And boring and sad, and none to be given a hand
When a minute of suffering comes…
(An eastern legend)
In the waterless plains of Arabian land
I love my motherland but with strange love!
My reason can't defeat this sense.
Unwashed Russia, farewell to you,
The land of lords, the land of serfs
Though heavy a burden is in it sometimes,
The cart is light when gaining speed;
A golden cloud passed the night
On the bosom of a giant cliff;
Night, a street, a lamppost, a drugstore,
A meaningless and faint light.
All day — like any day: comprised of little work
And many a trifling care.
Not highly I esteem
The loud rights from which many a head spin.
I love you in a unilateral order
Recklessly, without a backward glance;
Feeling no jealousy, no parting torture,
I gladly play my minor part in this romance.
на тему 'Нескончаемой любви' Р. Тагора
Я вас любил во всех обличьях
Из жизни в жизнь, из века в век;
What a starry night today, behold!
Until late the Enchanter must have toiled:
Ascended hills, walked in the shade of dales —
He is the deathless lord of mortal days.
A giddy Butterfly has sung
Through all summer in the sun;
How many times it has been said
That flattery is vile, that flattery is bad,
When long ago the Gods were removed from Greece
And among laity their lands were let on lease,
Emil Sharafutdinov, a poet, playwright and translator, was born in 1988 in the USSR to the family of engineers Louise and Zachary Sharafutdinovs. #freeNavalny! Glory to Ukraine! my telegram: https: //t.me/emilwindward)
Mozart And Salieri By Alexander Pushkin
All say: there is no truth on earth.
But truth is neither higher. For me
It's clear as a simple scale.
I was born with love for art;
Being a child, when high was ringing
The organ in our ancient church,
I listened and was absorbed in listening — tears
Involuntary and sweet ran.
Idle amusements I rejected early;
Sciences, alien to music, were
Repellent to me; obstinately and arrogantly
I renounced them and devoted
Myself to music only. Hard is the first step
And boring is the first way. I overcame
The early hardships. The craft
I had set as the foot for the art;
I became a craftsman: to the fingers
I gave obedient, dry quickness
And accuracy to the ear. Having killed sounds,
Music I ate through, like a corpse. I checked
Harmony with algebra. Then
I already dared, experienced in the science,
To indulge in the delight of a creative dream.
I started to create, but in silence, but in secret,
Not daring yet to think of fame.
Not seldom, having been sitting up in a silent cell
Two, three days, having forgotten sleep and food,
Having enjoyed raptures and tears of inspiration,
I was burning my work and coldly watching,
How my thought and sounds, born by me,
Blazing, were disappearing with light smoke.
What do I say? When the great Gluck
Appeared and revealed to us new mysteries
(The deep, captivating mysteries) ,
Did I not dropped all what I had known before,
What so much loved, in what so ardently believed,
And whether not went lively after him
Submissively, like one who lost his way
And by another was sent in a different direction?
With forceful strenuous constancy
I'd finally in the boundless art
Achieved a high degree. Fame
smiled to me; in the hearts of men
I found consonance with my creations.
I was happy: I enjoyed peacefully
My work, success, fame: also
Works and achievements of the friends,
My comrades in the wonderful art.
No! Never had I known envy,
O, never! — Neither when Piccinni
Managed to captivate the ear of savage Parisians,
Nor when I heard for the first time
The Iphigénie's1 opening sounds.
Who'd say that Salieri proud has ever been
An envier despicable,
A snake by people trampled, alive
Sand and dust biting powerlessly?
None! .. But now — I say myself — I'm now
An envier. I envy; deeply,
Painfully envy. — O heaven!
Where is justice, when the sacred gift,
When the immortal genius — not in reward
To ardent love, selflessness,
Toil, diligence, prayers was sent —
But illuminates the head of a madman,
An idle reveler? .. O Mozart, Mozart!
Aha! you've seen! But I wanted
to treat you to an unexpected joke.
You here! — For how long?
Now. I was going to you,
Had something to show you;
But, walking by a tavern, suddenly
I heard a violin… No, my friend Salieri!
Anything funnier in all your born days
You've not heard… A blind fiddler in the tavern
Performed voi che sapete2. Miracle!
I couldn't resist, I've brought the fiddler,
So as to treat you to his art.
The blind old man with the violin enters.
Something from Mozart for us!
The old man plays an area from Don Giovanni;
And you can laugh?
Aren't you yourself laughing?
I do not laugh when a dauber worthless
Dirties for me Rafael's Madonna,
I do not laugh when a buffoon disgusting
With a parody abuses Alighieri.
Go away, old man.
Wait: here is for you,
Drink to my health.
The old man leaves.
Are out of spirits now. I'll come to you
At another time.
What have you brought to me?
No — nothing; a trifle. The other night
Insomnia was wearying me,
And two, three thoughts came to my head.
Today I put them down. I wanted
To hear your opinion; but now
You aren't in the mood for me.
Ah, Mozart, Mozart!
When am I not for you? Sit down;
I am listening.
(at the piano)
Picture to yourself… who?
