Богоподобная царевна
Киргиз-Кайсацкия орды!
Которой мудрость несравненна
Открыла верные следы
Царевичу младому Хлору
Взойти на ту высоку гору,
Где роза без шипов растет,
Где добродетель обитает, –
Она мой дух и ум пленяет,
Подай найти ее совет.
God-like Tsarevna
Of the Kirgiz-Kaisatskii horde!
Whose wisdom matchless
Opened the true path
To young Prince Khlor
To go up on that high peak
Where the rose without thorns grows,
Where virtue dwells:
It takes my spirit and mind prisoner,
Tell me how to find it.
O Princess, fair as a divinity,
Of the Kirghiz and Kazakh horde,
Whose wisdom, which is without equal,
Revealed unto the young Prince Khlor
The true path that he had to follow
To reach the peak of that high mountain
Where grows the rose that has no thorns,
Where virtue has its habitation –
It captivates my mind and spirit,
I beg you help me find it too.
Подай, Фелица! наставленье:
Как пышно и правдиво жить,
Как укрощать страстей волненье
И счастливым на свете быть?
Меня твой голос возбуждает,
Меня твой сын препровождает;
Но им последовать я слаб.
Мятясь житейской суетою,
Сегодня властвую собою,
А завтра прихотям я раб.
Tell me, Felitsa:
How to live opulently yet justly,
How to subdue the storm of passions
And be happy in the world.
Your voice wakes me,
Your son sends me;
But to follow them I am too weak.
Disturbed by everyday trifles,
Today I control myself,
But tomorrow am slave to desires.
Felitsa, help me with instructions
On living uprightly but well,
On taming passions’ agitation
And being happy on this earth!
Your voice is my enthusiasm,
Your son, who led Prince Khlor, my guide;
But I lack strength to follow him.
Of worldly vanity a plaything,
Today I am my own true master –
Tomorrow just a slave of whims.
Мурзам твоим не подражая,
Почасту ходишь ты пешком,
И пища самая простая
Бывает за твоим столом;
Не дорожа твоим покоем,
Читаешь, пишешь пред налоем
И всем из твоего пера
Блаженство смертным проливаешь;
Подобно в карты не играешь,
Как я, от утра до утра.
Not emulating your courtiers,
You often go on foot,
And the most simple food
Is on your table;
Inexpensive is your rest,
You read, you write before the candle
And to all mortals from your pen
Bliss flows;
Just so at cards you do not play,
Like me, from morning to morning.
Not following your murzas’ custom,
You often go about on foot,
And only have the simplest dishes
Permitted in your doing room.
Not valuing your leisure hours,
You read and write before a lectern,
And grant a true felicity
Unto all mortals by your writings.
Nor do you have a gambling passion,
Like me who plays from morn ’til morn.
Не слишком любишь маскарады,
А в клоб не ступишь и ногой;
Храня обычаи, обряды,
Не донкишотствуешь собой;
Коня парнасска не седлаешь,
К духам в собранье не въезжаешь,
Не ходишь с трона на Восток;
Но кротости ходя стезею,
Благотворящею душою,
Полезных дней проводишь ток.
You do not much like masquerades,
And put not even a foot inside a club;
Guarding your habits and customs,
You do not act as a Don Quixote;
The horse of Parnassus you do not saddle,
To spirits in séances you do not go,
You do not go from your throne to the East,–
But, walking on the path of meekness,
With gracious soul
You spend a stream of useful days.
For masquerades you care not greatly
And never set foot in a club;
Preserving ceremonies, customs,
You never act quixotically;
Parnassus’s mount you do not saddle,
Nor enter gatherings of spirits,
You leave your throne not for the East;
But following the path of meekness,
Your soul concerned for others’ welfare,
You pass your days in usefulness.
А я, проспавши до полудни,
Курю табак и кофе пью;
Преобращая в праздник будни,
Кружу в химерах мысль мою:
То плен от персов похищаю,
То стрелы к туркам обращаю;
То, возмечтав, что я султан,
Вселенну устрашаю взглядом;
То вдруг, прельщаяся нарядом,
Скачу к портному по кафтан.
