscience! the sharp-clawed beast that scrapes in bosoms; conscience, the sudden guest, the bore that does the talking, the brutish money-lender; worst of witches, that makes the moon grow dark, and then the grave-stones move restlessly, and send their dead to haunt us! Nay, suffer first and wince thy way to riches, then we shall see how readily my rascal will toss to winds what his heart-blood has bought. Oh, that I might conceal this vaulted chamber from sinful eyes! oh, that I might abandon my grave and, as a watchful ghost, come hither to sit upon my chests, and from the quick protect my treasures as I do at present! <25 мая 1941>

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

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

Several men and women making merry at a table laid in the middle of the street.

A Young Man

Most honorable chairman! Let me now remind you of a man we all knew well, a man whose quiddities and funny stories, smart repartees and pungent observations, — made with a solemn air that was so pleasing — lent such a sparkle to the table talk and helped to chase the gloom which nowadays our guest the Plague unfortunately casts over the minds of our most brilliant wits. Two days ago our rolling laughter greeted the tales he told; t'would be a sorry jest if we forgot while banquetting to-day our good old Jackson! Here his armchair gapes; its empty seat still seems to be awaiting the wag; but he, alas, has left already for a cold dwelling-place beneath the earth. Though never was so eloquent a tongue doomed to keep still in a decaying casket, we who remain are numerous and have no reason to be sorrowful. And so let me suggest a toast to Jackson's spirit, a merry clash of glasses, exclamations, as if he where alive.

The Chairman

He was the first to drop out of our ranks. In silence let us drink to his memory.

The Young Man

Have it your way.

All lift their glasses in silence.

The Chairman (to one of the women)

Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accents of native songs reveals a wild perfection: sing, Marry, something dolorous and plaintive that afterwards we may revert more madly to merriment — like one who has been torn from a familiar world by some dark vision.

Mary (sings)

In times agone our village was lovely to behold; our bonny church on Sunday was full of young and old; our happy children's voices rang in the noisy school; in sunny fields the reaper swung fast his flashing tool. But now the church is empty; the school is locked; the corn bends overripe and idle; the dark woods are forlorn; and like charred ruins the village stands stricken on its hill: no sound; alone the churchyard is full and never still. A new corpse every minute is carried in with dread by mourners loudly begging God's welcome for the dead. A new hole every minute is needed for their sleep, and tombs and tombs together huddle like frightened sheep. So if an early gravestone must crown my springtime bright, you whom I loved so dearly, whose love was my delight, — to your poor Jenny's body, I pray, do not come near, kiss not her dead lips; follow with lagging steps her bier. And after I am buried, — go, leave the village, find some place where hearts are mended and destiny is kind. And when the Plague is over visit my dust, I pray… But, even dead, will Jenny beside her Edmund stay.

The Chairman

We thank you, Mary, melancholy Mary, we thank you all for this melodious moan. In former days a similar infection had visited, it seems, your hills and valleys, and one could hear most piteous lamentations sounding along the rivers and the brooks which now so peacefully and gaily tumble through the wild paradise of your dear land; and that dark year in which so many perished, so many gallant, good and comely souls, has left but a vague memory that clouds the elemental minstrelry of shepherds with pleasing plaintiveness. Nothing, I swear, so saddens us amid life's animation as dreamy sounds that dreamy hearts repeat.

Mary

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

Louisa

Such ditties are nowadays old-fashioned; but one still finds simple souls eager to melt when seeing a woman weep: they blindly trust her tears. She seems to be quite sure that her wet eyes are most enchanting; and if just as highly she ranked her laughter then you may be sure she'd always titter. Walsingham had chanced to praise the shrill-voiced Northern beauties; so forthwith she wails her head off. I do hate that yellow color of her Scottish hair.

The Chairman

Listen! I hear the sound of heavy wheels.

A cart passes laden with dead bodies. It is driven by a Negro.

The Chairman

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

Mary

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

Louisa (regaining her senses)

A dreadful demon appeared to me: all black with white eyes rolling, he beckoned me into his cart where lay piled bodies of dead men who all were lisping a horrible, a most unearthly tale. Oh, tell me please — was it a dream I dreamt or did the cart pass really?

