THREE

RU�8IAN POETS

translated by VLADIMIR NAnoKov

Goon TRANSLATIONS of poetry are

extremely rare. Good translations of

Russian poetry into English are almost

non-existent. And so these selections

from the great Russians, versions which

succeed in being exceptional English

poems in their own right, should meet

with a warm response from the ever

growing number of American readers

deeply interested in all things Russian.

Pushkin and Lermontov need no intro­

duction; their fame is worldwide. Tyut­

chev is far less· well known, but his best

poems rank with the finest in the Rus­

sian language. Few as they are, these

poems are so well chosen, and the trans­

lations so expert, that a sensitiYe reader

may draw from them a very true appre­

ciation of the real nature of the Russian

poetic genms.
. .
 THE POETS
OF THE YEAR
SERIES

THE SERIES FOR 1944

THE HITLERIAD
A Verse Satire by
A. 1\1. Klein

SELECTED PoEMs
of Rafael Alberti
English translations by Lloyd Malian
of a very important Modern Spanish
poet

THE SoLDIER
A Long Poem by
Conrad Aiken

SELECTED PoEMs
of Herman Melville
\Vith introduction by F. 0. Matthi essen
THIRTY PoEMs
by Thomas Merton
The lyrics of a young Trappist monk
A LITTLE ANTHOLOGY OF

J\1ExicAN PoETs
Spanish & English
Each number produced at a different fine
press. Available in two forms: as pamphlets
at so cents each, or $z.so for the senes; as
bound books at $1 each, $5 the set.

Publisbed by NEw DIRECTIONs

67 fV 44, NYC-18
THREE RUSSIAN POETS
 THREE

RUSSIAN POETS

Selections from Pushkin, Lermontov

and Tyutchev

IN NEW TRANSLATIONS BY

Vladimir Nabokov

NEW nmECTIONS The Poets of the Year NORFOLK, CONN.

 COPYRIGHT 1944 BY VLADIMIR NABOKOV

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES

New Directions Books are published by ]ames Laugblin

New York Office- 67 West 44- 18
 PUSHKIN

EXEGI 1\10N UiVIEN TUM

"No hands have wrought my monument; no weeds

will hide the nation's footpath to its site.
Tsar Alexander's column it exceeds
in splendid insubmissive height.

"Not all of me is dust. Within my song,

safe from the wonn, my spirit will survive,
and my sublunar fame will dwell as long
as there is one last bard alive.

"Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend,

and all will name me, all tongues in her use:
the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend
of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz.

"And to the people long shall I be dear

because kind feelings did my lyre extoll,
invoking freedom in an age of fear,
and mercy for the broken soul."

Obey thy God, and never mind, 0 Muse,

the laurels or the stings: make it thy rule
to be unstirred by praise as by abuse,
and do not contradict the fool.

THE UPAS TRE E

(ANTIARIS TOXICARIA, Lesch. 1810)

Deep in the desert's misery,

far in the fury of the sand,
there stands the awesome U pas Tree
lone watchman of a lifeless land.

5
The wilderness, a world of thirst,
in wrath engendered it and filled
its every root, every accursed
grey leafstalk with a sap that killed.

Dissolving in the midday sun

the poison oozes through its bark,
and freezing when the day is done
gleams thick and gem-like in the dark.

No bird flies near, no tiger creeps;

alone the whirlwind, wild and black,
assails the tree of death and sweeps
away with death upon its back.

And though some roving cloud may stain

with glancing drops those leaden leaves,
the dripping of a poisoned rain
is all the burning sand receives.

But man sent man with one proud look

towards the tree, and he was gone,
the humble one, and there he took
the poison and returned at dawn.

He brought the deadly gum; with it

he brought some leaves, a withered bough,
while rivulets of icy sweat
ran slowly down his livid brow.

He came, he fell upon a mat,

and reaping a poor slave's reward,
died near the painted hut where sat
his now unconquerable lord.

The king, he soaked his arrows true

in poison, and beyond the plains
dispatched those messengers and slew
his neighbors in their own domains.

6
A scene from " T H E Co v E To u s K N 1 G H T "

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 Prmce
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.

