Lyubov Mendeleeva, Blok's Wife
Aleksandr Blok
(1880-1921)
О доблестях, о подвигах, о славе
Я забывал на горестной земле,
Когда твое лицо в простой оправе
Передо мной сияло на столе.
Но час настал, и ты ушла из дому.
Я бросил в ночь заветное кольцо.
Ты отдала свою судьбу другому,
И я забыл прекрасное лицо.
Летели дни, крутясь проклятым роем…
Вино и страсть терзали жизнь мою…
И вспомнил я тебя пред аналоем,
И звал тебя, как молодость свою…
Я звал тебя, но ты не оглянулась,
Я слезы лил, но ты не снизошла.
Ты в синий плащ печально завернулась,
В сырую ночь ты из дому ушла.
Не знаю, где приют твоей гордыне
Ты, милая, ты, нежная, нашла…
Я крепко сплю, мне снится плащ твой синий,
В котором ты в сырую ночь ушла…
Уж не мечтать о нежности, о славе,
Все миновалось, молодость прошла!
Твое лицо в его простой оправе
Своей рукой убрал я со стола.
1908
Literal Translation
To valor, deeds
of zealotry, of glory
I paid no heed on
this sorrowful earth,
While your face
in a simple picture frame
On the table
shone before me.
But the hour came,
you left our home;
Out into the
night I threw the cherished ring.
You gave your
destiny into the hands of another,
And I forgot
your lovely face.
The days flew
by, whirling in a mad swarm . . .
Wine and
passion made torment of my life . . .
And I recalled
you praying at your prie dieu (prayer desk),
I called out to
you, as if calling to my youth . . .
I called to
you, but you did not look back,
I shed tears,
but you did not deign (to notice).
Wrapped up
sorrowfully in your blue cloak,
You walked out
of our home into the damp night.
I do not know,
my dear, my tender one,
Where you have found
a haven for your pride . . .
I sleep
soundly, I dream of your blue cloak,
In which you
walked out into the damp night.
No more dreams
are to be of tenderness, of glory;
All is finished
now, my youth is past!
With my own
hand I have removed from the table
Your face in
its simple frame.
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
While that
chaste picture frame, your face, its animation
Shone on my dresser,
mansuetude refined,
All acts of
zealotry, all valor, exaltation
On this sad
earth I banished from my mind.
But then you broke
our home, left me distrait;
I flung the
cherished ring out into night.
In someone
else’s hand you placed your fate,
And I forgot
that face, swathed in pure light.
The days flew
by, in swarms of madness sailed,
And wine and
passion ruled my sorry life . . .
Recalling you
at prayer, by prie-dieu, veiled,
As if in
calling youth, I called to once-my-wife.
I called to you,
but you did not look back,
I wept, you did
not deign to apprehend my plight.
You wrapped
yourself in your blue anorak,
You left our
house, walked out into damp night.
I do not know,
my tender one, my ceaseless rue,
Where your
pride finally rested from your flight . . .
I sleep deep
sleep, in dreams an anorak of blue
I see, the one
you wore into the damp of night . . .
No tenderness
in dreams these days, no gloried exaltation;
All’s finished
now, my youth is long, long past.
That picture
frame, your face, the animation
I’ve taken down
from dresser top at last.
Translator’s Note
