443. FROM «A FEAST DURING THE PLAGUE»{*}

Pushkin's version of a scene in Wilson's tragedy «The City of the Plague»

Several men and women making merry at a table laid in the middle of the street. A Young Man Most honorable chairman! Let me now remind you of a man we all knew well, a man whose quiddities and funny stories, smart repartees and pungent observations, — made with a solemn air that was so pleasing — lent such a sparkle to the table talk and helped to chase the gloom which nowadays our guest the Plague unfortunately casts over the minds of our most brilliant wits. Two days ago our rolling laughter greeted the tales he told; t'would be a sorry jest if we forgot while banquetting to-day our good old Jackson! Here his armchair gapes; its empty seat still seems to be awaiting the wag; but he, alas, has left already for a cold dwelling-place beneath the earth. Though never was so eloquent a tongue doomed to keep still in a decaying casket, we who remain are numerous and have no reason to be sorrowful. And so let me suggest a toast to Jackson's spirit, a merry clash of glasses, exclamations, as if he where alive. The Chairman                          He was the first to drop out of our ranks. In silence let us drink to his memory. The Young Man                          Have it your way. All lift their glasses in silence. The Chairman (to one of the women) Your voice, my dear, in rendering the accents of native songs reveals a wild perfection: sing, Marry, something dolorous and plaintive that afterwards we may revert more madly to merriment — like one who has been torn from a familiar world by some dark vision. Mary (sings) In times agone our village was lovely to behold; our bonny church on Sunday was full of young and old; our happy children's voices rang in the noisy school; in sunny fields the reaper swung fast his flashing tool. But now the church is empty; the school is locked; the corn bends overripe and idle; the dark woods are forlorn; and like charred ruins the village stands stricken on its hill: no sound; alone the churchyard is full and never still. A new corpse every minute is carried in with dread by mourners loudly begging God's welcome for the dead. A new hole every minute is needed for their sleep, and tombs and tombs together huddle like frightened sheep. So if an early gravestone must crown my springtime bright, you whom I loved so dearly, whose love was my delight, — to your poor Jenny's body, I pray, do not come near, kiss not her dead lips; follow with lagging steps her bier. And after I am buried, — go, leave the village, find some place where hearts are mended and destiny is kind. And when the Plague is over visit my dust, I pray… But, even dead, will Jenny beside her Edmund stay. The Chairman We thank you, Mary, melancholy Mary, we thank you all for this melodious moan. In former days a similar infection had visited, it seems, your hills and valleys, and one could hear most piteous lamentations sounding along the rivers and the brooks which now so peacefully and gaily tumble through the wild paradise of your dear land; and that dark year in which so many perished, so many gallant, good and comely souls, has left but a vague memory that clouds the elemental minstrelry of shepherds with pleasing plaintiveness. Nothing, I swear, so saddens us amid life's animation as dreamy sounds that dreamy hearts repeat. Mary Oh, had I never sung beyond the threshold of the small cottage where my parents dwelt! Dearly they used to love their Mary's voice. Behind my song I felt as if I listened to my old self singing in the bright doorway: my voice was sweeter in those days: it was the golden voice of innocence. Louisa                                     Such ditties are nowadays old-fashioned; but one still finds simple souls eager to melt when seeing a woman weep: they blindly trust her tears. She seems to be quite sure that her wet eyes are most enchanting; and if just as highly she ranked her laughter then you may be sure she'd always titter. Walsingham had chanced to praise the shrill-voiced Northern beauties; so forthwith she wails her head off. I do hate that yellow color of her Scottish hair. The Chairman Listen! I hear the sound of heavy wheels. A cart passes laden with dead bodies. It is driven by a Negro. The Chairman Aha, Louisa faints. I thought she had a warrior's heart judging by her expressions — but evidently cruelty is weaker than tenderness: strong passions shy at shadows. Some water, Mary, on her face. She's better. Mary Dear sister of my sorrow and dishonor, recline upon my breast. Louisa (regaining her senses)                             A dreadful demon appeared to me: all black with white eyes rolling, he beckoned me into his cart where lay piled bodies of dead men who all were lisping a horrible, a most unearthly tale. Oh, tell me please — was it a dream I dreamt or did the cart pass really? The Young Man                                 Come, Louisa, laugh in away. Though all the street is ours — a quiet spot secure from death's intrusion, the haunt of revellers whom none may trouble — but… Well, you