7
I am above desiring; I am uanquil:
I know my domination, and this lmowledge
I deem sufficient.
(Looks into his 11umey-bag)

It may seem a little,

but what incalculable human cares,
deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations,
have weighty representatives here seated!

vVhcre 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 gush forth
we'd have a second flood,- and with a splutter
I'd perish in my trusty vaults.
And now-
(He is about to U7llock tlumber si:c)

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

8
must feel when butchering their victims: pleasure
and terror mingled.
(Unlocks)

This is lovely, lovely ...

(Pours in bis 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.
( Ligbts 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!
\\Tith 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?
'\Vho knows how many bitter limitations,
what bursting passions curbed, what inner gloom,
what crowded days and hollow nig-hts -my wealth
has cost me? Or perhaps my son will say

9
that with a hoary moss my hean 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!

10
A FEAST DURING THE PLAGUE
Pushkin's version of a scene in TVilson's tragedy
THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE
Several men and women making merry at a table laid in tbe middle of the
nreet.

A YouNGMAN
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 unforrunately 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:
irs empty seat still seems to be awaiting
the wag; but he. alas, has left already
for a c�ld 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 sugg-est a toast to Jackson's spirit,
a merry clash of glasses, exclamations,
as if he were 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.

11
THE CHAIRMAN (to one of the wo111en)

Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accents

of native songs reveals a wild perfection:
sing, Mary, something dolorous and plaintive
that afterwards we may revert more madly
to merriment-like one who has been tom
from a familiar world by some dark vision.

i\1ARY (sings)

In times agone our village

was lovely to behold;
our bonny church on Sundays
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 com
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.

12
 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 dwellt!
Dearly they used to love their Mary's voice.

13
Behind my song I felt as if I listened
to my old self smging 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 j ust 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.

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

14
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 it 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 it 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.

15
 Her awful Majesty the Plague
now comes at us with nothmg 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 tbis one 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 a rose-lipped maiden's breath
full of the Plague, maybe!

An old Clergymm enters.

THE CLERGYMAN
\Vhat godless feast is this, you godless madmen?
Your revelry and ribald songs insult
the silent gloom spread everywhere by death!

16
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 dcath'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 'Vho 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 eanh. 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 embrac'e d 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 SOnQ"S between
the purest prayer and the profoun dest sigh?
Arise and follow me!

17
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,
�nd 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.

18
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. Tbe Cbairmtm
remains plunged in deep meditation.

19
 MOZART AN D SALlERI

This dramatic poem by Pushkin is based on the legend that Salieri

poisoned Mozart out of jealousy. It is to literature what "Die Meis­
tersinger" is to music: the classical dramatization of the conflict
between natural genius and accomplished mediocrity. This conflict
we have always with us, and Salieri never fails from age to age to
perform his appointed role, whether as critic, academician, profes­
sor or successful second-rate artist (note that he takes the point of
view that he is performing a public service in protecting a vested
interest, and that he allows himself to enjoy Mozart's music only
after he has made sure that he has killed him).
EDMUND WILSON

ScENE 1. A RooM.

SALlERI
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.
20
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 ofttn, 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 g-one.
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 kr10wn. 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 re�ched at last a loftv 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 mv friends,
my comrades in that art divine \�e 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 "Iphigenia."
Is there a man alive who'll say- Salieri
has ever stooped to envy - played the snake
that, trampled underfoot, still writhes and bites
the gravel and the dust in helpless spite?
Not one! ...Yet now-I needs must say it - now
I am an envious man. I envy-deeply,
to agony, I envy.-Tell me, Heaven!
where now is justice when the holiest gift,
when genius and its immortality,
21
come not as a reward for fervent love,
for abnegation, prayer and dogged labor -
but light its radiance in the head of folly,
of idle wantonness? ...Oh, Mozart, Mozan!
MoztlTt 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 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. .. That blind fiddler in a pothouse
.

playing Voi che sapete. Marvelous!

I simply had to bring him here to have you
enjoy his an.-Step in!
Enters a blind old man with a violin.

Some Mozan, please!

The old man plays the aria from "Don Giovanni";
MoZIITt roars with laughter.

SALIERI
And you can laugh?

MozART
Oh, come, can't you?
SALIERI
I cannot.
I am not amused by miserable daubers

22
who make a mess of Raphael's Madonna;
I am not amused by despicable zanies
whose parodies dishonor Alighieri.
Be off, old man.
MozART
Wair: 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 rwo 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 tbe 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.