Well, take me — a little younger;
In love — not too much but slightly —
With a beauty or with a friend — with you for instance,
I'm cheerful… Suddenly: a deathly apparition,
Sudden darkness or something like that…
You were going to me with this
And could stop at the tavern
And listen to the blind fiddler! — God!
You, Mozart, are unworthy of yourself.
So, is it good?
What a depth!
What daring and what harmony!
You, Mozart, are a god, and know not that yourself;
I know, I.
Oh! really? maybe…
But the deity of mine is hungry.
Listen: let us dine together
At the tavern of Golden Lion.
I'm glad. But let me go home to tell
My wife so that she won't be expecting me
I'm waiting for you; watch it.
No! I can't oppose my dole,
My fate: I'm chosen to stop him
Or else we all shall perish,
We all, priests, servants of music,
Not I alone with my deaf fame…
What profit if Mozart will be alive
And yet achieve a newer height?
Will he raise the art by that? No;
It will fall again as he disappears:
He won't leave us a heir.
What profit is in him? Like a cherub,
He brought to us several heavenly songs,
In order to, having disturbed the wingless longing,
In us, children of dust, fly away after!
Then fly away! the sooner, the better.
Here is the poison, the last gift of my Isora.
Eighteen years I carry it on me —
And often life has seemed to me since then
An intolerable wound, and I sat often
With the careless enemy over a meal,
And never to the whisper of temptation
Have I bowed, although I am not a coward,
Although offence I feel deeply,
Although little I love life. Still I've been lingering.
How thirst for death tormented me,
Why die? I deemed: perhaps, life
Would bring me sudden gifts;
Perhaps, I would be visited by delight
And a creative night, and inspiration;
Perhaps, a new Haydn would create
The great — and I would enjoy it…
How I feasted with the hated guest,
Perhaps, I deemed, the evilest enemy
I'd find; perhaps, the evilest offence
Would burst upon me from a proud height —
Then you shall not be wasted, the gift of Isora.
And I was right! and finally I've found
My enemy, and the new Haydn
Has marvelously intoxicated me with delight!
Now it's time! the cherished gift of love,
Pass today into the cup of friendship.
A separate room at the tavern; piano.
Mozart and Salieri at table.
Why are you gloomy today?
You must be, Mozart, upset with something?
The dinner is good, the wine is fine,
But you are keeping silent and frowning.
My Requiem is troubling me.
You are composing a Requiem? For how long?
Long, about three weeks. But a strange incident…
Did I not tell you?
Some three weeks ago, I came home late.
I was told that someone came
For me. Why — I do not know,
All night I was thinking: who must have been it?
And what did he want me for? The next day the same
Came and didn't catch me in again.
On the third day I was playing on the floor
With my boy. They called me;
I came out. A man, dressed in black,
Having bowed politely, ordered
Me a Requiem and disappeared. I sat down at once
And began to write — and since then
My black man haven't come for me;
But I am glad: I would be sorry to part
With my work, though quite ready
Is the Requiem. But meanwhile I…
I am ashamed to confess to that…
Day and night gives no rest to me
My black man. After me everywhere
As a shadow he's chasing. Here now
It seems to me, he himself the third
Is sitting with us.
Never mind! what a childish fear?
Dispel the empty thought. Beaumarchais
Used to say to me: «Listen, brother Salieri,
When black thoughts come to you,
Uncork a bottle of champagne
Or reread The marriage of Figaro».
Yes! Beaumarchais was indeed your pal;
You composed «Tarare»3 for him,
A nice piece. There is one tune…
I'm always humming it when I am happy…
La la la la… Ah, is it true, Salieri,
That Beaumarchais poisoned somebody?
I don't think: he was too humorous
For such a trade.
He's after all a genius,
Like you and me. And genius and villainy —
Two things incompatible. Isn't it?
(Drops the poison into Mozart's glass.)
Health, friend, to the candid union
Binding Mozart and Salieri,
Two sons of harmony.
Wait, wait! .. You've drunk! .. without me?
(throws the napkin on the table)
Enough, I'm full.
(Goes to the piano.)
For the first time I'm shedding: and painfully and pleasantly,
As though I have fulfilled a heavy duty,
As though a knife curative has cut off to me
A suffering limb! Friend Mozart, these tears…
Ignore them. Continue, hurry
To fill some more my soul with sounds…
If only all felt so the force
Of harmony! But no: then the world
Could not exist; nobody would
Care about the needs of base life;
All would indulge in a free art.
There are few of us chosen, lucky men idle,
Neglecting contemptible profit,
Priests of the beautiful alone.
Isn't it? But I am unwell today,
I'm feeling somewhat heavy; I'll go to sleep
You shall sleep
For long, Mozart! But really is he right,
And I am no genius? Genius and villainy
Are two things incompatible. It is not true:
But Buonarroti? or is it a fairy tale
Of the stupid, senseless mob — and was not
A murderer the creator of Vatican? 4
1«Iphigénie en Tauride», an opera by Gluck
2 o, you, who know (itl.) . — The aria of Cherubino from the 3d act of Mozart's opera «The marriage of Figaro».
3 An opera by Salieri to a libretto by Beaumarchais.
4A legend exists that Michelangelo killed the model in order to depict dying Christ more naturally.
The poorest person on earth is the one who sells his shit - he's got nothing more valuable.