But I, having slept until noon,
Smoke tobacco and drink coffee;
Changing into holidays weekdays,
I wander in the chimeras of my thoughts:
Now booty from Persians I steal,
Now arrows at Turks I send;
Now, having dreamt, that I am the sultan,
The universe I terrorize with a glance;
Now suddenly, captivated by an outfit,
I ride to the tailor for a caftan.
But I, not rising until noontime,
Drink coffee and enjoy a smoke;
I make vacations of my workdays
And spin my thoughts in chimeras:
I now steal captives from the Persians,
Or at the Turks direct my arrows;
Now dreaming I a Sultan am,
I terrify the world by glances;
Or struck by some fine piece of clothing,
Hop off to have a caftan made.
Или в пиру я пребогатом,
Где праздник для меня дают,
Где блещет стол сребром и златом,
Где тысячи различных блюд:
Там славный окорок вестфальской,
Там звенья рыбы астраханской,
Там плов и пироги стоят,
Шампанским вафли запиваю;
И всë на свете забываю
Средь вин, сластей и аромат.
Or I am at a sumptuous feast,
Where a celebration for me is given,
Where shines the table with silver and gold,
Where there are thousands of varied dishes:
There the famed Westphalian ham,
There links of Astrakhan fish,
There pilaf and pies sit;
With champagne I wash down waffles
And everything on the earth forget
Among wines, sweets, and aromas.
‘Midst sweetmeats, wines, and nice aromas.
Или средь рощицы прекрасной
В беседке, где фонтан шумит,
При звоне арфы сладкогласной,
Где ветерок едва дышит,
Где всë мне роскошь представляет,
К утехам мысли уловляет,
Томит и оживляет кровь;
На бархатном диване лëжа,
Младой девицы чувства нëжа,
Вливаю в сердце ей любовь.
Or, in a beautiful little grove
In a summerhouse, where a fountain speaks,
With the sounds of a sweet-voiced harp,
Where a little wind barely breathes,
Where everything presents me luxury,
To pleasures my thoughts entices,
Soothes and wakens my blood,
Resting on a velvet divan,
A young girl’s tender feelings,
I pour into her heart love.
Or ‘midst a lovely little orchard,
An arbor, where a fountain plays,
A sweet-voiced harp within my hearing,
Where hardly does a zephyr breathe,
Where everything presents me splendor,
My thoughts ensnares for divers pleasures,
First wearies then awakes my blood;
Reclining on a velvet divan,
A maiden’s tender feelings coddling,
I fill her youthful heart with love.
Или великолепным цугом
В карете англинской, златой,
С собакой, шутом или другом,
Или с красавицей какой
Я под качелями гуляю;
В шинки пить меду заезжаю;
Или, как то наскучит мне,
По склонности моей к премене,
Имея шапку набекрене,
Лечу на резвом бегуне.
Or with a splendid tandem
In an English carriage, golden,
With a dog, a fool, or friend
Or with such a beauty
I drive under the swings;
At pubs to drink mead I stop;
Or , when it somehow bores me,
Due to my inclination for change,
With my hat at a jaunty angle
I fly on a fast steed.
Or in a gilded English carriage,
By truly splendid tandem drawn
With hound, companion, or a jester,
Or with some beauty – better yet –
I go off riding to the Swings;
I stop at taverns for some spirits
Or, if this too becomes a bore –
My nature does incline to changes –
I set my cap at jaunty angle
And fly atop a sportive steed.
Или музыкой и певцами,
Органом и волынкой вдруг,
Или кулачными бойцами
И пляской веселю мой дух;
Или, о всех делах заботу
Оставя, езжу на охоту
И забавляюсь лаем псов;
Или над невскими брегами
Я тешусь по ночам рогами
И греблей удалых гребцов.
Or with music and singers,
With organ and bagpipes,
Or with fist-fighters
And the dance I delight my soul;
Or, all matters of care
Leaving behind, I go out hunting
And amuse myself with the howls of dogs;
Or over Neva banks
I amuse myself by night with horns
And the rowing of agile oarsmen.