23
SALlERI
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?

SALlERI
What profundity!
What daring and what grace! Why, you're a god,
and do not know it; but I know, I know.

MozART
What, really? Maybe so. . . . If so, His Godhead
is getting to be hungry.

SALlERI
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.

SALlERI
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? \Viii this exalt our art?
Nay: art will sink so soon as he departs:
he will leave us no successor will have served
-

24
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
-tben you will not be lost, !sora'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.

25
SCENE 2. A PruvATE RooM IN A TAVERN, WITH A PIANo.

l\1ozART 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 couneous bow,

26
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 Beaurnarchais once poisoned someone?

27
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 tbe poiso11 imo Mozart's glass.

Drink your wine.

MozART
Your health, dear friend:
here's to the frank and loyal brotherhood
of 1\ilozart and Salieri, sons of Music.
He drinks.
SALIERI
Wait, wait! You've drunk it off. You've left me out.

MozART (throwing bis napkin on the table)

Enough:
I've eaten.
He goes to the piano.

Listen to tllis, 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... .

28
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!

SALlER I
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?

29
 LERMONTOV

FAREWELL

Farewell! Nevermore shall we meet,

we shall never touch hands-so farewell!
Your heart is now free, but in none
will it ever be happy to dwell.
•

One moment together we came:

time eternal is nothing to this!
All senses we suddenly drained,
burned all in the flame of one kiss.
Farewell! And be wise, do not grieve:
our love was too short for regret,
and hard as we found it to part
harder still would it be if we met.

MY NATIVE LAND

If I do love my land, strangely I love it:

'tis something reason cannot cure.
Glories of war I do not covet,
but neither peace proud and secure,
nor the mysterious past and dim romances
can spur my soul to pleasant fancies.
And still I love thee - why I hardly know:
I love thy fields so coldly meditative,
native dark swaying woods and native
rivers that sea-like foam and flow.
In a clattering cart I love to travel
on country roads: watching the rising star,
yearning for sheltered sleep, my eyes unravel
the trembling lights of sad hamlets afar.

30
 I also love the smoke of burning stubble,
vans huddled in the prairie night;
corn on a hill crowned with the double
grace of twin birches gleaming white.
Few are the ones who feel the pleasure
of seeing barns bursting with grain and hay,
well-thatched cottage-roofs made to measure
and shutters carved and windows gay.
And when the evening dew is glistening,
long may I hear the festive sound
of rustic dancers stamping, whistling
with drunkards clamoring around.

THE TRIPLE DREA M

I dreamt that with a bullet in my side

in a hot gorge of Daghestan I lay.
Deep was the wound and steaming, and the ride
of my life-blood ebbed drop by drop away.
Alone I lay amid a silent maze
of desert sand and bare cliffs rising steep,
their tawny summits burning in the blaze
that burned me too; but lifeless was my sleep.
And in a dream I saw the candle-flame
of a gay supper in the land I knew;
young women crowned with flowers . . . . And my name
on their light lips hither and thither flew.
But one of them sat pensively apart,
not joining in the light-lipped gossiping,
and there alone, God knows what made her heart,
her young heart dream of such a hidden thing. ...
For in her dream she saw a gorge, somewhere
in Daghestan, and knew the man who lay
there on the sand, the dead man, unaware
of steaming wound and blood ebbing away.

31
 TYUTOIIEV

NIGHTFALL

Down from her head the earth has rolled

the low sun like a redhot ball.
Down went the evening's peaceful blaze
and seawaves have absorbed it all.

Heavy and near the sky had seemed.

But now the stars are rising high,
they glow and with their humid heads
push up the ceiling of the sky.

The river of the air between

heaven and earth now fuller flows.
The breast is ridded of the heat
and breaths in freedom and repose.

And now there goes through Nature's veins

a liquid shiver, swift and sweet,
as though the waters of a spring
had come to touch her burning feet.

TEARS
0 lacrimarum fans. GRAY.

Friends, with my eyes I love caressing

the purple of a flashing wine,
nor do I scorn the fragrant ruby
of clustered fruit that leaves entwine.

I love to look around when Nature

seems as it were immersed in May;
when bathed in redolence she slumbers
and smiles throughout her dreamy day.

32
 I love to see the face of Beauty
flushed with the air of Spring that seeks
softly to toy with silky ringlets
or deepen dimples on her cheeks.

