Alien outfit, Eastern outfit,
If only you would bring me happiness
Carry me from the midnight frost
To the sun of the south!. .
Beneath the red fez of an Albanian woman
If I could only forget all at once
The ball, the high-society noise, the city woman's captivity,
Rumor and the circle of a cramped life! . .
If only for a day as a free bird
As the free daughter of the forests
I could breathe at my will
By the Ionian shores! . .
Having broken the chain of boring proprieties,
Having trampled at my feet the rules of people,
To go seek among proud savages
Hours that bring good fortune! . .
Who knows? . . Far away over the mountains
I would find in a simple cabin
Friends with fiery hearts,
A cordial and familial welcome!
I would find a destiny of straightforward
Happiness, not known in palaces,
And a young palikar
With blazing passion in his eyes! . .
January 6, 1835
Moscow
Tr. Gitta Hammarberg
There can be no farewell to scene like thine!
Childe-Harold, Byron
They told me: "He is magical, snowy!"
They told me: "He is mighty,
Two-headed and proud, and high as heaven,--
He is equal to the flight of God's clouds!"--
They told me: "He instills tenderness,
Ecstacy in one's soul,--
And on ardent meditation he
Collects inspiration as if it were a tithe! . . ."--
They told me: "Every day,
Every minute, live verse,
Like a passionate call, like a laudatory hymn
Bursts out in a young breast! . . ."--
But I, --I listened, got angry,--
Shook my head stubbornly,--
Was silent, . . . did not agree with
The senseless crowd . . . .
But I,--scornfully I laughed
At the common impression
And their inspiration made to order
Was alien to my soul! . . . .
But I considered it pitiful, lowly,
When having reached the designated edge
If I suddenly began to sing like a hired hand
Sing, and dream, in tribute to nature.
I renounced [this] to myself,
And vowed to myself
To breathe the wild beauty of the Caucasus
Without words, in solitude.--
Elbrus appeared . . . . I admired him,
Keeping my vow of silence;
I venerated, was enraptured,--
But did not compose songs!
As if before a haughty beauty
A fan hides his passion
So before you, holy Elbrus,
My whole rapture remained hidden! . . . .
Elbrus, Elbrus, my beloved,
My greeting did not honor you,--
But for all that, how ardently, how greedily,
My gaze sought you, captured you! . . .
For all that, with your memory
How rich I am, how I am proud! . . .
For all that, in the distance, I keep seeing you
In my dreams, giant Elbrus! . . .
Village Anna, October, 1836.
The desert... glowing-hot sand and heat...
A striped tent is pitched above me...
I sit at the entrance, rocking a child,
I sing, and the wind seconds me, whistling...
And I see: someone is borne towards me
On an arab horse as black as coal,
Outlined on the blue slope of the heavens,
In a rich turban with a diamond plume.
"Hello to you, traveler! Come into my tent,
Stay a while, if the road before you is long;
I'll pick some of the best figs for my guest
I'll anoint your head with myrrh.
I'll fill your skin with a stream of wine...
The sovereign has gone away, come in, I'm alone..
Hello to you, my guest, sent by fate,
May both peace and delight come in with you!"
I'm weary," he uttered, "and my path is far,
I hasten to the East to the land of sun and roses...
But I've no time to linger... I'm going... farewell!
Just give me one kiss for good fortune!"
I lifted the transparent fabric from my brow
And with soft confusion I walked up to him...
And here he leaned from the horse towards me
And embraced me so firmly, so hotly,
And his curls in a sweet-smelling wave
In a moment hid all the world before me!
Only eyes like stars sparkled in the dark
And gave birth in my mind to passionate meditations...
And one heard, as if through a cloud of reveries:
"Race away with me to the land of sun and roses!"
But like a sharp dagger into my heart
Penetrated the sudden cry of the child.
And my arms fell without strength,
And with a grumble he moved away from me...
Like the enchantments of midday, having flashed before me,
Both rider and raven-black horse disappeared.
And the sounds of the tempting speeches died away,
Which had sweetly trembled in my soul,-
The wind of the sesert bore them off without trace,
Far away... far away... for always... for ever.
Whoever you may be--stop in passerby.
The evening is troubled, the smell of nard is sweet.
For you the couch has long been covered
With the golden skin of a leopard.
For you pitchers of costly juice,
Yellower than topaz, have long been melting,
The kind that is obtained in the sunny valley,
From the gardens of burning Shiraz.
The dull pomegranates show pink
Slices of melon have wilted aromatically;
The tender peach, swarthy and moustached,
Has hidden in the vase, belated.
I have let go the straps of my sandals,
I have lazily unfastened my belt...
Ah, how long it is since my eyes tired of reading,
The Koran lies, Averroes lies!
Make haste!.. The visage of Selene grows round;
Whoever you may be, -- you'll be the master.
My mouth is hot, my breast whiter than foam,
My hands smell of thyme and caraway.
By day I dried the thyme in the sun.
Collected the caraway, having risen at an early hour...
On this night -- from the Caspian to the Nile --
There is no maiden more sweeet-smelling than I!
From the book Orientalia (1912)
2
And above the Volga -- it's night.
And above the Volga -- a dream.
They've spread the patterned carpets,
And the ataman has reclined on them with the princess
The Persian -- Black Brows.
And the stars don't show, and the waves aren't heard, --
Only the oars and hellish darkness!
And the ataman's bark bears away into the night
The sinful persina soul.
And the night
Heard -- such talk"
"So don't you want, say,
To lie closer?
You among our women
Are like a pearl!
So am I so awful?
I'm your eternal slave,
Little Persian!
Little captive!
And she -- knit her brows,
Her long brows.
And she -- cast down her eyes,
Her Persian eyes.
And from her lips --
Only a single sigh:
"Dzhal'-Eddin!"
And above the Volga -- red-cheeked dawn,
And above th3e Volga -- Paradise.
And the drunken band roars:
"Ataman, get up!
You've had your fill lying with the infidel dog!
Look, the beauty's eyes are red from crying!"
And she is like death,
Her mouth bitten to blood."
Up goes the ataman's stern brow.
"You couldn't get along with our bed --
So get along, dog, with our baptism!"
In the sky -- it's clear,
Dark -- on the bottom.
One red
Slipper on the deck.
And Stepan stands -- like a dreadful oak,
Stepan went white -- to his very lips.
He rocked, he stumbled. "Oh languor!
Hold me up, you unbelievers -- my eyes are gone dark!"
And there's all your little Persian,
Little captive.
April 25, 1917.