Breathes life into a skeleton, the same tears
And almost all the beauty of the real,
Just as the vain man’s hungry gaze retains
The image of his portrait, though not much remains
Of likeness to the eyes’ bright lustre on the board portrayed
And that long effaced by time as vital passions fade.
Is anything on earth more splendid than these pyramids
Of Nature, majestic snowy pinnacles,
Whose flanks may disappear amidst
The mist, but no man’s victories or miracles
Compare to what is seen there, where clouds seem
Like crowds and lightning wreathes the beam
Of light that tops the rocks; nothing imaginary is real
And he who has seen heaven need not fear the corporeal.
But the steppe, when unbounded, stirs unease
With its mile upon mile of waving feathergrass.
No purpose in the meandering north-east breeze
As it kicks up dust willy-nilly in its path;
And, where all around, how cruelly to the eye is lacking
The sight of two or three birch trees, backing
Into the distance under the bluish haze
And fading to black in the emptying of days.
And, when there’s no struggle, life’s a drag.
Having found a way in, the colour of the years
Starts to fade and vital spirits sag –
There’s little left now that the soul cheers.
So, each day I must perform some mighty work
Of which immortals would be proud, not shirk
An acting hero’s duties or comprehend
What it means to rest at the day’s end.
Something’s always churning in my mind,
Fermenting there. Desire and longing
In my breast forever grind –
But what of it? Life’s a half-written song.
I’m just afraid I won’t have time
To bring it to fruition, that no rhyme
Could ever ease this fearful ache –
And I could never live for another person’s sake.
There is a time when the quick mind freezes;
There is a gloaming of the soul, when tomorrow
Is another day and the mental logjam eases.
In the half-light between joy and sorrow,
The soul itself is constrained;
Life is hateful, but death is unexplained.
You’ll find the root of the torment in yourself –
And heaven cannot be blamed for anything else.
This state, to which I’m long resigned,
Cannot be expressed in any tongue,
Neither that of demons, nor divine:
No such cares or worries there among
Those for whom the terms are more refined.
Only in a man are they combined:
This fractious blend of sacred and profane,
From which source arises all his pain.
No one ever gets just what he wants
Or whom he loves, and even he,
To whom was sanctioned happy chance,
Considering the past, will come to see
He could have been still happier,
His satisfaction snappier,
Had his hopes not been poisoned by his fate –
For past conditions are hard to recreate…
When, shepherded before the raging storm,
A billow breaks and surges with its foam,
It still recalls the kyle where it was born,
That tranquil harbour that it once called home.
And, perhaps, this wave will foam again
To such a bay, but will not find its kin:
No one who has wandered the high seas
Can ever hope for shelter or for ease.
I foresaw my fate, my own demise;
Precociously, I set the seal thereon;
And, how I suffer, no one need cognise –
Save the one whose verdict is foregone.
And, though banal, my death – and at whose hands –
Will seem grotesque; in foreign lands,
There’ll be amazement; but at home
Everyone will loudly curse my name.
Everyone? Not quite, there is one creature;
One heart with love’s capacity exists;
Though, till such time, I do not count this feature
Valid. A heart that still resists
Will not be swayed by what’s opined;
And now Cassandra conjures her to mind;
Her eyes, once full of cheer,
Are misted as she wipes away a tear.
For me, at last, a sanguine grave awaits;
Absent benediction or a cross;
Waters surging all around the straits;
Beneath the swirling mists, only moss
And lichen. And this young boy,
Drawn here he knows not why
To sit a while and meditate alone,
Pondering my fate upon this stone.
He’ll say: “Wherefore he failed to see
The light, and how he did not find
His friends, and why love’s fancy
Did not ease his troubled mind.
Wasn’t he deserving?” And he’ll ponder
As a shadow looms, and gazing yonder,
See grey clouds gliding over waves of blue,
A white sail, a fast-running canoe
And my memorial! – My cherished dreams
Are all like this. The sweetness
Is in everything not yet fulfilled, it seems
In just such pictures there’s completeness.
Though hard to put on paper, thought is strong,
When not constrained by logic, only song —
When running free, like in a children’s game,
Or when a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame!
English translation of 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ by M.Y. Lermontov © Thomas Beavitt August 2018
По заказу Максима Привезенцева.
Обложка.
Для подготовки обложки издания использована художественная работа автора.
Художник Евгения Бубер.
Фотография автора книги Максима Привезенцева из материалов экспедиции в Шотландию. www.maximprivezentsev.com
