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И.С. ТУРГЕНЕВ
СТИХОТВОРЕНИЯ В ПРОЗЕ
Русский язык
Во дни сомнений, во дни тягостных раздумий о
судьбах моей родины, – ты один мне поддержка и
опора,
о
великий,
могучий,
правдивый
и
свободный русский язык! Не будь тебя – как не
впасть в отчаяние при виде всего, что совершается
дома? Но нельзя верить, чтобы такой язык не был
дан великому народу!
Мы еще повоюем!
Какая ничтожная малость может иногда пере-
строить всего человека!
Полный раздумья, шел я однажды по большой
дороге.
Тяжкие предчувствия стесняли мою грудь;
унылость овладевала мною.
Я поднял голову… Передо мною, между двух
рядов высоких тополей, стрелою уходила вдаль
дорога.
И через нее, через эту самую дорогу, в десяти
шагах от меня, вся раззолоченная ярким летним
солнцем, прыгала гуськом целая семейка воробьев,
прыгала бойко, забавно, самонадеянно!
Особенно один из них так и надсаживал бочком,
бочком, выпуча зоб и дерзко чирикая, словно и
чёрт ему не брат! Завоеватель – и полно!
А между тем высоко на небе кружил ястреб,
IVAN TURGENEV
POEMS IN PROSE
Translated by C. Garnett
The Russian Tongue
In days of doubt, in days of dreary musings on my
country's fate, thou alone art my stay and support,
mighty, true, free Russian speech! But for thee, how
not fall into despair, seeing all that is done at home?
But who can think that such a tongue is not the gift of
a great people!
We Will Still Fight On
What an insignificant trifle may sometimes trans-
form the whole man!
Full of melancholy thought, I walked one day
along the highroad.
My heart was oppressed by a weight of gloomy
apprehension; I was overwhelmed by dejection.
I raised my head.... Before me, between two rows
of tall poplars, the road darted like an arrow into the
distance.
And across it, across this road, ten paces from me,
in the golden light of the dazzling summer sunshine, a
whole family of sparrows hopped one after another,
hopped saucily, drolly, self-reliantly!
One of them, in particular, skipped along sideways
with desperate energy, puffing out his little bosom and
chirping impudently, as though to say he was not
afraid of any one! A gallant little warrior, really!
IVAN TURGENEV
POEMS IN PROSE
The Russian Language
In days of doubt, in days of painful meditations
concerning the destinies if my fatherland, thou alone
art my prop and my support, O great, mighty, just and
free Russian language! – Were it not for thee, how
could one fail to fall into despair at the sight of all that
goes on at home? – But it is impossible to believe that
such a language was not bestowed upon a great
people!
We Shall Still Fight On!
What an insignificant trifle can sometimes put the
whole man back in tune!
Full of thought, I was walking one day along the
highway.
Heavy forebodings oppressed my breast; melancholy
seized hold of me.
I raised my head…. Before me, between two rows of
lofty poplars, the road stretched out into the distance.
Across it, across the same toad, a whole little family
of sparrows was hopping, hopping boldly, amusingly,
confidently!
One of them in particular fairly set his wings
akimbo, thrusting his crop, and twittering audaciously,
as though the very devil was no match for him! A
conqueror – and that is all there is to be said.
But in the meantime, high up in the sky, was soaring
a hawk who, possibly, was fated to devour precisely
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которому, быть может, суждено сожрать именно
этого самого завоевателя.
Я поглядел, рассмеялся, встряхнулся – и
грустные думы тотчас отлетели прочь: отвагу,
удаль, охоту к жизни почувствовал я.
И пускай надо мной кружит мой ястреб…
– Мы еще повоюем, чёрт возьми!
«Как хороши, как свежи были розы…»
Где-то, когда-то, давно-давно тому назад, я про-
чел одно стихотворение. Оно скоро позабылось
мною… но первый стих остался у меня в памяти:
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
Теперь зима; мороз запушил стекла окон; в
темной комнате горит одна свеча. Я сижу,
забившись в угол; а в голове всё звенит да звенит:
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
И вижу я себя перед низким окном загородного
русского дома. Летний вечер тихо тает и переходит
в ночь, в теплом воздухе пахнет резедой и липой; а
на окне, опершись на выпрямленную руку и
склонив голову к плечу, сидит девушка – и
безмолвно и пристально смотрит на небо, как бы
выжидая
появления
первых
звезд.
Как
простодушно-вдохновенны задумчивые глаза, как
трогательно-невинны раскрытые, вопрошающие
губы, как ровно дышит еще не вполне расцветшая,
еще ничем не взволнованная грудь, как чист и
нежен облик юного лица! Я не дерзаю заговорить с
нею – но как она мне дорога, как бьется мое
сердце!
