Обезьяна

Была жара. Леса горели. Нудно
Тянулось время. На соседней даче
Кричал петух. Я вышел за калитку.
Там, прислонясь к забору, на скамейке
Дремал бродячий серб, худой и черный.
Серебряный тяжелый крест висел
На груди полуголой. Капли пота
По ней катились. Выше, на заборе,
Сидела обезьяна в красной юбке
И пыльные листы сирени
Жевала жадно. Кожаный ошейник,
Оттянутый назад тяжелой цепью,
Давил ей горло. Серб, меня заслышав,
Очнулся, вытер пот и попросил,
чтоб дал я Воды ему. Но чуть ее пригубив –
Не холодна ли, – блюдце
на скамейку Поставил он,
и тотчас обезьяна, Макая пальцы в воду,
ухватила Двумя руками блюдце.
Она пила, на четвереньках стоя,
Локтями опираясь на скамью.
Досок почти касался подбородок,
Над теменем лысеющим спина
Высоко выгибалась. Так, должно быть,
Стоял когда-то Дарий, припадая
К дорожной луже, в день,
когда бежал он Пред мощною
фалангой Александра.
Всю воду выпив, обезьяна блюдце
Долой смахнула со скамьи, привстала
И – этот миг забуду ли когда? –
Мне черную, мозолистую руку,
Еще прохладную от влаги, протянула…
Я руки жал красавицам, поэтам,
Вождям народа – ни одна рука
Такого благородства очертаний
Не заключала! Ни одна рука
Моей руки так братски не коснулась!
И видит Бог, никто в мои глаза
Не заглянул так мудро и глубоко,
Воистину – до дна души моей.
Глубокой древности сладчайшие
преданья Тот нищий зверь мне в сердце оживил,
И в этот миг мне жизнь явилась полной,
И мнилось – хор светил и волн морских,
Ветров и сфер мне музыкой
органной Ворвался в уши,
загремел, как прежде,
В иные, незапамятные дни.

И серб ушел, постукивая в бубен.
Присев ему на левое плечо,
Покачивалась мерно обезьяна,
Как на слоне индийский магараджа.
Огромное малиновое солнце,
Лишенное лучей,
В опаловом дыму висело. Изливался
Безгромный зной на чахлую пшеницу.

В тот день была объявлена война.

1918-1919
Владислав Ходасевич (1886-1939)

Monkey

A day of heat. The woods burning. Time
Hanging heavy. From a neighboring plot
A cock was crowing. I went through the gate.
There, on the bench, his back against the fence,
A wandering Serb, dark-skinned and lean, sat dozing.
A heavy silver crucifix hung down
Among the rolling drops of sweat that coursed
His half-bared chest. Above him, on the fence,
A monkey squatted, wearing a red skirt,
And ravenously made a meal
Of dusty lilac leaves. A leather collar
Straining backwards on a chain
Compressed its neck. Hearing me, the Serb
Awoke, and mopped the pouring sweat, and asked for water.
But as soon as he had put it to his lips
To see if it was cold, he set the saucer
Down upon the bench, at which the monkey,
Its fingers dabbling in the water, seized
The dish with both its hands,
And, crouching down upon all fours, its elbows
Leaning on the bench, began to drink.
Its chin was nearly resting on the boards,
Its back went arching high up in the air
Above its balding crown. In such a way
Must Darius once have stooped and crouched to drink
From some small roadside pool the day he fled
Before the might of Alexander’s phalanx.
When all the water had been drunk, the monkey
Flipped the dish down from the bench, stood up,
And — shall I ever now forget this moment? —
The creature offered me its hand to shake,
Its black and calloused hand, still freshly cool with moisture
I have shaken hands with famous beauties,
With poets, with national leaders — but not one
Whose hand possessed lineaments Of such nobility!
Not one whose hand Touched mine with such a sense of brotherhood!
God knows, no human creature ever looked
Into my eyes so wisely or so deep,
Truly, to the bottom of my soul.
The sweetest legends of profound antiquity
That miserable creature woke in me,
And in that moment life for me was full,
And, as it seemed, a choir of stars and waves,
Of winds and spheres, came bursting in my ears
Like organ music, thundering as it did
Of old, in other, immemorial days.
The Serb went off, pattering his tambourine.
The monkey, riding on his left-hand shoulder,
Sat swaying to the rhythm of his walk —
A maharajah on an elephant.
Up in the opalescent smoke, the sun
Hung huge and crimson, shorn
Of all its rays. The heavy heat, still thunderless,
Pressed down upon the fields of scrawny wheat.