Or bring refreshment to my spirit
With music, singers, and with dance,
Accompanied by pipes and organ,
Or pleasure find in boxing bouts;
Or, putting to a side all worries,
I go off to the woods for hunting
And take delight in mastiff’s barks;
Or by the banks of river Neva
Enjoy the sound of horns on evenings
And agile oarsmen’s rowing skill;
Иль, сидя дома, я прокажу,
Играя в дураки с женой;
То с ней на голубятню лажу,
То в жмурки резвимся порой;
То в свайку с нею веселюся,
То ею в голове ищуся;
То в книгах рыться я люблю,
Мой ум и сердце просвещаю,
Полкана и Бову читаю;
За библией, зевая, сплю.
Or, sitting at home, I horse around,
Playing “Fool” with my wife;
Now with her I climb to the dove-cote,
Now at Blind-Man’s Bluff we frolic away the time;
Now we amuse ourselves at svaika
Now ?????
Now I love to delve into books,
My mind and heart I enlighten,
Polkan and Bova I read;
Over the Bible, yawning, I sleep.
Or staying just at home make mischief,
Playing “Old Maid” with my lady;
Or both of us climb in the dovecote,
Or sometimes romp in blindman’s-buff;
Or have a good time playing ringtoss,
Or have her give my head a scratching;
Or burrowing through books at times
My heart and mind do I enlighten
Polkan and Bova reading through,
Or o’er the Bible, yawning, sleep.
Таков, Фелица, я развратен!
Но на меня весь свет похож.
Кто сколько мудростью ни знатен,
Но всякий человек есть ложь.
Не ходим света мы путями,
Бежим разврата за мечтами.
Между лентяем и брюзгой,
Между тщеславья и пороком
Нашел кто разве ненароком
Путь добродетели прямой.
In such ways, Felitsa, I am dissolute!
But all society resembles me.
However much one is known for wisdom,
But all men are liars.
We do not walk on paths of light,
We run after dreams of depravity.
Between the Indolent and the Choleric,
Between vanity and vice
One finds only by chance
The path to pure virtue.
You see, Felitsa, my debauchery!
But all the world resembles me.
Someone may be renowned for learning,
Yet every person is a lie.
We travel not by paths of lightness
But chase instead sweet dreams of pleasures.
‘Twixt Indolent and Choleric,
‘Twixt sinfulness and vain delusion,
Has anyone save by mere chance found
The direct path of righteousness?
Нашел, – но льзя ль не заблуждаться
Нам, слабым смертным, в сем пути,
Где сам рассудок спотыкаться
И должен вслед страстям идти;
Где нам ученые невежды,
Как мгла у путников, тмят вежды?
Везде соблазн и лесть живет,
Пашей всех роскошь угнетает.-
Где ж добродетель обитает?
Где роза без шипов растет?
It is found,–but how may we not blunder,
We, weak mortals, on that path,
Where reason itself stumbles
And must go after passions;
Where learned ignoramuses,
Like mist does to travellers, darken our minds?
Everywhere temptations and flattery live;
All pashas luxury oppresses.
Where does virtue live?
Where does the rose without thorns grow?
And if one found it- can weak mortals,
Can we not err upon this path
Where even Reason may be stumbled
And have to follow passions’ way;
Where learned ignoramuses
Bedim our sight as mist does wanderers’?
False praise and lures are everywhere
And luxury torments all pashas –
Where then is Virtue’s habitation?
Where grows the rose that has no thorns?
Тебе единой лишь пристойно,
Царевна! свет из тьмы творить;
Деля Хаос на сферы стройно,
Союзом целость их крепить;
Из разногласия согласье
И из страстей свирепых счастье
Ты можешь только созидать.
Так кормщик, через понт плывущий,
Ловя под парус ветр ревущий,
Умеет судном управлять.
To you alone is it proper,
Tsarevna! to create light out of darkness;
Dividing Chaos into harmonious spheres,
With a union of wholeness to strenghten them;
From discord — agreement
And from violent passion happiness
You may alone create.
Like a sailor, sailing across the sea,
Catching under the sail a raging wind,
Is able to guide his ship.
To you alone is it behooving,
O Princess, to bring light from dark!
In equal sphere dividing Chaos,
To strengthen them by common bond,
‘Tis you alone who have the power
To bring forth harmony from discord
And happiness from savage lusts.
