The moon illuminates the eaves,
And skims the crests of waves at night…
The chilly hands of the marquise
Are fragrant, delicate and light.
“O Prince! — she curtsies and exhales, —
“In quadrille, you’re the vis-à-vis,” —
The mask conceals her turning pale
From burning love and ecstasy.
The entryway’s obscured by sloping
Poplar trees and hops that fell.
“Baghdad and Constantinople,
I will win for you, ma belle.”
“You are smiling so rarely,
That I’m frightened in advance!”
The cold pavilion is shady.
“Well then! Maybe, let us dance?”
They walk off and lanterns flicker
On the elm and maple trunks.
Clad in emerald, ladies bicker,
Betting gaily with the monks.
With azaleas, Pierrot,
Smirks and starts a friendly chat:
“Prince! Are you the one who broke
The feather on marquise’s hat?”
Луна освещает карнизы,
Блуждает по гребням реки…
Холодные руки маркизы
Так ароматны-легки.
«О принц! — улыбаясь, присела, —
В кадрили вы наш vis-à-vis»1, —
И томно под маской бледнела
От жгучих предчувствий любви.
Вход скрыл серебрящий тополь
И низко спадающий хмель.
«Багдад или Константинополь
Я вам завоюю, ma belle!»2
«Как вы улыбаетесь редко,
Вас страшно, маркиза, обнять!»
Темно и прохладно в беседке.
«Ну что же! пойдем танцевать?»
Выходят. На вязах, на кленах
Цветные дрожат фонари,
Две дамы в одеждах зеленых
С монахами держат пари.
И бледный, с букетом азалий,
Их смехом встречает Пьеро:
«Мой принц! О, не вы ли сломали
На шляпе маркизы перо?»
____
1. Визави (фр.)
2. Моя красавица! (фр.)
«A girl was singing in the old church choir, / About the ships that sailed in the mist, / About those abroad, whose lives turned dire, / And those who’ve lost their happiness and bliss. / Up in the cupolas, her voice had filled the room, / The sun, upon her shoulders, made them white, / ...»
«I love You, My Guardian Angel, in gloom. / In gloom, that has followed me out of the womb. / Because you were once my fair gorgeous bride. / Because you have seen all the secrets I hide. / Because we are bound by secrets and night. / Because you’re my sister, my daughter, my bride. / B...»
«Night. The city grew calm. / Behind the large window / The mood is solemn and somber, / As if a man is dying. / But there someone stands simply sad, / Troubled by his misfortune, / With an opened collar, / And looks at the stars. / “Stars, stars, / Tell me the cause of grief!” ...»
«A mournful waxwork exhibition / Is opened for the third year straight. / A crowd of drunks awaits admission... / While in the grave, the queen awaits. She lies there, in her tomb of glass, / Neither alive nor fully dead, / And shameless people, as they pass, / All whisper of the life sh...»