The Young Man

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

The Chairman

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

Several Voices

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

The Chairman (sings)

When mighty Captain Winter swoops upon us with his hoary troops, leading against us all his grim legions of frost and snow, — logs crackling brightly laugh at him and festive wine cups glow. Her awful Majesty the Plague now comes at us with nothing vague about her aims and appetite; with a grave-digger's spade she knocks at windows day and night. Where should we look for aid? Just as we deal with Winter's pest against thisone it will be best to stay in lighted rooms and drink and drown our minds, and jest. Come, let us dance upon the brink to glorify Queen Pest! There's bliss in battle and there's bliss on the dark edge of an abyss and in the fury of the main amid foam-crested death; in the Arabian hurricane and in the Plague's light breath. All, all such mortal dangers fill a mortal's heart with a deep thrill of wordless rapture that bespeaks maybe, immortal life, — and happy is the man who seeks and tastes them in his strife. And so, Dark Queen, we praise thy reign! Thou callest us, but we remain unruffled by the chill of death, clinking our cups, carefree, drinking rose-lipped maiden's breath full of the Plague, maybe!

An old Clergyman enters.

The Clergyman

What godless feast is this, you godless madmen? Your revelry and ribald songs insult the silent gloom spread everywhere by death! Among the mourners and their moans, among pale faces, I was praying in the churchyard whither the thunder of your hateful orgies came troubling drowsy graves and rocking the very earth above the buried dead. Had not the prayers of women and old men blessed the dark pit of death's community I might have thought that busy fiends to-night were worrying a sinner's shrieking spirit and dragging it with laughter to their den.

Several Voices

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

The Clergyman

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

The Chairman

Our homes are dismal places. Youth is fond of gladness.

The Clergyman

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

The Chairman

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

Several Voices

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

The Clergyman

Mathilda's stainless spirit summons you!

The Chairman

No, — promise me, — with your pale withered hand raised heavenward, — promise to leave unuttered a name that death has silenced in the tomb. Could I but hide from her immortal eyes this sight, this banquet… Once upon a time she thought me pure, free-spirited and proud, and my embrace was paradise to her. Where am I? Sacred child of light, I see you above me, on a shore where my wrecked soul now cannot reach you.

A Woman's Voice

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

The Clergyman

Come, come with me.

The Chairman

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

The Clergyman

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

The Clergyman departs. The feast continues. The Chairman remains plunged in deep meditation.

<18 июля 1941>; Пало Алто, Калифорния

444–445. FROM EUGENE ONEGIN

1 ^{*}

I

«My uncle has most honest principles: when taken ill in earnest, he has made one respect him and nothing better could invent. To others his example is a lesson; but, good God, what a bore to sit by a sick man both day and night, without moving a step away! What base perfidiousness the half-alive one to amuse, adjust for him the pillows, sadly present the medicine, sigh — and think inwardly when willthe devil take you?»

II

Thus a young scapegrace thought, with posters flying in the dust, by the most lofty will of Zeus the heir of all his relatives. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! The hero of my novel, without preambles, forthwith, I'd like to have you meet: Onegin, a good pal of mine, was born upon the Neva's banks, where maybe you were born, or used to shine, my reader! There formerly I too promenaded — but harmful is the North to me.

III

Having served excellently, nobly, his father lived by means of debts; gave three balls yearly and squandered everything at last. Fate guarded Eugene: at first, Madame looked after him; later, Monsieur replaced her. The child was boisterous but nice. Monsieur l'Abb'e, a poor wretch of a Frenchman, not to wear out the infant, would teach him everything in play, bothered him not with stern moralization, scolded him slightly for his pranks, and to Letniy Sad took him for walks.

IV

Then, when tumultuous youth's season for Eugene came, season of hopes and tender melancholy, Monsieur was ousted from the place. Now my Onegin is at large: hair cut after the latest fashion, dressed like a London Dandy — and finally he saw the World. In French impeccably he could express himself and write, danced the mazurka lightly, and bowed unconstrainedly — what would you more? The World decided he was clever and very nice.

V

All of us had a bit of schooling in something and somehow: hence education, God be praised, is in our midst not hard to flaunt. Onegin was, in the opinion of many (judges resolute and stern), a learned fellow but a pedant. He had the happy talent, without constraint, in conversation slightly to touch on everything, keep silent, with an expert's learned air, during a grave discussion, and provoke the smiles of ladies with the fire of unexpected epigrams.

VI

Latin has gone at present out of fashion; still, to tell you the truth, he had enough knowledge of Latin to make out epigraphs, descant on Juvenal, put at the bottom of a letter vale, and he remembered, though not without fault, two lines from the Aeneid. He had no urge to rummage in the chronological dust of the earth's historiography, but anecdotes of days gone by, from Romulus to our days he did keep in his memory.

