Her tears affected none —
the tears she had not shed.
Against an ostrich fan
her pallid cheek she laid.
Admirers in the stalls
screwed up a handkerchief:
where crimson curtain palls
her hands brought white relief.
They knew how warm the jewel in
her imitation ring
camellia's endless cool in
her white hands wintering.
But how resigned and fleeting
the handkerchief slipped down
how calm the heart was beating
oblivious of the pain.
People forgave it as
the curtain fell afar:
pale yellow rose bouquets
were piled backstage for her.
Holding the roses, scarce
a petal could she see:
down her cheeks ran the tears
dry tears of mastery.
Никто слезам ее не верил,
и слез она не пролила.
На страусовый белый веер
она щекою прилегла.
Ее поклонники в партере
смотрели, комкая платки,
как на малиновой портьере
белели две ее руки.
Они-то знали жар каменьев
в ее притворных перстеньках
и вечный холодок камелий,
зимующий в ее руках.
Но так смертельно и покорно
платочек выпадал из рук,
и сердце билось так покойно,
не замечая этих мук.
Ему прощали люди это,
и падал занавес вдали,
и бледно-желтых роз букеты
в ее уборную несли.
Она держала эти розы
и различала их едва,
а по щекам катились слезы,
сухие слезы мастерства.
«My youth was hard to endure. / With so much sorrow to bear. / How can a soul this poor / Be returned to You rich and fair? / A song of praise, long and elegant, / The flattering fate sings fervent. / Lord, Almighty! I’m negligent, / Always Your miserly servant. / Not a rose, not a ...»
«Sunlight filled the room with splendor, / Yellow wafting dust fell near. / I woke up and I remembered / That today’s your name day, dear. / For this reason, blizzard-swept / Distances turned warm and grand / And I, in sleeplessness, have slept / Like a pleased communicant.»
«You have come to comfort me, my dear, / The most gentle, the most kind and modest… / But bedridden, I can’t rise, I fear, / And the window’s covered with a lattice. You assumed that I was long expired, / And you brought a meager little wreath. / O, how painfully I’m wounded with e...»
«How I crave immortality, dying. / Clouds of dust come low from afar... / Let the naked red devils come flying, / With the cauldrons of foul-smelling tar. Playing tricks, crawl up to me, lurking, / Threats from books, all tattered and bent, / Only leave me my memory working / Just my mem...»