Шотландский ветер Лермонтова

There is a gloaming of the soul, when tomorrow

Is another day and the mental logjam eases.

In the half-light between joy and sorrow,

The soul itself is constrained;

Life is hateful, but death is unexplained.

You’ll find the root of the torment in yourself –

And heaven cannot be blamed for anything else.

This state, to which I’m long resigned,

Cannot be expressed in any tongue,

Neither that of demons, nor divine:

No such cares or worries there among

Those for whom the terms are more refined.

Only in a man are they combined:

This fractious blend of sacred and profane,

From which source arises all his pain.

No one ever gets just what he wants

Or whom he loves, and even he,

To whom was sanctioned happy chance,

Considering the past, will come to see

He could have been still happier,

His satisfaction snappier,

Had his hopes not been poisoned by his fate –

For past conditions are hard to recreate…

When, shepherded before the raging storm,

A billow breaks and surges with its foam,

It still recalls the kyle where it was born,

That tranquil harbour that it once called home.

And, perhaps, this wave will foam again

To such a bay, but will not find its kin:

No one who has wandered the high seas

Can ever hope for shelter or for ease.

I foresaw my fate, my own demise;

Precociously, I set the seal thereon;

And, how I suffer, no one need cognise –

Save the one whose verdict is foregone.

And, though banal, my death – and at whose hands –

Will seem grotesque; in foreign lands,

There’ll be amazement; but at home

Everyone will loudly curse my name.

Everyone? Not quite, there is one creature;

One heart with love’s capacity exists;

Though, till such time, I do not count this feature

Valid. A heart that still resists

Will not be swayed by what’s opined;

And now Cassandra conjures her to mind;

Her eyes, once full of cheer,

Are misted as she wipes away a tear.

For me, at last, a sanguine grave awaits;

Absent benediction or a cross;

Waters surging all around the straits;

Beneath the swirling mists, only moss

And lichen. And this young boy,

Drawn here he knows not why

To sit a while and meditate alone,

Pondering my fate upon this stone.

He’ll say: “Wherefore he failed to see

The light, and how he did not find

His friends, and why love’s fancy

Did not ease his troubled mind.

Wasn’t he deserving?” And he’ll ponder

As a shadow looms, and gazing yonder,

See grey clouds gliding over waves of blue,

A white sail, a fast-running canoe

And my memorial! – My cherished dreams

Are all like this. The sweetness

Is in everything not yet fulfilled, it seems

In just such pictures there’s completeness.

Though hard to put on paper, thought is strong,

When not constrained by logic, only song —

When running free, like in a children’s game,

Or when a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame!

English translation of 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ by M.Y. Lermontov © Thomas Beavitt August 2018

По заказу Максима Привезенцева.

Обложка.

Для подготовки обложки издания использована художественная работа автора.

Художник Евгения Бубер.

Фотография автора книги Максима Привезенцева из материалов экспедиции в Шотландию. www.maximprivezentsev.com