The helmsman thus, the ocean traveling,
A strong wind ‘neath his sails ensnaring,
Can keep his vessel on its course.
Едина ты лишь не обидишь,
Не оскорбляешь никого,
Дурачествы сквозь пальцы видишь,
Лишь зла не терпишь одного;
Проступки снисхожденьем правишь,
Как волк овец, людей не давишь,
Ты знаешь прямо цену их.
Царей они подвластны воле, –
Но богу правосудну боле,
Живущему в законах их.
Only you do not offend,
Do not insult anyone,
Stupidity through your fingers you see,
But do not allow evil;
Miscreants you right with leniency,
You do not stifle people like a wolf does a sheep,
You know their proper worth.
They are subject to the will of Tsars,–
But to the judgment of God even more,
Living in their laws.
‘Tis you alone who wounds no feelings,
Nor gives offense to anyone;
Toward foolishness you can be tolerant
But suffer evil not a whit.
Misdeeds you treat with condescension;
As wolves do sheep, you choke not people,
But know wherein their merit lies.
To rulers’ wills are people subject,
But to their righteous God more greatly,
Who lives within their very laws.
Ты здраво о заслугах мыслишь,
Достойным воздаешь ты честь,
Пророком ты того не числишь,
Кто только рифмы может плесть,
А что сия ума забава
Калифов добрых честь и слава.
Снисходишь ты на лирный лад:
Поэзия тебе любезна,
Приятна, сладостна, полезна,
Как летом вкусный лимонад.
You soundly think of merits,
To the worthy you give out honor;
A prophet you do not consider,
He who may onlyweave rhymes,
And for such amusement of the mind–
Honor and praise to good caliphs.
You are tolerant of the lyric key:
Poetry is pleasing to you,
Acceptable, sweet, useful,
Like in summer a tasty lemonade.
You judge of merits reasonably,
And honor to the worthy give;
You do not rank among the prophets
Who an do naught but spin out rhymes;
But as this mind’s fair entertainment
Brings honor, glory to good caliphs,
You do indulge the lyric strain;
Poetic art is pleasant to you,
Agreeable, and sweet and useful,
Like summer’s tasty lemonade.
Слух идет о твоих поступках,
Что ты нимало не горда;
Любезна и в делах и в шутках,
Приятна в дружбе и тверда;
Что ты в напастях равнодушна,
А в славе так великодушна,
Что отреклась и мудрой слыть.
Еще же говорят неложно,
Что будто завсегда возможно
Тебе и правду говорить.
Rumor passes of your acts,
That you are not the least bit proud;
Kindly both in business and in fun,
Pleasant in friendship and firm;
That you are indifferent to misfortune,
And in glory so magnanimous,
That you refused to be called Wise.
They also say truthfully,
That it is always possible
To tell you the truth.
Of your behavior hearsay has it
That you are not the least bit proud;
In weighty or light matters pleasant,
Agreeable in friendship, firm;
That in misfortune you keep spirit,
But so magnanimous in glory
You did refuse the title Wise.
They also say, and ‘tis no falsehood,
That now and always one is able
To come to you and speak the truth.
Неслыханное также дело,
Достойное тебя одной,
Что будто ты народу смело
О всем, и въявь и под рукой,
И знать и мыслить позволяешь,
И о себе не запрещаешь
И быль и небыль говорить;
Что будто самым крокодилам,
Твоих всех милостей зоилам,
Всегда склоняешься простить.
Such unheard-of matters
Are only worthy of you,
That you boldly allow the people
Of all, aloud or in secret,
Both to know and to think.
And of yourself you do not forbid
Truth and untruth to be said;
That you the very crocodiles,
The Zoiluses of all your mercies,
Always are prone to forgive.
And ‘tis a thing unheard of also,
Though worthy just of you alone,
That you permit the people boldly
To know and think of everything
Both in open and in secret,
And that you do not prohibit no one
To speak of you both true and false;
That you are always prone to pardon
These Zoiluses of your graces,
The snapping crocodiles themselves.
Стремятся слëз приятных реки
Из глубины души моей.