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
А в комнате всё темней да темней…
And, meanwhile, high overhead in the heavens
hovered a hawk, destined, perhaps, to devour that little
warrior.
I looked, laughed, shook myself, and the mournful
thoughts flew right away: pluck, daring, zeal for life I
felt anew. Let him, too, hover over me, my hawk....
We will fight on, and damn it all!
'How Fair, How Fresh Were The Roses ...'
Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a
poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has
stuck in my memory–
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-
panes; in the dark room burns a solitary candle. I sit
huddled up in a corner; and in my head the line keeps
echoing and echoing –
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
And I see myself before the low window of a Rus-
sian country house. The summer evening is slowly
melting into night, the warm air is fragrant of migno-
nette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on
her arm, her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young
girl, and silently, intently gazes into the sky, as though
looking for new stars to come out. What candour, what
inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving inno-
cence in the parted questioning lips, how calmly
breathes that still-growing, still-untroubled bosom,
how pure and tender the profile of the young face! I
dare not speak to her; but how dear she is to me, how
my heart beats!
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
But here in the room it gets darker and darker....
the same conqueror.
I looked, laughed, shook myself – and the
melancholy thoughts instantly fled. I felt daring,
courage, a desire for life.
An let my hawk soar over me if he will.
“We will still fight on, devil take it!”
“How Fair, How Fresh Wee the Roses”
Somewhere, some time, long long ago, I read a
poem. I speedily forgot it…. But its first line lingered
in my memory:
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
It is winter now; the window-panes are coated with
ice; in the warm chamber a single candles is burning. I
am sitting curled up in one corner; and in my brain
there rings and rings^
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
And I behold myself in front of the low window of a
Russian house in the suburbs, The summer evening is
melting and merging into night, there is a scent of
mignonette and linden-blossoms abroad in the warm
air; – and in the window, propped on a stiffened arm,
and with her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young
girl, gazing mutely and intently at the sky, as though
watching for the appearance of the first stars. Ho inge-
niously inspired are the thoughtful eyes; how tou-
chingly innocent are the parted, questioning lips; how
evenly breathes her bossom, not yet fully developed
and still unagitated by anything; how pure and tender
are the lines of the young face! I do not are to address
her, but how dear she is to me, how violently my heart
beats!
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Нагоревшая свеча трещит, беглые тени колеблются
на низком потолке, мороз скрыпит и злится за
стеною – и чудится скучный, старческий шёпот…
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
Встают
передо
мною
другие
образы…
Слышится веселый шум семейной деревенской
жизни. Две русые головки, прислонясь друг к
дружке, бойко смотрят на меня своими светлыми
глазками, алые щеки трепещут сдержанным
смехом, руки ласково сплелись, вперебивку звучат
молодые, добрые голоса; а немного подальше, в
глубине уютной комнаты, другие, тоже молодые
руки бегают, путаясь пальцами, по клавишам
старенького пианино – и ланнеровский вальс не
может
заглушить
воркотню
патриархального
самовара…
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
Свеча меркнет и гаснет… Кто это кашляет там
так хрипло и глухо? Свернувшись в калачик,
жмется и вздрагивает у ног моих старый пес, мой
единственный товарищ… Мне холодно… Я
зябну… И все они умерли… умерли…
Как хороши, как свежи были розы…
Корреспондент
Двое друзей сидят за столом и пьют чай.
Внезапный шум поднялся на улице. Слышны
жалобные стоны, ярые ругательства, взрывы
злорадного смеха.
– Кого-то бьют, – заметил один из друзей,
The candle burns dim and gutters, dancing shadows
quiver on the low ceiling, the cruel crunch of the frost
is heard outside, and within the dreary murmur of old
age....
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
There rise up before me other images. I hear the
merry hubbub of home life in the country. Two flaxen
heads, bending close together, look saucily at me with
their bright eyes, rosy cheeks shake with suppressed
laughter, hands are clasped in warm affection, young
kind voices ring one above the other; while a little
farther, at the end of the snug room, other hands,
young too, fly with unskilled fingers over the keys of
the old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the
hissing of the patriarchal samovar ...
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
The candle flickers and goes out.... Whose is that
hoarse and hollow cough? Curled up, my old dog lies,
shuddering at my feet, my only companion.... I'm cold
... I'm frozen ... and all of them are dead ... dead ...
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
The Reporter
Two friends were sitting at a table drinking tea.
A sudden hubbub arose in the street. They heard
pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant
laughter.
