Translations: The Bestest of the Best, TWENTY-SIX, Afanasy Fet, А. А. Фет, "Был чудный майский день в Москве," A WONDROUS MOSCOW DAY IN MAY

 

А. А. Фет
(1820-1892)

 

Был чудный майский день в Москве;
Кресты церквей сверкали,
Вились касатки под окном
И звонко щебетали.

Я под окном сидел, влюблен,
Душой и юн и болен.
Как пчелы, звуки вдалеке
Жужжали с колоколен.

Вдруг звуки стройно, как орган,
Запели в отдаленьи;
Невольно дрогнула душа
При этом стройном пеньи.

И шел и рос поющий хор, —
И непонятной силой
В душе сливался лик небес
С безмолвною могилой.

И шел и рос поющий хор, —
И черною грядою
Тянулся набожно народ
С открытой головою.

И миновал поющий хор,
Его я минул взором,
И гробик розовый прошел
За громогласным хором.

Струился теплый ветерок,
Покровы колыхая,
И мне казалось, что душа
Парила молодая.

Весенний блеск, весенний шум,
Молитвы стройной звуки —
Всё тихим веяло крылом
Над грустию разлуки.

За гробом шла, шатаясь, мать.
Надгробное рыданье! —
Но мне казалось, что легко
И самое страданье.

 

1857

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                           Literal Translation

It was a marvelous day of May in Moscow,
The crosses on churches were sparkling,
Swallows outside my window were wheeling,
Venting their clear chirps.
 
I sat in love beside the window,
My soul both young and ill.
Distant sounds, like bees,
Were buzzing from [church] bell towers.
 
Suddenly [other] sounds, harmonious, like an organ,
Sang out in the distance;
My soul involuntarily shuddered,
Upon hearing that harmonious singing.
 
Walking and growing was a singing choir,
And with ineffable power
In my soul were melded heaven’s visage
And the quietude of the grave.
 
And walked on, growing, the singing choir,
And a long black line of people
Stretched out, bare-headed,
Steeped in piety.
 
The singing choir went past,
I followed it with my gaze,
And a small, rose-colored coffin went by,
After the resonant sounds of the choir.
 
A warm breeze wafted up,
Ruffling the cerement cloths [on top of the coffin],
And it seemed to me that
The young soul was faintly respiring.
 
The gleam of spring, the vernal hum,
The harmonious sounds of prayers—
Everything spread its quiet wing
Over the sorrow of parting.
 
Staggering behind the coffin, the mother walked,
Voicing her funereal lamentations!
But to me the very thing of suffering,
Seemed easy, light and airy.
 
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                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
 
A wondrous Moscow day in May,
Each cross on church aglitter,
Outside the swallows roundelay,
Their gurgle-chirp and twitter.
 
By window seated in love’s sway,
My young soul sick, besotted,
The belfies’ bee-buzz far away
The air with droning slarted.  
 
Then suddenly came one more sound,
Harmonic, distant, soulful,
I sensed the core of me resound
With music sweet and doleful.  
 
Drew near a marching, surging choir,
I felt the sounds my heart engrave
With blend of heaven’s blessèd fire
And dire corruption of the grave.
 
The surging choir sang on and marched,
Behind it, hatless, trudged along
Black line of mourners, bleak, soul-parched, 
But pious, fortified by song.
 
The choir went by, I watched it go,
And next in line, to death in thrall,
Behind the songs, the mourning flow,
A coffin passed, rose-colored, small.
 
A freshet-breeze arose just then,
Puffed up the pall on coffin’s top, 
As if that young soul breathed, “Amen,”
Respired out its last full stop.
 
The gleam of spring, the vernal hum,
The flow of prayers, the soothing tune,
All life spread wide its winged humdrum
O’er valediction’s murk and gloom.
 
Behind the coffin walked the mother,
She stumbled as she wailed her plaint,
But I perceived all pain as other;
My heart felt light, void of constraint.