Translation of Poem by Innokenty Annensky, Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский, "После концерта," AFTER THE CONCERT

 

Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский

(1855-1909)

 

                                                             После концерта

В аллею чёрные спустились небеса,
Но сердцу в эту ночь не превозмочь усталость...
Погасшие огни, немые голоса,
Неужто это всё, что от мечты осталось?

О, как печален был одежд её атлас,
И вырез жутко бел среди наплечий чёрных!
Как жалко было мне её недвижных глаз
И снежной лайки рук, молитвенно-покорных!

 

А сколько было там развеяно души
Среди рассеянных, мятежных и бесслёзных!
Что звуков пролито, взлелеянных в тиши,
Сиреневых и ласковых и звёздных!

 

Так с нити порванной в волненьи иногда,
Средь месячных лучей, и нежны и огнисты,
В росистую траву катятся аметисты
И гибнут без следа.

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

After the Concert

 

The black skies have descended upon the garden walkway,

But tonight my heart cannot overcome its weariness . . .

Lights extinguished, the low murmur of voices,

Can it be that this is all that remains of a dream?

 

O how sad was the satin of the clothing she wore,

And the decolletage so gruesome white against the black shoulder straps!

How I pitied her motionless eyes

And the snow-white of her hands in kid gloves, suppliant and submissive!

 

And how much soul was scattered about there

Amidst the absent-minded, the rebellious and the tearless!

And how many sounds spilled out, nurtured in the quiet,

The lilac sounds, affectionate and starlit!

 

So it sometimes is that a thread is broken in a moment of emotion,

And a string of amethysts, soft and gleaming in moonlight,

Goes rolling in beads into the dew-laden grass,

And the beads are lost without a trace.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

After the Concert

 

Upon the garden promenade the pitch-black skies are hanging,

And weariness lies heavily upon my jaded soul . . .

The lights extinguished, voices muted, tinny sounds of clanging,

Can this be all that’s left for me of life’s bright farandole?

 

The satin of the clothes she wore so dim with sadness spangled,

The gruesome-white decolletage against black shoulder bands.

How pitiful her eyes’ fixed stare at pathways quinque-angled,

And snow-white of her kidskin gloves on meek beseeching hands.  

 

How much there was of soul that lay there scattered randomly,

Amidst distractedness of mind and fractious unwept tears.

The silent sounds spilled out and spread, were nurtured scantily:

Lilac murmurs, starlit whispers, tender music of the spheres.

 

Just so it is that string is torn in times of fraught emotion,

And amethysts once strung on neck come to a dire impasse;

The beads a-gleam in moonlit beams go rolling into motion,

To end up lost without a trace in swaths of dew-laved grass.