'They're beating some one,' observed one of the
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
And in the room everything grows darker and
darker…. The candle which has burned low begins to
flicker; white shadows waver across the low ceiling;
the frost creaks and snarls beyind the wall – nd I seem
to hear a tedious, senile whisper:
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
Other images rise up before me…. I hear the merry
murmur of family, of country life. Two red-gold little
heads, leaning against each other, gaze bravely at me
with their bright eyes; the red cheek quiver with
suppressed laughter; their hands are affectionately
intertwined; their young, king voices ring out, vying
with each other; and a little further away, in the depths
of a snug room, other hands, also young, are flying
about, with fingers entangled over the keys of a poor
little old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the
grumbling of the patriarchal samovar.
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
The candle flares up and dies out…. Who is that
coughing yonder so hoarsely and dully? Curled up in a
ring, my aged dog, my sole companion, is nestling and
quivering at my feet….
I feel cold…. I am shivering…. And they are all
dead…. All dead…
“How fair, how fresh were the roses…”
The Correspondent
Two friends are sitting at a table and drinking tea.
A sudden noise has arisen in the street. Plaintive
moans, violent oaths, outbursts of malicious laughter
have become audible.
“Some one is being beaten,” remarked one of the
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выглянув из окна.
– Преступника? Убийцу? – спросил другой. –
Слушай, кто бы он ни был, нельзя допустить
бессудную расправу. Пойдем заступимся за него.
– Да это бьют не убийцу.
– Не убийцу? Так вора? Всё равно, пойдем
отнимем его у толпы.
– И не вора.
– Не вора? Так кассира, железнодорожника,
военного
поставщика,
российского
мецената,
адвоката,
благонамеренного
редактора,
общественного жертвователя?… Все-таки пойдем
поможем ему!
– Нет… это бьют корреспондента.
– Корреспондента? Ну, знаешь что: допьем
сперва стакан чаю.
Дурак
Жил-был на свете дурак.
Долгое
время
он
жил
припеваючи;
но
понемногу стали доходить до него слухи, что он
всюду слывет за безмозглого пошлеца.
Смутился дурак и начал печалиться о том, как
бы прекратить те неприятные слухи?
Внезапная мысль озарила наконец его темный
умишко… И он, нимало не медля, привел ее в
исполнение.
Встретился ему на улице знакомый – и
принялся хвалить известного живописца…
– Помилуйте! – воскликнул дурак. – Живописец
этот давно сдан в архив… Вы этого не знаете? Я от
вас этого не ожидал… Вы – отсталый человек.
Знакомый испугался – и тотчас согласился с
friends, looking out of window.
'A criminal? A murderer?' inquired the other. 'I
say, whatever he may be, we can't allow this illegal
chastisement. Let's go and take his part.'
'But it's not a murderer they're beating.'
'Not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no dif-
ference, let's go and get him away from the crowd.'
'It's not a thief either.'
'Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a
railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art pa-
tron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social refor-
mer?... Any way, let's go and help him!'
'No ... it's a newspaper reporter they're beating.'
'A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we'll finish our
glasses of tea first then.'
The Fool
There lived a fool.
For a long time he lived in peace and contentment;
but by degrees rumours began to reach him that he was
regarded on all sides as a vulgar idiot.
The fool was abashed and began to ponder gloo-
mily how he might put an end to these unpleasant ru-
mours.
A sudden idea, at last, illuminated his dull little
brain.... And, without the slightest delay, he put it into
practice.
A friend met him in the street, and fell to praising
a well-known painter....
'Upon my word!' cried the fool,' that painter was
out of date long ago ... you didn't know it? I should
never have expected it of you ... you are quite behind
friends, after having cast a glance out of the window.
“A criminal? A murderer?” inquired the other. –
“See here, no matter who it is, such chastisement
without trial is not to be tolerated. Let us go and
defend him.”
“But it is no a murderer who is being beaten.”
“Not a murderer? A thief, then? Never mind, let us
go, let us rescue him from the mob.”
“It is not a thief, either.”
“Not a thief? Is it, then, a cashier, a railway
employee, and army contractor, A Russian Mæcenas, a
lawyer,
a
well-intentioned
editor,
a
public
philanthropist?... At any rate, let us go, let us aid him!”
“No…. they are thrashing a correspondent.”
“A correspondent? – Well, see here now, let’s drink
a glass of tea first.”
The Fool
Once upon a time a fool lived in the world.
For a long time he lived in clover; but gradually ru-
mours began to reach him to the effect that he bore the
reputation everywhere of a brainless ninny.
The fools was disconcerted and began to fret over
the question how he was to put an end to those unplea-
sant rumours.
A sudden idea at last illuminated his dark little
brain…. And without the slightest delay he put it into
execution.
An acquaintance met him on the street and began to
praise a well-known artist… “Good gracious!”
exclaimed the fool, “that artist was relegated to the
archives long ago…. Don’t you know that? – I did not
expect that of you…. You are behind the times.”
