Translation of poem by ALEKSANDR BLOK "О доблестях, о подвигах, о славе," "While that chaste picture frame, your face, its animation"

                                                      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.

 Dec. 30, 1908

 

Translator’s Note

 This love poem, which dates to 1908, is apparently based on Blok’s relationship with Lyubov’ Mendeleeva (1881-1939), an actress and daughter of the world-famous chemist, whom he married in 1903. For him, as for his friend and fellow Symbolist poet, Andrei Bely, Lyubov’ was not only a woman, but also something of a muse, and at times an incarnation of the image of the “Beautiful Lady,” embodiment of the feminine spirit of the Divine Sophia. Mixing all this mystification with his daily life, Blok lived on and off with Lyubov’ for years, sometimes chastely, sometimes carnally. At one point he shared her with Bely in something of a threesome. He was devastated by her affairs with other men, even though he himself was engaging with other women at the same time. This Romantic, rather melodramatic poem—ring tossed out into dark night, sighs over lost youth, etc.—not in my view one of Blok’s best, is, for all that, among his most popular.