VII

Lacking the lofty passion not to spare life for the sake of sounds, an iamb from a trochee — no matter how we strove — he could not tell apart; dispraised Homer, Theocritus, but read, in compensation, Adam Smith, and was a deep economist: that is, he could assess the way a state grows rich, and what it lives upon, and why it needs not gold when it has got the simple product. His father could not understand him, and mortgaged his lands.

VIII

All Eugene knew besides I have no leisure to recount; but where he was a veritable genius, what he more firmly knew than all the arts, what since his prime had been to him toil, anguish, joy, what occupied the livelong day his fretting indolence — was the art of soft passion which Naso sang, wherefore a sufferer he ended his brilliant and tumultuous span in Moldavia, in the wild depth of steppes, far from his Italy. <1964>

2 ^{*}

XXXII

Diana's bosom, Flora's dimple are very charming, I agree — but there's greater charm, less simple, — the instep of Terpsichore. By prophesying to the eye a prize with which no prize can vie 'tis a fair token and a snare for swarms of daydreams. Everywhere its grace, sweet reader, I admire: at long-hemmed tables, half-concealed, in spring, upon a velvet field, in winter, at a grated fire, in ballrooms, on a glossy floor, on the bleak boulders of a shore.

XXXIII

I see the surf, the storm-rack flying.... Oh, how I wanted to compete with the tumultuous breakers dying in adoration at her feet! Together with those waves — how much I wished to kiss what they could touch! No — even when my youth would burn its fiercest — never did I yearn with such a torturing sensation to kiss the lips of nymphs, the rose that on the cheek of beauty glows or breasts in mellow palpitation — no, never did a passion roll such billows in my bursting soul.

XXXIV

Sometimes I dream of other minutes by hidden memory retold — and feel her little ankle in its contented stirrup which I hold; again to build mad builders start; again within a withered heart one touch engenders fire; again — the same old love, the same old pain… But really, my loquacious lyre has lauded haughty belles too long — for they deserve neither the song, not the emotions they inspire: eyes, words — all their enchantments cheat as much as do their pretty feet. <Весна 1945>

446. EPIGRAM ^{*}

(On Vorontzov)

Half-merchant and half-prince half-scholar and half-dunce, half-knave — but there's a chance he'll be complete for once. <1947>

447. THE NAME ^{*}

What is my name to you? 'Twill die: a wave that has but rolled to reach with a lone splash a distant beach; or in the timbered night a cry… 'Twill leave a lifeless trace among names on your tablets: the design of an entangled gravestone line in an unfathomable tongue. What is it then? A long-dead past, lost in the rush of madder dreams, upon your soul it will not cast Mnemosyne's pure tender beams. But if some sorrow comes to you, utter my name with sighs, and tell the silence: «Memory is true — there beats a heart wherein I dwell». <1947>

448. WINTER MORNING ^{*}

A magic day — sunshine and frost — but you, in dreamland still are lost… Come, open your enchanting eyes with honeyed indolence replete.... Star of the North, arise to meet Aurora in her wintry skies. That blizzard yesternight! It spread dimness and tumult overheard. The moon through a lugubrious veil was but a blur of jaundiced grey, and you were listless.... But to-day — well, let the window tell its tale: Fabulous carpets of rich snow under the cloudless heavens glow. Alone the gauzy birches seem to show some black, while green occurs among the frost-bespangled firs, and blue-shot ice adorns the stream. The room is flooded with a light like amber, and with all its might the hot stove crackles. Lolling there in meditation is no doubt enjoyable… but what about a sledge behind the chestnut mare? Sweet friend, together we shall speed yielding to our impatient steed on new-born whiteness, fleet and free, and visit silent fields of snow, woods that were lush two months ago, a lakeshore that is dear to me… <1947>

Михаил Лермонтов ^{*}

449. FAREWELL ^{*}

Farewell! Nevermore shall we meet, we shall never touch hands — so farewell! Your heart is now free, but in none will it ever be happy to dwell. One moment together we came: time eternal is nothing to this! All senses we suddenly drained, burned all in the flame of one kiss. Farewell! And be wise, do not grieve: our love was too short for regret, and hard as we found it to part harder still would it be if we met. <Ноябрь 1941>