Альфред Теннисон - Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов

• Название: Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов
• Автор: Альфред Теннисон
• Издательство: Центр книги Рудомино
• Жанр: Искусство и Дизайн
• Год: 2013
• ISBN: 978-5-905626-83-8

Книга «Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов» впервые представляет поэзию прерафаэлитов, их предшественников и последователей в своеобразном диалоге с визуальными образами: многие стихи создавались одновременно с картинами или по их сюжетам; в свою очередь, многие картины были вдохновлены поэзией.

В книге одиннадцать поэтических имен. Читатели смогут познакомиться с новыми переводами, которые были выполнены специально для данного издания, и сравнить переводы с оригиналами.

Литературно-художественное издание 16+

---

КАНУН СВЯТОЙ АГНЕССЫ

Подлунным светом снег блестит,
    В морозной мгле, как дым,
Мое дыханье ввысь летит —
    Лети, душа, за ним.
Все резче тени на снегу
    От монастырских стен,
Все ближе час, когда смогу
    Земной покинуть плен,
Чиста отныне и навек,
    Как этот лунный свет,
Как этот нежный первоцвет,
    Что на груди согрет.

Как белый мой наряд не бел
    Пред снежной белизной,
Как огонек свечи несмел
    В сравнении с луной,
Так и душа моя темна
    Перед душой Твоей,
Так и земная жизнь бедна
    Пред той, что ждет за ней.
О, расстели передо мной
    Колючих звезд поток,
Введи сверкающей звездой
    В небесный Твой чертог!

И я иду к златым вратам
    В бездонной вышине,
И вспышки звезд то тут, то там
    Путь освещают мне,
Все выше, дальше — и врата
    Распахнуты, и вот
Пред Женихом, светла, чиста,
    Невеста предстает.
Безбрежный вечности покой
    Торжественен и тих.
Сʽвет над равниною морской —
    С невестою Жених!

Перевод О. Полей

MARIANA

ʽMariana in the moated grange.’

— Measure for Measure.

With blackest moss the flower-plots
    Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
    That held the pear to the garden-wall.
The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:
    Unlifted was the clinking latch;
    Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
         She only said, ʽMy life is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              I would that I were dead!’

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
    Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
    Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
    When thickest dark did trance the sky,
    She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
         She only said, The night is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              I would that I were dead!’

Upon the middle of the night,
    Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
    From the dark fen the oxen’s low
Came to her: without hope of change,
    In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,
    Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
         She only said, ‘The day is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
               I would that I were dead!’

About a stone-cast from the wall
    A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,
And o’er it many, round and small,
    The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
    All silver-green with gnarled bark:
    For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              I would that I were dead!’

And ever when the moon was low,
    And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
    She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
    And wild winds bound within their cell,
    The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
         She only said, ‘The night is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              I would that I were dead!’

All day within the dreamy house,
    The doors upon their hinges creak’d;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
    Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,
Or from the crevice peer’d about.
    Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,
    Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
         She only said, ‘My life is dreary,
              He cometh not,’ she said;
         She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              I would that I were dead!’

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,
    The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
    The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
    When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
    Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
         Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,
              He will not come,’ she said;
         She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
              Oh God, that I were dead!’

John Everett Millais MARIANA Oil on mahogany. 1851 Tate, London Джон Эверетт Миллес МАРИАНА Красное дерево, масло. 1851 Галерея Тейт, Лондон

МАРИАНА

В усадьбе, обнесенной рвом…

Шекспир. Мера за меру

На клумбах мох как черный креп,
    Аллеи глухи и мрачны,
И гвозди выпали из скреп,
    Державших грушу у стены.
И в запустенье вековом
    Строенья ветхие стоят,
    Пустых окон тоскливый ряд —
На мызе, окруженной рвом.
         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

На небе отгорел закат,
    Рассыпался горстями рос.
Поднять не в силах скорбный взгляд,
    Она лила потоки слез.
Мышей летучих вился рой
    И становилось все темней.
    Закрывши окна, в мир теней
Она вошла ночной порой.
         «Как ночь темна! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

Она проснулась: на земле
    Царила ночь, сойдя с высот.
Бык сонно замычал во мгле,
    Выпь закричала средь болот.
Во сне она брела с трудом,
    Сама не ведая, куда.
    Заря зажглась осколком льда
Над мызой, окруженной рвом.
         «Как день тосклив! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

Дремал под каменной стеной
    Забытый, почерневший шлюз,
И мох ползучей пеленой
    Воды с землей скреплял союз.
Над шлюзом тополь-исполин
    Стряхнул листву, коряв и гол.
    На много миль лишь этот ствол
Торчал над пустошью трясин.
         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

Когда всходила ввысь луна,
    И ветер дул, и вечер гас,
На белой завеси окна
    Тень тополя пускалась в пляс.
Но если ясной ночь была,
    А ветры прекращали дуть,
    То спящей на лицо и грудь
Ложилась тень, как вестник зла.
         «Как ночь темна! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

Влачился мирно скучный день.
    Все было тихо, слышно лишь,
Как дверь скрипит, жужжит слепень,
    Пищит под половицей мышь.
Но зов былого все властней
    Звучал: то задрожит крыльцо,
    То вдруг в окне мелькнет лицо
Из навсегда ушедших дней.
         «Как жизнь пуста! — она сказала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала,
              Уж лучше умереть!»

Со стенки — тиканье часов,
    Гвалт воробьиный средь ветвей
И ветра заунывный зов —
    Все было нестерпимо ей.
Но ненавистнее стократ
    Тот час, когда тонул весь дом
    В сиянье солнца золотом
И день клонился на закат.
         «Как страшно мне! — она рыдала. —
              Он не придет и впредь.
         А я устала, так устала!
              Господь, дай умереть!»

Перевод М. Виноградовой

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

PART I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
            To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
            The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
            Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
            The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
            Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
            The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
            Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers ʽʼTis the fairy
            Lady of Shalott.’

PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
            To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
            The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
            Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
            Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
            Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
            The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
            And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said
            The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
            Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield
That sparkled on the yellow field,
            Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
            As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
            Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
            As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
            Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
            As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
ʽTirra lirra,’ by the river
            Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
            She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried
            The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
            Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
            The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse —
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
            Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
            The Lady of Shalott.

Lying robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Thro’ the noises of the night
            She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
            The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
            Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
            The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
            Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
            The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
            All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, ‘She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
            The Lady of Shalott.’

John William Waterhouse THE LADY OF SHALOTT. Oil on canvas. 1888 Tate, London Джон Уильям Уотерхаус ЛЕДИ ШАЛОТТ. Холст, масло. 1888 Галерея Тейт, Лондон

ВОЛШЕБНИЦА ШАЛОТТ