Владимир Набоков «К России» на английском языке
К России
Отвяжись, я тебя умоляю!
Вечер страшен, гул жизни затих.
Я беспомощен. Я умираю
От слепых наплываний твоих.
Тот, кто вольно отчизну покинул,
Волен выть на вершинах о ней,
Но теперь я спустился в долину,
И теперь приближаться не смей.
Навсегда я готов затаиться
И без имени жить. Я готов,
Чтоб с тобой и во снах не сходиться,
Отказаться от всяческих снов;
Обескровить себя, искалечить,
Не касаться любимейших книг,
Променять на любое наречье
Всё что есть у меня, — мой язык.
Но зато, о Россия, сквозь слёзы,
Сквозь траву двух несмежных могил,
Сквозь дрожащие пятна берёзы,
Сквозь всё то, чем я смолоду жил,
Дорогими слепыми глазами
Не смотри на меня, пожалей,
Не ищи в этой угольной яме,
Не нащупывай жизни моей!
Ибо годы прошли и столетья,
И за горе, за му́ку, за стыд, —
Поздно, поздно! — никто не ответит,
И душа никому не простит.
1939. Paris
Владимир Набоков
To Russia
Will you leave me alone? I implore you!
Dusk is ghastly. Life’s noises subside.
I am helpless. And I am dying
Of the blind touch of your whelming tide.
He who freely abandons his country
on the heights to bewail it is free.
But now I am down in the valley
and now do not come close to me.
I’m prepared to lie hidden forever
and to live without name. I’m prepared,
lest we only in dreams come together,
all conceivable dreams to forswear;
to be drained of my blood, to be crippled,
to have done with the books I most love,
for the first available idiom
to exchange all I have: my own tongue.
But for that, through the tears, oh, Russia,
through the grass of two far-parted tombs,
through the birch tree’s tremulous macules,
through all that sustained me since youth,
with your blind eyes, your dear eyes, cease looking
at me, oh, pity my soul,
do not rummage around in the coalpit,
do not grope for my life in this hole
because years have gone by and centuries,
and for sufferings, sorrow, and shame,
too late there is no one to pardon
and no one to carry the blame.
1939. Paris
Vladimir Nabokov
Translated by Vladimir Nabokov
To Russia
Let me go; set me free of my shackles!
In the dark, when commotion subsides,
I’m dying; I’m drained by the battles
Within dreams of you, flowing like tides.
Let the ones who at will have abandoned
Their motherland wail and complain,
They’re on top; I’ve already descended —
Don’t you dare approach me again.
I’ll abandon the books I revere;
I’m ready to live in a cave;
So that you from my dreams disappear,
Every dream I’m ready to waive.
And degrade my own self to damnation,
Drop my name and be stripped to the bone,
For the dialect of any nation
Trade my tongue — the last asset I own.
For this sacrifice, Russia, through tears
through the grass on my parents’ tombs,
through the memories of my young years,
through the catkins of birch trees in bloom,
Don’t you look at me; I beg for mercy;
In this pit all is burnt to the core,
It is void; your blind search is unworthy.
Don’t you try my past life to restore!
It’s too late; years, ages have vanished,
For the shame and the grief in my soul,
For its torment — no one will be punished,
And no one will be ever absolved.
Vladimir Nabokov
Translated by Olga Dumer
To Russia
Let me go, I plead, don’t deny me!
The night is silent, scary and cold.
I am powerless here. I am dying
from your blind constant assault.
On a peak, one is free to bewail
the homeland he left of free will,
but I’ve descended now into the vale —
don’t you dare to follow me still.
I am ready to hide out forever
and live nameless. I’m also prepared
to denounce my dreams so we never
come together in them as a pair;
to drain blood and go for the jugular,
forget favorite books, let them go,
and exchange for a different vernacular
all I have now — the language I know.
But in return, o Russia, through tears,
through the grass by two gravesites, somehow,
through the birches that shiver, austere,
through all which sustained me till now,
do not gaze on me like the old times
with those dear blinded eyes, I’ll be gone,
do not dig for me in the coal mine,
do not grasp for my life from now on!
For the shame, anguish, torment, all senseless,
— because ages have now come and gone,
it’s too late now! — nobody will answer,
and my soul won’t forgive anyone.
Vladimir Nabokov
Translated by Andrey Kneller
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