"August", by Boris Pasternak

[med_cat]

«Август»

Борис Пастернак

1953 год.

Как обещало, не обманывая,
Проникло солнце утром рано
Косою полосой шафрановою
От занавеси до дивана.

Оно покрыло жаркой охрою
Соседний лес, дома поселка,
Мою постель, подушку мокрую,
И край стены за книжной полкой.

Я вспомнил, по какому поводу
Слегка увлажнена подушка.
Мне снилось, что ко мне на проводы
Шли по лесу вы друг за дружкой.

Вы шли толпою, врозь и парами,
Вдруг кто-то вспомнил, что сегодня
Шестое августа по старому,
Преображение Господне.

Обыкновенно свет без пламени
Исходит в этот день с Фавора,
И осень, ясная, как знаменье,
К себе приковывает взоры.

И вы прошли сквозь мелкий, нищенский,
Нагой, трепещущий ольшаник
В имбирно-красный лес кладбищенский,
Горевший, как печатный пряник.

С притихшими его вершинами
Соседствовало небо важно,
И голосами петушиными
Перекликалась даль протяжно.

В лесу казенной землемершею
Стояла смерть среди погоста,
Смотря в лицо мое умершее,
Чтоб вырыть яму мне по росту.

Был всеми ощутим физически
Спокойный голос чей-то рядом.
То прежний голос мой провидческий
Звучал, не тронутый распадом:

«Прощай, лазурь преображенская
И золото второго Спаса
Смягчи последней лаской женскою
Мне горечь рокового часа.

Прощайте, годы безвременщины,
Простимся, бездне унижений
Бросающая вызов женщина!
Я — поле твоего сражения.

Прощай, размах крыла расправленный,
Полета вольное упорство,
И образ мира, в слове явленный,
И творчество, и чудотворство.

As promised in most truthful fashion,
The sun got in resolved to lounge
And laid a slanting strip of saffron
Between the curtain and the couch.

He splashed hot ochre, having pointed
At nearby woods, the township land,
My bed, the pillow slightly moistened,
Some of the wall behind the stand.

Why was the pillow damp? I started
Recalling quite a dream last night:
To pay respects as I departed,
You crossed the wood and came in sight.

Some walked in pairs, some single, focused,
When one said of his own accord:
By Old Style it’s the sixth of August —
Transfiguration of Our Lord.

The day when with no flames or thunders
The light of Tabor proudly shines,
And autumn, clear as signs and wonders,
Mysteriously draws the eyes.

And on you came past alders horrid,
Half-naked, shaky, in a daze,
Into the crimson graveyard forest
Like painted gingerbread ablaze.

The sky, while making neighbors proudly
With treetops, let a silence fall,
And only distance answered loudly
As roosters made their drawn-out call.

A grim surveyor at the ready,
Stood death to witness my demise;
He eyed my face deceased already
To dig a pit of proper size.

Then tangibly in calm majestic,
A voice was heard by all that day.
It was my former voice prophetic
That rang undamaged by decay.

“Farewell, transfigured azure glory,
The gold of Second Spas in power;
Let woman’s last caress console me
In sadness of my final hour.

Farewell, the years of sheer stagnation.
Let’s part, my love! All hope foregone,
You still defy humiliation!
I am the field you battle on.

Farewell, the span of wings extended,
Free flying with a stubborn heart,
The worldview in the word reflected,
And works of miracle and art”.

Translated by Yuri Menis

 

And a more literal, unrhymed translation, if you wish to compare:

As promised and without deception,
The sun passed through in early morning
In a slanting saffron stripe
From the curtain to the sofa.

It covered with burning ochre
The neighboring woods, village houses,
My bed, the wet pillow
And the strip of wall behind the bookshelf.

 

I remembered for what reason
The pillow was slightly damp.
I dreamed that you were coming to my wake,
One after another through the woods.

You were coming in a crowd, in ones and twos,
Suddenly, someone remembered that it was
August sixth by the old calendar,
The Transfiguration of Christ.

Usually, a light without fire
Pours this day from Mt. Tabor
And autumn, clear as an omen,
Compels the gaze of all.

And you walked through the scant, beggarly
Naked trembling alder grove
Into the ginger-red cemetery woods,
Burning like glazed ginger bread.

A solemn sky verged
Upon its silent heights,
And distance called out
In drawling rooster voices.

In the woods, among the gravestones
Death stood like a government surveyor,
Looking at my dead face
To dig my grave to measure.

All sensed the presence
Of someone's calm voice nearby.
It was my old prophetic voice
That rang, untouched by decay:

"Farewell to the azure of Transfiguration
And the gold of the Second coming.
Soothe the woe of my fatal hour
With a woman's parting caress.

Farewell to the trackless years!
Let's say goodbye, o, woman who hurls
A challenge to the abyss of humiliation.
I am your battlefield.

Farewell to you unfurled wing-span,
Free, persistent flight,
The world's image, captured in a word,
Creative work, and miracle-working.

Translated by Richard McKane