• Язык:
    Английский (English)

Among Gypsies

Heavily he swayed as if he were drugged,
Teeth flashing beneath the fierce moustache,
Dressed in scarlet, he seemed half-crazed,
With braids of entwined gold sash.

An instrument’s string... a throaty scream... and suddenly
Sweetness moaned through my blood,
How willingly I trusted in his story
Of distant lands that I too have loved.

The sound of the string — a bull’s bellow
But a bull that had fed on bitter grass,
So the throaty voice — a girl’s sorrow
With hand clasped across her lips.

Flames of fire, flames of fire, staves
Of red trunks and a deafening whoop,
Mad in love, the guest tramples the leaves
Like a Bengal tiger that circles the group.

Blood drips down from his fierce moustache,
He’s languid, he’s sated, and he’s drunk.
O, a host of tambourines crash,
While bodies crush, sweet and rank.

As the corks pop and the people shout,
Can I alone see through cigars’ white smoke
As he throb-pulses his cruel heart,
Amber pipe, wet bench, stroke on stroke?

Can I alone remember him cutting diamonds,
On a river flowing back to the Godhead,
Like tempests of angels, and a sweet desire
With a bloody lily in a delicate hand?

Girl, what’s with you? See that rich guest,
Rise before him like a comet at night,
Enflame the heart in his shaggy breast,
Then tear it, tear it out — and devour it.

Whirl, whirl, wider and wider,
Move on and on with beckoning hands,
While evening is bathed in silvery vapor,
And fire on fire flares through the woods.

To the left and the right, bulls are tethered.
Their horns deadly, they bray to break out,
But their pasture grassland is bitter, bitter,
Thorny with thistles, wormwood and goosefoot.

He wants to rise, but can’t... flint notched like a saw,
Saw-toothed like a scream in the throat,
And beneath his stretched, grim, velvet paw,
It plunges into his wing d heart.

He falls on his chest, the shoulder braids knot,
Never more to drink, never more to stare,
The waiters fuss and bustle about
Then carry the drunken guest off somewhere.

Half past five, sirs, already so soon?
Asmodeus,* the bill, hurry it up.
The girl laughs. She grabs the flint stone
And her slender tongue licks the blood up.
* Asmodeus is an evil spirit and chief demon of Jewish folk lore. Whether the name had currency among east European Gypsies I have not been able to determine. McKane translates the name as “Satan.”

Перевод стихотворения Николая Гумилёва «У цыган» на английский язык.

У цыган

Толстый, качался он, как в дурмане,
Зубы блестели из-под хищных усов,
На ярко-красном его доломане
Сплетались узлы золотых шнуров.

Струна… и гортанный вопль… и сразу
Сладостно так заныла кровь моя,
Так убедительно поверил я рассказу
Про иные, родные мне, края.

Вещие струны — это жилы бычьи,
Но горькой травой питались быки,
Гортанный голос — жалобы девичьи
Из-под зажимающей рот руки.

Пламя костра, пламя костра, колонны
Красных стволов и оглушительный гик,
Ржавые листья топчет гость влюбленный,
Кружащийся в толпе бенгальский тигр.

Капли крови текут с усов колючих,
Томно ему, он сыт, он опьянел,
Ах, здесь слишком много бубнов гремучих,
Слишком много сладких, пахучих тел.

Мне ли видеть его в дыму сигарном,
Где пробки хлопают, люди кричат,
На мокром столе чубуком янтарным
Злого сердца отстукивающим такт?

Мне, кто помнит его в струге алмазном,
На убегающей к Творцу реке,
Грозою ангелов и сладким соблазном,
С кровавой лилией в тонкой руке?

Девушка, что же ты? Ведь гость богатый,
Встань перед ним, как комета в ночи,
Сердце крылатое в груди косматой
Вырви, вырви сердце и растопчи.

Шире, всё шире, кругами, кругами
Ходи, ходи и рукой мани,
Так пар вечерний плавает лугами,
Когда за лесом огни и огни.

Вот струны-быки и слева и справа,
Рога их — смерть, и мычанье — беда,
У них на пастбище горькие травы,
Колючий волчец, полынь, лебеда.

Хочет встать, не может… кремень зубчатый,
Зубчатый кремень, как гортанный крик,
Под бархатной лапой, грозно подъятой,
В его крылатое сердце проник.

Рухнул грудью, путая аксельбанты,
Уже ни пить, ни смотреть нельзя,
Засуетились официанты,
Пьяного гостя унося.

Что ж, господа, половина шестого?
Счет, Асмодей, нам приготовь!
— Девушка, смеясь, с полосы кремневой
Узким язычком слизывает кровь.

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