555. «When I was small I had a great vain dream…» [248]
Only the waters of the Ch'in and Wei
Roll green and changeless, as in years
gone by.
Po Chu-i
When I was small I had a great vain dream,a kind of game just with myself alone:because the fathers of my little playmateswere wrapped far more than mine in worldly riches,I played that one fine day I would invite themto my poor shabby doorand they would knockand through that creaking door in that grey alley,awestruck, would tiptoe into sparkling hallsbedecked with wealth and of surpassing beauty.This never happened, nor did I regret itfor still they came, and still we played together.Now years have passed and we have ail been scattered.And all these many years I have been toilingand have it seems at last built quite a palacebehind that gate, and have assembled in itgreat wealth and beauty far belittling thosewhich once I dreamed of as a foolish child;— So much to show, with humble pride and grateful,to share and to enjoy, if they would knockupon my gate, those small remembered playmates…But I can hear the echo of their footstepsrunning, then silenced far down winding alleys,and in the myriad distant streets and citiesthey cannot find the gateway to my house.
248
For Po Chu — yi see note on poem 527. The epigraph is taken from Bo Juyi's poem «Night Stop at Rongyang».
556. «The temple halls are musty; daylight never…» [249]
Om mani pad me kum.
The temple halls are musty; daylight neverdisturbs the corridors or narrow stairs.Blackened by dust and incense smoke and yearsthe ancient tapestries along the wallsfrom high carved vaulted ceiling to the floorbreathe not a ripple in the stifled air.When nightfall stills the last long wailing chantand joss smoke mingles with the stale burnt oil,then once again the tapestries awakewith rats that live behind them, galloping,galloping all night long, like a divisionof cavalry on a parade, or rushingto mortal combat with an enemy.
249
Om mani pad me kum: a meditation mantra.
557. «We had walked many li over the flat autumn fields…» [250]
A winter storm starts suddenly over
lake Hanka.
We had walked many li over the flat autumn fieldsand had reached the marshesskirting the great lake.Wild fowl were flying all overunder a blackening skyand settling down urgently among the clumps of grassseeking a refuge.The vast expanse of lake was before us,with nothing but tall grass growing profusely as far asthe eye could seeon all sides and behind us;grass swayinglike a continuation of the lake surface.Suddenly, without warning,a sheet of wet white flakes fell from the sky,and more followed, and more, hurrying,swirling and joining the wind and the grassin their frightening dance.A storm.
250
Lake Hanka is a lake in the maritime Far East, on the border of Russia and China.
558. «Swathed in its lace of slime…»
Swathed in its lace of slime,the pond sleepsat sunset.High above the adobe hutand the boat landingrises a sharp-horned yellow moon.What a comforting and pleasing lot —Who can say fate is unkind?The delicate filigree of willow' leavesis black against the violet evening sky.
559. «Early snow falls…»
Early snow falls,like wafted cherry blossoms —peaceful and lazy —into the pond,the green one, where willows dropand late water lilies are blooming.There could not be a brighter or a larger starthan the one climbingthe partly darkening sky, andhesitating over the edgeof the pensive village.
560. «San Shu was a boatman. He lived on an island…»
San Shu was a boatman. He lived on an islandin the middle of the great Sung-Hwa river,in the north.He rowed his flat-bottomed boatvery skillfully across the wide yellow grey expansefrom the shore of the city to the grassy flatlandson the other side,where lay the villages and the farms.The Sung-Hwa was a pleasant sunny streamand it earned the boatman's breadall summer.
From the direction of Mai Mai Cheng,rising over the Gobi desert,across the Great Wall,came a wind.It picked up the sands of the desertand became thick and brownas the sands themselves,as it hurled its destructive phalangesinto battle,row upon powerful row.I got up in the morning with a brown blanket about mebrown sand in my eyes and earsand gritting between my teethand but a white spot on the bedwhere my head had rested.But many centuries this Gobi wind has blowncovering with its sandsmyriad human bones and ancient dwellings.Some far-off day a child,playing in the swift sand,will take a beautiful polished white bonethat will have been me,and will take it to her father,to make her a flute,to sing a song.
251
Mai Mai Cheng: the Chinese city of Maimaicheng and the adjacent Russian city of Kiаikhtа were centres of Sino-Russian trade in the 18th and 19th centuries.
Часть IV. Неопубликованные переводы
English into Russian
562. Maxwell Bodenheim (1893–1954). A Poet to his Love [252]
Серебряная церковь в чаше леса —Моя любовь к тебе. Кругом деревья,Украденные от тебя словаИ колокол, твоя последняя улыбка.Дарованная мне, — повешен наверху.Тот колокол звонит, когда ты входишь в лес.Когда ты станешь около него.Но звон его ненужный замолкает,Когда ты начинаешь говорить.
252
Maxwell Bodenheim, Мита and Myself (1918).
28 ноября [1924 г.]
563. Abbie Huston Evans. A Niche from the Blast. Dell Concert. [253]
Здесь, где в одном пятне освещенаповерхность темная земного шара,когда спускается на землю ночьи яркая звезда на запад тонет,тускнеют краски и темнеет небоогромное, в то время как землянеторопливо крутится, и небесаворотятся, как колесо, — впервыекак будто, вижу я сегодня ночью,что небосвод, действительно, повсюдувокруг нас, и что сами мы летимв пространство, хоть о том и забываем.Везде вокруг — стремленье, шторм и крикивсего оркестра вместе; человексвой голос собственный так страстно ищет;день шелуху свою роняет; птицаночная, вспугнутая, встрепенется,в борьбе царапаясь сквозь бурю звуков.И в нише освещенной среди тьмы,как в найденном убежище минутном,средь солнц несущихся, окруженытолпою сил неведомых и княжеств,здесь тысячи обретших вдруг свободу,почувствовавших близость с этим светом.
253
Abbie Huston Evans, Fuel of Crystal (1961); Vezey gave the poem the draft title «Ниша (Убежище) от взрыва, — Концерт».
1960-е гг.
564. Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950). То the Not Impossible Him [254]
Как знать, не съездивши самойв Каир или Китай,во всем ли так прекрасен мойблагословенный край?Быть может, вот из этих травцветок и мне возрос,но как же знать, не повидави карфагенских роз?Моя любовь верна, тверда,она не помрачится,пока я здесь, — но что когдауехать мне случится?
254
Edna St. Vincent Millay, A Few Figs from Thistles (1921).
14 января 1930 г.
565. Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950). Tavern [255]
Я домик-таверну откроюна горном далеком пути,где все б сероглазые людимогли себе отдых найти.Там было бы много тарелоки кружек, затем чтобы гретьозябших людей сероглазых,идущих по этой горе.И сладко бы путники спали,им снился б дороги конец,а я бы вставала и в полночь,подкладывать в печку дровец.Смешно ведь? Но все, что мне в жизнихорошего было дано,мне дали два серые глаза —когда-то давно.
255
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Renascense and Other Poems (1917)