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.)
«And copper and worn my farthing / Is fit only for a beggar’s pouch. / This is not the good deed — / So, I’ll give my soul to him. / And if the soul is not coin, / But a golden star — / I’ll fling a sliver of light / There whe»
«Even in repentance there is pleasure: / But how bitter. As though from on high / Stones are thrown into the depths of the gorge / And the spirit abides quite alone. Out of the depths there arises / to the heights a muffled, troubled murmur. / The unbaring of spirit torments you: / With ...»
«Those who are woken, pray for me, / All those who hold a splinter of my soul. / The hour has come, brief steps lie to the goal — / All I have seen in dreams has come to be. Brothers and friends are lost in weary sleep. / The spirit is in mortal suffering spent. / The hour has come; the ...»
«The coachman sits like a king, / Wadded in armor, on a throne, / Spade-bearded like an icon, / Ringing with chain mail of coins. / And the poor horse flutters its arms, / Stretching like a coney fish, / Or, once more, flashing its eight legs / From out its gleaming belly.»