A moongate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

[1930s]

577. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Подушка уже горяча…»

The pillow on either side is hot, and burning low the second candle has died, while the crow caws ever louder outside. I haven't slept all night, it's late to try in vain. How unbearably white the diapes on the white window-pane! Good morning!

[1960s]

578. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Сказал, что у меня соперниц нет…»

Не said I had no rivals, said that I was not an earthly woman, but to him the solace of a winter sun, the wild song of our native country, like a hymn. And when I die, I know he will not grieve crying «Come back!» madly, as from a wrong, but suddenly see — the body cannot live without the sun, the soul — without a song. And what of now?

[1960s]

579. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Из памяти твоей я выну этот день…»

Out of your memory I'll snatch this day, so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes, «Where did I see the little wooden house, the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?» The sudden longing of unnamed desires oh, very often you will call to mind, searching in pensive cities for a street uncharted on whatever map you find. Sight of some letter you did not expect — sound of a voice at some half-opened gate — and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself, coming to help me in my faithless state».

[1960s]

580. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Cadran solaire на Меньшиковом доме

A steamer passes churning up a wake. Familiar house with its cadran solaire. Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves— nothing on all the Earth to me more fair! A narrow alley darkens like a crack. Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest. Even the salty taste of many strolls memorized long ago — is also blessed.

[1960s]

581. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Муза ушла по дороге…»

The muse walked away up the trail, autumnal, narrow and steep. Large dewdrops were sprinkled over her dusky legs and feet. I'd begged her to wait till winter, to stay with through the fall. But she answered, «This is a grave here, How can you breathe at all?» I wanted to give her a present — the whitest dove I possessed — but the bird flew off on its own after my shapely guest. I watched her go. I was silent. She was my only love. And like a gate to her country The dawm was shining above.

[1960s]

582. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Почернел, искривился бревенчатый мост…»

Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's span and burdocks grow as tall as man and, dense, the thickets of nettles sing that they never will know a sickle's sting. There's a sigh at the lake when evening falls and wrinkled moss creeps over the walls. That's where I greeted my twenty-first spring. To my lips the pungent honey was the sweetest thing. Dry branches shredded that white silk dress of mine. A nightingale sang on and on in the crooked pine. He would hear me calling and would leave his lair, gentler than a sister, though wild as a bear. I would swim across the rivulet, run uphill, but oh, later I would never say «Leave me now, go».

18 Jan. 1966

583. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Heмудрено, что не веселым звоном…» [263]

And you, my friends, you who are so few by now— with every passing day you are more dear! How very short the road has grown and how it used to seem of all the longest way!

26 Nov. 1992

263

Translation of the second stanza. Variant in the last line: «the very longest way!»

584. Александр Блок(1880–1921). Перуджиа [264]

Half a day of toil, and half of ease, azure smoke above the Umbrian hills. Short and sudden shower, cooling breeze, loudly out-of-doors a chorus trills. In the window — one whose dark eyes smile, under Perugino's fresco, there, tries to reach a basket for a while with a sunburnt hand, and does not dare. In it lies a note for eager glances: «Questa sera… cloister of St. Francis…»

264

Variant in the eighth line in the manuscript: "with a tawny brown hand, and does not dare."

15 May [1928]

585. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Пройдет зима — увидишь ты…»

When winter goes — then you will see my fields and fens that stretch away. «What beauty!» you will say to me, — «What lifeless slumber!» you will say. But, child, remember, in the still I kept my thoughts, and in that plain I — restless, sorrowful, and ill — Have waited for your soul in vain. And in that dusk I guessed my fate, stared into death's cold face, and long, endlessly long I had to wait, peering through mists that swam along. But you passed by before my face, — among the bogs my thoughts I kept and in my soul a gloomy trace of that strange lifeless beauty slept.

16 May [1928]

586. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Мы шли на Лидо в час рассвета…» [265]

We walked toward Lido once at dawn, the rain was gentle, like a net. Without replying you were gone. And soon I slept beside the wet. I heard the waves, their steady falling, because my sleep was light, I heard the sounds, that shook with passion, calling, loving (??) the sorceress, — the bird. And then the gull — a bird, a maiden, — came down and floated on the sea, upon the waves of song, love-laden, with which you always dwell in me.

265

Mary Vezey's "(??)" in the eighth line presumably indicates a search for a better word.

12 June [1928]

587. Александр Блок (1880–1921). «Я просыпался и всходил…»

I've wakened often in the night and peered at stairways darkness-filled. The frosty moon threw silver light upon my house, where all was stilled. I've had no messages of late; the city only brings me round its noise, and every day I wait for guests, and start at every sound. And waked by steps that seemed to pass at midnight more than once I rose and in the window — saw the gas that shimmered in the streets in rows! Today — again I must await my guests, and clench my hands, and fear. I've had no messages of late, knocks is all I hear.