But all voluptuous enchannnents,

lush grapes, rich roses - what are you
compared to tears, that sacred fountain,
that paradisal morning dew!

Therein divinest beams are mirrored,

and in those burning drops they break,
and breaking - what resplendent rainbows
upon Life's thunderclouds they make!

As soon as mortal eyes thou touchest,

with wings, Angel of Tears, the world
dissolves in mist, and lo! a skyful
of Seraph faces is unfurled.

THE JOURNEY

Soft sand comes up to our horses' shanks

as we ride in the darkening day
and the shadows of pines have closed their ranks:
all is shadow along our way.

In denser masses the black trees rise.

what a comfortless neighborhood!
Grim night like a beast with a hundred eyes
peers out of the underwood.

SILENTIUM

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal

the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

33
 How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard .. .
take in their song and speak no word.

LA ST LOVE

Love at the closing of our days

is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendor.
Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
0 tarry, 0 tarry, declining day,
enchannnent, let me stay enchanted.
The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
0 last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.

D U SK

Now the ashen shadows mingle,

tints are faded, sounds remote.
Life has dwindled to a single
vague reverberating note.
In the dusk I hear the humming
of a moth I cannot see.
Whence is this oppression coming?
I'm in all, and all's in me.

34:
 Gloom so dreamy, gloom so lulling,
flow into my deepest deep,
Bow, ambrosial and dulling,
steeping everything in sleep.
With oblivion's obscuration
fill my senses to the brim,
make me taste obliteration,
in this dimness let me dim.

THE ABY S S

When sacred Night sweeps heavenward, she takes

the glad, the winsome day, and folding it,
rolls up its golden carpet that had been
spread over an abyssmal pit.
Gone vision-like is the external world,
and man, a homeless orphan, has to face
in utter helplessness, naked, alone,
the blackness of immeasurable space.
Upon himself he has to lean; with mind
abolished, thought unfathered, in the dim
depths of his soul he sinks, for nothing comes
from outside to support or limit him.
All life and brightness seem an ancient dream -
while in the very substance of the night,
unravelled, alien, he now perceives
a fateful something that is his by right.

AUTUM N

When Autumn has just come, there is

most brief a lull: brief but divine.
All day 'tis like some precious prism,
and limpidly the evenings shine.
\Vhere lusty sickles swung and corn-ears bent
the plain is empty now: wider it seems.
Alone a silky filament
across the idle furrow gleams.

35
 The airy void, now birdless, is revealed,
but still remote is the first whirl of snow;
and stainless skies in mellow blueness Bow
upon the hushed reposing field.

APPE ASE M E N T

The storm withdrew, but Thor had found his oak,

and there it lay magnificently slain,
and from its limbs a remnant of blue smoke
spread to bright trees repainted by the rain -
-while thrush and oriole made haste to mend
their broken melodies throughout the grove,
upon the crests of which was propped the end
of a virescent rainbow edged with mauve.

TE ARS

Human tears, 0 the tears! you that Bow

when life is begun - or half-gone,
tears unseen, tears unknown, you that none
can number or drain, you that run
like the streamlets of rain from the low
clouds of Autumn, long before dawn .. . .
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

