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433. EXILE {*}
434. A POEM {*}
435. DREAM {*}
436. DANDELIONS {*}
437. LUNAR LINES {*}
ПЕРЕВОДЫ НА АНГЛИЙСКИЙ {*}
Александр Пушкин
438–439. FROM «MOZART AND SALIERI» {*}
SCENE I. A ROOM
Salieri
They say there is no justice on the earth. I know now there is none in Heaven. Plain as seven simple notes! I have loved the art from birth; when I was but a little child in our old church and the organ boomed sublimely, I listened and was lost — shedding delicious involuntary tears. I turned away from foolish pastimes early; found repellent all studies foreign to my music — ay, from all I turned with obstinate disdain, determined thence to dedicate myself to music, music only. The start is hard, the first steps make dull going. I surmounted the initial obstacles; I grounded firmly that craft that makes the pedestal for art; a craftsman I became: I trained my fingers to dry obedient proficiency, brought sureness to my ear. Stunning the sounds, I cut up music like a corpse; I tested the laws of harmony by mathematics. Then only, rich in learning, dared I yield to blandishments of sweet creative fancy. I dared compose — but silently, in secret, nor could I venture yet to dream of glory. How often, in my solitary cell, having toiled for days, having sat unbroken hours, forgetting food and sleep, and having tasted the rapture and the tears of inspiration, I'd burn my work and coldly watch the flame as my own melodies and meditations flared up and smoked a little and were gone. Nay, even more: when the great Gluck appeared, when he unveiled to us new marvels, deep enchanting marvels — did I not forsake all I had known, and loved so well and trusted? Did I not follow him with eager stride, obedient as one who'd lost his way and met a passerby who knew the turning? By dint of stubborn steadfast perseverance upon the endless mountainside of art I reached at last a lofty level. Fame smiled on me; and I found in others' hearts responses to the sounds I had assembled. Came happy days: in quiet I enjoyed Work and success and fame — enjoying also the works and the successes of my friends, my comrades in that art divine we served. Oh, never did I envy know. Nay, never! Not even when Piccini found a way to captivate the ears of savage Paris — not even when I heard for the first time the plangent opening strains of
Mozart enters.
Mozart
Aha! you saw me! I was just preparing to take you by surprise — a little joke. Salieri
You here? — When did you come? Mozart
This very minute. I was on my way to you to show you something when, passing near a tavern, all at once I heard a fiddle.... Oh, my dear Salieri! You never in your life heard anything so funny.... Than blind fiddler in a pothouse playing Voi сhe sapete.Marvelous! I simply had to bring him here to have you enjoy his art. — Step in! Enters a blind old man with a violin.
Some Mozart, please! The old man plays the aria from «Don Giovanni»;
Mozart roars with laughter.
Salieri
And you can laugh? Mozart
Oh, come, can't you? Salieri
I cannot. I am not amused by miserable daubers who make a mess of Raphael's Madonna; I am not amused by despicable zanies whose parodies dishonor Alighieri. Be off, old man. Mozart
Wait; here's some money for you — you'll drink my health. The old man goes out.
It seems to me, Salieri, You're out of sorts to-day. I'll come to see you some other time. Salieri
What have you brought? Mozart
Oh, nothing — a trifle. My insomnia last night was troubling me, and one or two ideas entered my head. Today I dashed them down. I wanted your opinion; but just now you're in no mood for me. Salieri
Ah, Mozart! Mozart! When is my mood averse to you? Sit down. I'm listening. Mozart (at the piano)
I want you to imagine… Whom shall we say?… well, let's suppose myself a little younger — and in love — not deeply, but just a little — sitting with a damsel or with a bosom friend — yourself, let's say — I am merry.... All at once: a ghostly vision, a sudden gloom, or something of the sort.... Well, this is how it goes. He plays.
Salieri
You were bringing this, and you could stop to linger at a tavern and listen to a blind man with a fiddle! Ah, Mozart, you are unworthy of yourself. Mozart
You like it, do you? Salieri
What profoundity! What daring and what grace! Why, you're a god, and do not know it; but Iknow, Iknow. Mozart
What, really? Maybe so… If so His Godhead is getting to be hungry. Salieri
Listen, Mozart: Let's dine together at the Golden Lion. Mozart
A capital idea. But let me first go home a moment: I must tell my wife she's not to wait for me. He goes
Salieri
Don't fail me now. — Nay, now can I no longer fight with fate: my destiny's to stop him — else we perish, we all, the priests, the ministers of music, not I alone with my dull-sounding fame.... What worth are we if Mozart lives and reaches new summits still? Will this exalt our art? Nay: art will sink so soon as he departs: he will leave us no successor — will have served no useful purpose. Like a seraph swooping, he brought us certain songs from Paradise, only to stab us, children of the dust, with helpless wingless longing, and fly off! — So fly away! — the sooner now, the better. Here's poison: the last gift of my Isora. For eighteen years I've kept it, let it season — and often life would seem to me a wound too bitter to be borne — I have often sat with some unwary enemy at table, yet never did that inward whisper win me; though I'm no coward and feel insult deeply, and care not much for life. Still did I tarry, tormented by the thirst for death, yet brooding: why should I die? Perchance the future yet holds unexpected benefits; perchance I may be visited by Orphic rapture, my night of inspiration and creation; perchance another Haydn may achieve some great new thing — and I shall live in him… While I was feasting with some hated guest, perchance, I'd muse, I'll find an enemy more hateful still; perchance a sharper insult may come to blast me from a prouder eminence — thenyou will not be lost, Isora's gift! And I was right! At last I have encountered my perfect enemy: another Haydn has made me taste divine delight!. The hour draws nigh at last. Most sacred gift of love: You'll pass to-night into the cup of friendship. 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? 440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM {*}
441. THE UPAS TREE {*}
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! 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.
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.
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