О! коль счастливы человеки
Там должны быть судьбой своей,
Где ангел кроткий, ангел мирной,
Сокрытый в светлости порфирной,
С небес ниспослан скиптр носить!
Там можно пошептать в беседах
И, казни не боясь, в обедах
За здравие царей не пить.
Pleasant rivers of tears flow
From the depths of my soul.
O! how happy people who
Must be there with their fate,
Where a meek angel, a peaceful angel,
Clad in porphyry lightness,
Holds the sceptre sent down from heaven!
There it is possible to whisper in conversations
And, not fearing punishment, at dinner
To the health of the Tsar not drink.
Rivers of joyful tears flow swiftly
From out my dear soul’s very depths.
Oh, how those people must be happy
With their fate, who have been bestowed
An angel who is meek and peaceful,
From heaven sent to bear the scepter,
In royal purple’s splendor garbed!
There one may whisper conversation,
And without fear of being punished
At dinners not toast sovereigns.
Там с именем Фелицы можно
В строке описку поскоблить,
Или портрет неосторожно
Ее на землю уронить.
Там свадеб шутовских не парят,
В ледовых банях их не жарят,
Не щëлкают в усы вельмож;
Князья наседками не клохчут,
Любимцы въявь им не хохочут
И сажей не марают рож.
There it is possible
To erase Felitsa’s name
Or her portrait carelessly
Drop on the ground.
There joke weddings they do not celebrate,
They do not steam people in icy baths,
They do not pull at the moustaches of the belle monde;
Princes do not cackle like hens,
Favorites do not laugh at them
And smear their faces with soot.
There one need have no fear of blotting
Felitsa’s name in any line,
Or carelessly permit her portrait
To drop somewhere upon the ground.
There jesters’ weddings are not feted,
Nor are there people steamed in ice baths,
Or nobles’ whiskers tweeked for fun.
Like brood-hens princes do not cackle,
Nor favorites laugh loudly at them,
And smear their faces black with soot.
Ты ведаешь, Фелица! правы
И человеков и царей;
Когда ты просвещаешь нравы,
Ты не дурачишь так людей;
В твои от дел отдохновеньи
Ты пишешь в сказках поученьи
И Хлору в азбуке твердишь:
«Не делай ничего худого,
И самого сатира злого
Лжецом презренным сотворишь».
You know, Felitsa! the rights
Of both men and tsars;
When you enlighten manners,
You do not make fools of men;
In your moments of rest from work
You write in tales to instruct
And teach the alphabet to Khlor:
“Do nothing bad,
And the most evil satirist
You will make a hated liar.”
You know, Felitsa, what the rights are
Of ordinary men and kings;
While you enlighten all their manners
You turn not people into fools;
In leisure from your busy schedule
You author tales with moral lessons
And teach Prince Khlor the alphabet:
“Do nothing bad, Prince, and I promise
The worst of satirists you render
A liar held in base contempt.”
Стыдишься слыть ты тем великой,
Чтоб страшной, нелюбимой быть;
Медведице прилично дикой
Животных рвать и кровь их лить.
Без крайнего в горячке бедства
Тому ланцетов нужны ль средства,
Без них кто обойтися мог?
И славно ль быть тому тираном,
Великим в зверстве Тамерланом,
Кто благостью велик, как бог?
You are ashamed to be called Great,
To be terrible, unloved;
Only to a wild she-bear is it becoming
To tear animals and drink their blood.
Without the misery of extreme fever
Need one have recourse to the lancet
When one may get along without it?
And is it glorious to be a tyrant,
A great Tamerlane in cruelty,
For one great in goodness, like God?
Lest you be held in fear and hated
You are ashamed to be called great;
It only suits a savage she-bear
To claw up beasts and drink their blood.
Who ever had a need for lancets,
Except in direst case of fever,
When he could do without their use?
And for one great, like God, in goodness
Is being a tyrant any glory,
A cruel Tamerlane the Great?
Фелицы слава, слава бога,
Который брани усмирил;
Который сира и убога
Покрыл, одел и накормил;
Который оком лучезарным
Шутам, трусам, неблагодарным
И праведным свой свет дарит;
Равно всех смертных просвещает,
Больных покоит, исцеляет,
Добро лишь для добра творит.