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дураком.
– Какую прекрасную книгу я прочел сегодня! –
говорил ему другой знакомый.
– Помилуйте! – воскликнул дурак. – Как вам не
стыдно? Никуда эта книга не годится; все на нее
давно махнули рукою. Вы этого не знаете? Вы –
отсталый человек.
И этот знакомый испугался – и согласился с
дураком.
– Что за чудесный человек мой друг N. N.! –
говорил дураку третий знакомый. – Вот истинно
благородное существо!
– Помилуйте! – воскликнул дурак. – N. N. –
заведомый подлец! Родню всю ограбил. Кто ж
этого не знает? Вы – отсталый человек!
Третий знакомый тоже испугался – и согласился
с дураком, отступился от друга.
И кого бы, что бы ни хвалили при дураке – у
него на всё была одна отповедь.
Разве иногда прибавит с укоризной:
– А вы всё еще верите в авторитеты?
– Злюка! Желчевик! – начинали толковать о
дураке его знакомые. – Но какая голова!
– И какой язык! – прибавляли другие. – О, да он
талант!
Кончилось тем, что издатель одной газеты
предложил дураку заведовать у него критическим
отделом.
И дурак стал критиковать всё и всех, нисколько
не меняя ни манеры своей, ни своих восклицаний.
Теперь
он,
кричавший
некогда
против
авторитетов, – сам авторитет – и юноши перед ним
благоговеют и боятся его.
Да и как им быть, бедным юношам? Хоть и не
the times.'
The friend was alarmed, and promptly agreed with
the fool.
'Such a splendid book I read yesterday!' said
another friend to him.
'Upon my word!' cried the fool, 'I wonder you're
not ashamed. That book's good for nothing; every
one's seen through it long ago. Didn't you know it?
You're quite behind the times.'
This friend too was alarmed, and he agreed with
the fool.
'What a wonderful fellow my friend N. N. is!' said
a third friend to the fool. 'Now there's a really gener-
ous creature!'
'Upon my word!' cried the fool. 'N. N., the noto-
rious scoundrel! He swindled all his relations. Every
one knows that. You're quite behind the times.'
The third friend too was alarmed, and he agreed
with the fool and deserted his friend. And whoever and
whatever was praised in the fool's presence, he had the
same retort for everything.
Sometimes he would add reproachfully: 'And do
you still believe in authorities?'
'Spiteful! malignant!' his friends began to say of
the fool. 'But what a brain!'
'And what a tongue!' others would add, 'Oh, yes,
he has talent!'
It ended in the editor of a journal proposing to the
fool that he should undertake their reviewing column.
And the fool fell to criticising everything and
every one, without in the least changing his manner, or
his exclamations.
Now he, who once declaimed against authorities,
is himself an authority, and the young men venerate
The acquaintance was frightened and immediately
agreed with the fool.
“What fine book I have read to-day!” said another
acquaintance to him.
“Good gracious!” cried the fool. – “Aren’t you
ashamed of yourself? That book is good for nothing;
everybody dropped it in disgust long ago. – Don’t you
know that? – You are behind the times.”
And that acquaintance also was frightened and areed
with the fool.
“What splendid man my friend N.N, is!” said a third
acquaintance to the fool. – “There’s a truly noble
being for you!”
“Good gracious!”– exclaimed the fool. – “it is well
known that N.N. is a scoundrel! He has robbed all his
relatives. Who is there that does not know it? You are
behind the times.”
The third acquaintance also too fright and agreed
with the fool, and renounced his friend. And whosoev-
er or whatsoever was praised in the fool’s presence, he
had the same retort for all.
He even sometimes added reproachfully:
“And do you still believe in the authorities?”
“A malicious person! A bilious man!” his
acquaintances began to say about the fool. – “But what
a head!”
“And what a tongue!” added others.
“Oh, yes; he is talented!”
It ended in the publisher of a newspaper proposing
to the fool that he should take charge of his critical
department.
And the fool began to criticise everything and
everybody, without making the slightest change in his
methods, ot in his exclamations.
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следует, вообще говоря, благоговеть… но тут,
поди, не возблагоговей – в отсталые люди
попадаешь!
Житье дуракам между трусами.
him, and fear him.
And what else can they do, poor young men?
Though one ought not, as a general rule, to venerate
any one ... but in this case, if one didn't venerate him,
one would find oneself quite behind the times!
Fools have a good time among cowards.
Now he, who formerly shrieked against authorities,
is an authority himself, – and the young men worship
him and fear him.
But what are they to do, poor fellows? Although it is
not proper – generally speaking – to worship but in
this case, if one does not do it, he will find himself
classed among the men who are behind the times!
There is a career for fools among cowards.
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