see, that black cart has the right to roll and creak down any street in chooses and we must let it go its way. Look here, friend Walsingham: to cut short all discussions that lead to women swooning, sing us something, sing us a liberal and lively song, — not one inspired by long mists of the Highlands but some unbridled bacchanalian stuff that sprung to life from wine-foam at a banquet. The Chairman Such songs I know not, but I have for you a hymn in honor of the plague. I wrote it the other night as soon as we had parted: I was possessed by a strange urge to rhyme which never had I felt before. So listen. My husky voice will suit this kind of poem. Several Voices A hymn! A hymn! Let's hear our chairman sing it! In honor of the Plague? Good. Bravo, bravo! The Chairman (sings) When mighty Captain Winter swoops upon us with his hoary troops, leading against us all his grim        legions of frost and snow, — logs crackling brightly laugh at him        and festive wine cups glow. Her awful Majesty the Plague now comes at us with nothing vague about her aims and appetite;        with a grave-digger's spade she knocks at windows day and night.        Where should we look for aid? Just as we deal with Winter's pest against this one it will be best to stay in lighted rooms and drink        and drown our minds, and jest. Come, let us dance upon the brink        to glorify Queen Pest! There's bliss in battle and there's bliss on the dark edge of an abyss and in the fury of the main        amid foam-crested death; in the Arabian hurricane        and in the Plague's light breath. All, all such mortal dangers fill a mortal's heart with a deep thrill of wordless rapture that bespeaks        maybe, immortal life, — and happy is the man who seeks        and tastes them in his strife. And so, Dark Queen, we praise thy reign! Thou callest us, but we remain unruffled by the chill of death,        clinking our cups, carefree, drinking rose-lipped maiden's breath        full of the Plague, maybe! An old Clergyman enters. The Clergyman What godless feast is this, you godless madmen? Your revelry and ribald songs insult the silent gloom spread everywhere by death! Among the mourners and their moans, among pale faces, I was praying in the churchyard whither the thunder of your hateful orgies came troubling drowsy graves and rocking the very earth above the buried dead. Had not the prayers of women and old men blessed the dark pit of death's community I might have thought that busy fiends to-night were worrying a sinner's shrieking spirit and dragging it with laughter to their den. Several Voices A masterly description of inferno! Be gone, old priest! Go back the way you came! The Clergyman Now I beseech you by the holy wounds of One Who bled upon the Cross to save us, — break up your monstrous banquet, if you hope to meet in heaven the dear souls of all those you lost on earth. Go to your homes! The Chairman                                 Our homes are dismal places. Youth is fond of gladness. The Clergyman Can it be you — you, Walsingham? the same man who but three weeks ago stood on his knees and wept as he embraced his mother's corpse, and writhed, and rocked, and howled over her grave? Or do you think she does not grieve right now — grieve bitterly, even in God's abode — as she looks down at her disheveled son maddened by wine and lust, and hears his voice a voice that roars the wildest songs between the purest prayer and the profoundest sigh? Arise and follow me! The Chairman                          Why do you come to trouble thus my soul? Here am I held by my despair, by memories that kill me, by the full knowledge of my evil ways, and by the horror of the lifeless void that meets me when I enter my own house, and by the novelty of these wild revels, and by the blessed poison of this cup, and by the light caresses (God forgive me) of a depraved but fair and gentle creature. My mother's soul can summon me no more; my place is here; too late!..I hear your voice calling my soul… I recognise your efforts to save me… but, old man, depart in peace — and cursed be anyone who goes with you. Several Voices Bravo, bravo! Well spoken, worthy chairman! Now you have got your sermon, priest! Be gone! The Clergyman Mathilda's stainless spirit summons you! The Chairman No, — promise me, — with your pale withered hand raised heavenward, — promise to leave unuttered a name that death has silenced in the tomb. Could I but hide from her immortal eyes this sight, this banquet… Once upon a time she thought me pure, free-spirited and proud, and my embrace was paradise to her. Where am I? Sacred child of light, I see you above me, on a shore where my wrecked soul now cannot reach you. A Woman's Voice                   Look, he has gone mad, he raves about his wife who's dead and buried. The Clergyman Come, come with me. The Chairman           For God's sake, holy father, leave me. The Clergyman    The Lord have mercy on your soul. Farewell, my son. The Clergyman departs. The feast continues. The Chairman remains plunged in deep meditation. <18 июля 1941>; Пало Алто, Калифорния вернуться