That was the day on which the war broke out.

Vladislav Khodasevich
Translated by Michael Frayn

The Monkey

The heat was fierce. Great forests were on fire.
Time dragged its feet in dust. A cock was crowing
in an adjacent lot.

As I pushed open
my garden-gate I saw beside the road
a wandering Serb asleep upon a bench
his back against the palings. He was lean
and very black, and down his half-bared breast
there hung a heavy silver cross, diverting
the trickling sweat.
Upon the fence above him,
clad in a crimson petticoat, his monkey
sat munching greedily the dusty leaves
of a syringa bush; a leathern collar
drawn backwards by its heavy chain bit deep
into her throat.
Hearing me pass, the man
stirred, wiped his face, and asked me for some
water.
He took one sip to see whether the drink
was not too cold, then placed a saucerful
upon the bench, and, instantly, the monkey
slipped down and clasped the saucer with both
hands
dipping her thumbs; then, on all fours, she drank,
her elbows pressed against the bench, her chin
touching the boards, her backbone arching higher
than her bald head. Thus, surely, did Darius
bend to a puddle on the road when fleeing
from Alexander’s thundering phalanges.

When the last drop was sucked the monkey swept
the saucer off the bench, and raised her head,
and offered me her black wet little hand.
Oh, I have pressed the fingers of great poets,
leaders of men, fair women, but no hand
had ever been so exquisitely shaped
nor had touched mine with such a thrill of kinship,
and no man’s eyes had peered into my soul
with such deep wisdom… Legends of lost ages
awoke in me thanks to that dingy beast
and suddenly I saw life in its fullness
and with a rush of wind and wave and worlds
the organ music of the universe
boomed in my ears, as it had done before
in immemorial woodlands.

And the Serb
then went his way thumping his tambourine;
on his left shoulder, like an Indian prince
upon an elephant, his monkey swayed.
A huge incarnadine but sunless sun
hung in a milky haze. The sultry summer
flowed endlessly upon the wilting wheat.

That day the war broke out, that very day.

Vladislav Khodasevich
Translated by Vladimir Nabokov

The Monkey

Fierce heat. The forests were afire. Time
Dragged on dully. At the neighbor’s dacha
A rooster crowed. I went out of the gate.
There, on a bench, leaning against the fence,
A Serb, a drifter, dozed, black and skinny.
A heavy silver cross hung
On his half-bare breast. Drops of sweat
Poured down it. Above him on the fence
A monkey, clad in a red skirt, sat
Chewing greedily on dusty leaves of lilac.
A leathern collar, pulled back by a heavy chain,
Choked her. The Serb, hearing me,
Came to, wiped off his sweat and asked me
For some water. But hardly tasting it —
Is it too cold — he put the saucer
On the bench, and instantly the monkey,
Dipping her fingers in the water, grabbed
The dish with both hands.
She drank, standing on all fours,
Elbows on the bench.
Her chin almost touched the boards,
Her back arched high above her
Balding pate. It must have been like this
That Darius crouched long ago, his lips to
A roadside puddle, on the day he fled
From Alexander’s inexorable phalange.

The water drunk, the monkey swept
The saucer off the bench, rose slightly
And — will I ever forget this moment? — reached
Out to me with her black, calloused hand,
Still cool with moisture…

I have pressed hands with beauties, poets,
Chiefs of people – not one hand
Presented such nobility of shape!
No hand touched mine in such fraternity!
God is my witness, no one looked
Into my eyes so deeply, with such wisdom,
In truth – to the bottom of my soul.
This impoverished beast brought back
To life within my heart the sweetest tales
Of deeply ancient eras,
And in that moment life in full revealed
Itself to me, and it seemed – a choir of lights
And ocean waves, winds and spheres burst
Upon my ears, thundered, like so long
Ago, in other, immemorial days.

And the Serb left, tapping his tambourine.
Perched on his left shoulder,
The monkey swayed in step,
An Indian maharaja on his elephant.
The huge magenta sun,
Deprived of rays,
Hung in the hazy smoke. Unrelenting
Heat poured over the scrawny wheat.

That very day war was declared.

Vladislav Khodasevich
Translated by Ellen Orner