PUSBKIN However, for a true appreciation of

Pushkin too much is required from
IT SEEMS UNNECESSARY to remind the
the reader to make such readers nu­
reader that Alexander Pushkin ( 1799-
merous. His conventional admirers
1837) was Russia's greatest poet but
think of him mainly in tem1s of
it may be preferable not to talce any
schoolbooks and Chaikovsky's operas.
chances. Apart from numerous short
His life was as glamorous as a good
lyrics displaying a precision of ex­
grammarian's life ought to be. A maze
pression and a melody of tone that
of tragic events led to his fatal duel
Russian literature had never known
with a young ex-Chouan, a blond,
before. he wrote epics, ballads, fairy
fatuous adventurer who was hardly
tales, humorous or romantic fantasies
aware that the morose black-bearded
(T�m CAPTIVE oF THE CAucAsus. Tm
husband of the pretty woman he
FouNTAIN oF BAKIIcmsARAY, CouNT
courted, dabbled in verse. This Baron
NuuN, TnE CoTTAGE rs Koi.o:-.tNA,
d'Anthcs having recovered from the
THE GYPSIES, PoLTAVA, THE EGYPTIAN
slight \vound he had received after
NIGHTS, ANGELO, TuE Gm.oEs CocK­
shooting Pushkin through the liver
EREL, THE BRoNZE HoRSEMAN, etc.),
returned to France, had a glorious
dramas in blank verse (BoRIS Goou­
time under Napoleon III, was men­
NOV and the diminutive l\·l ozART AND
tioned by Victor Hugo in one of his
SALJERJ, THE Cov ETo us KsiGHT, TilE
poetical diatribes and lived to the in­
FEAST DURING THE PLAGUE, THE GUEST
credible and unnecessary age of 90·
OF SToNE, T HE RIVER NYMPH) and
'Vhen an inquisitive Russian traveller
that prodigious "novel" consisting of
once asked the grand old man how he
sonnet-like strophes,- EuGENE ONE­
had found it possible to deprive Rus­
GIN. He applied the principles of his
sia of her greatest poet-"Mais enfin,"
poetry - an epigrammatical precision
answered the Baron rather testily,
and a rhythmical balance difficult to
"moi aussi, I too am something: je
define without examples-to his prose
suis Senateur!"
(see his stories and short novels of
which the best is THE QuEEN OF
SPADEs). This precision and balance
LERMONTOV
were quite abandoned by the great
but diffuse Russian novelists of the MicHAEL LERMONTOV was born when
XIX century. Pushkin was a lad of fifteen and he
During his lifetime he was pestered died four years after Pushkin's death,
by a fatherly but grossly uncultured aged 1.7. Like Pushkin, he was killed
Tsar just as his writings were to be in a duel but this was a casual ren­
rejected later by the well-meaning contre-not the inevitable sequel of
radical critics of the civic school that a tangled tragedy as in the master's
dominated public opinion in the Six­ case. He spent the best years of his
ties and Seventies. In modern times short life in the Caucasus whither he
Marxism had considerable difficulty had been banished twice-first for of­
in adjusting Pushkin to its needs and fending the Government by a piece
principles but the question was finally of poetry on Pushkin's death (for
solved on the nationalistic plane. which he rightly blamed the scoun-

37
drels surrounding the throne), then qualities and reveals (in the thirties!)
for a scrap with a lesser d'Anthcs. clements which characterize the fin
A moody young man with dark de siccle renaissance of Russian poetry
lusterless eyes, he tended to imitate (also called decadence, also called
Byron in his ways but was a greater symbolism-the student ought not to
poet than the latter. He was a brave bother much about these terms)
soldier and seems to have enjoyed which in its rum was panly influ­
fighting the Caucasian tribes. His best enced by similar trends in French
poetry was written during the last poetry. This is a somewhat loose
three or four years of his life. As the statement but too much space would
critic Mirsky, whose work on Rus­ be required to elaborate peculiarities
sian literature is the best on the mar­ and affinities.
ket so far, puts it "As a romantic In the early twenties the gentle
poet he has • no rival in Russia
. • Tyutchcv entered the diplomatic ser­
and he had in him everything to be­ vice and spent the next twenty-two
come also a great realist-in the Rus­ years mostly abroad and mostly in
sian sense." Of his longer pieces THE South Germany. He was on friendly
DEMON and MTSYRI arc the most per­ terms with Schelling and Heine and
fect. His highly original prose is hoth his wives were German. His
terser, less velvety and even more only insubordination during those
sober than Pushkin's. Though de­ years seems to have been a trip to
cidedly patchy, Lcrmontov remains Switzerland without a proper leave
for the true lover of poetry a miracu­ from his Ambassador. When about
lous being whose de,·elopmcnt IS fifty he had a pathetic liaison which
something of a mystery. lasted until his mistress' death in
1864. Politically he was a rather smug
conservative with Slavophile leanings
TYUTCREV
and a sentimental fondness for per­
NEimER TvuTcHEv's life (1803-1873) manently anointed Tsardom. The
nor personality contains that romantic batch of poems inspired by his polit­
appeal which makes the biographies ical vie\vs makes rather painful read­
of Pushkin and Lcrmontov almost ing. On the other hand, his short
homogeneous with their muses. His lyrics belong to the greatest ever
poetry however has quite exceptional written in Russian.
 qp
This edition was designed by Ernst Reichl
and printed at the Profile Press in New York City.
The types used are Linotype Janson
and Engravers' Roman.