Felitsa’s glory is the glory of God,
Who pacified battles;
Who orphans and the needy
Sheltered, clothed, and fed;
Who with radiant eye
To jokers, cowards, the ungrateful
And the just gives its light;
Equally enlightens all mortals,
Calms and cures the sick,
And does good for good’s sake alone.
Felitsa’s glory is the glory
Of a god who brought peace to strife,
A god who sheltered, clothed, and nourished
The orphaned and impoverished;
Who with a radiant eye his light grants
To ingrates, cowards, and buffoons
And also to all righteous men;
All mortals equally enlightens,
Brings comfort to the ill and heals them
And does good just for goodness’ sake.
Который даровал свободу
В чужие области скакать,
Позволил своему народу
Сребра и золота искать;
Который воду разрешает
И лес рубить не запрещает;
Велит и ткать, и прясть, и шить;
Развязывая ум и руки,
Велит любить торги, науки
И счастье дома находить;
Who gave freedom
To travel to other lands,
Allowed its people
To search for solver and gold;
Who opens the waters
And does not forbid the cutting of woods;
Who orders to weave, and knit, and sew;
Freeing the mind and hands
Orders to love trade, the sciences
And to find happiness at home.
Who has extended all the freedom
To travel off to foreign parts,
And gave permission to his nation
To go in quest of silver, gold;
Who makes the waters of his realm free
And puts no limit on the trees felled;
Who bids that all weave, spin and sew
And, liberating mind and hands then,
Commands to love both trade and learning,
And to find happiness at home.
Которого закон, десница
Дают и милости и суд.-
Вещай, премудрая Фелица!
Где отличен от честных плут?
Где старость по миру не бродит?
Заслуга хлеб себе находит?
Где месть не гонит никого?
Где совесть с правдой обитают?
Где добродетели сияют? –
У трона разве твоего!
Whose law and right hand
Give both mercy and justice.–
Announce, most wise Felitsa!
Where the villian is separated from the honest?
Where age does not wander through the world?
Merit finds its bread?
Where revenge does not drive anyone?
Where conscience dwells with truth?
Where virtue shines?–
Truly at your throne!
Whose statutes and right hand distribute
Both justice and beneficence.
Announce, Felitsa, in your wisdom
Where knaves from honest men are told;
Where old age does not go a- begging,
And merits find due compensation;
Where vengeance drives no one in fear;
Where dwell together truth and conscience;
Where virtues shine in all their splendor –
If not at your own very throne?
Но где твой трон сияет в мире?
Где, ветвь небесная, цветешь?
В Багдаде? Смирне? Кашемире? –
Послушай, где ты ни живешь, –
Хвалы мои тебе приметя,
Не мни, чтоб шапки иль бешметя
За них я от тебя желал.
Почувствовать добра приятство
Такое есть души богатство,
Какого Крез не собирал.
But where does your throne shine in the world?
Where, heavenly branch, do you flower?
In Bagdad? Smyrna? Kashmir?–
Listen, wherever you live:
My praises reaching you,
Think not that a hat or a coat
I wished to receive from you.
To feel the charm of goodness,
Such is wealth for the soul,
Such as Croesus did not possess.
But, pray, where shines your throne in this world?
Where do you blossom, heavenly branch?
In Baghdad, Smyrna, or in Kashmir?
But hear: where’er you make your home
As you receive my praises to you
Think not I wished as payment for them
Some jacket or a cap, perhaps.
To sense the pleasantness of goodness
Is for the soul so great a treasure
As even Croesus did not mass.
Прошу великого пророка,
Да праха ног твоих коснусь,
Да слов твоих сладчайша тока
И лицезренья наслаждусь!
Небесные прошу я силы,
Да, их простря сафирны крылы,
Невидимо тебя хранят
От всех болезней, зол и скуки;
Да дел твоих в потомстве звуки,
Как в небе звезды, возблестят.
I beg the great prophet,
That I may touch the dust of your feet,
That the sweetest stream of your words
And your look I may enjoy!
The heavenly powers I beg,
That unfurling their sapphire wings
They invisibly protect you
From all illness, evil and boredom;
That of your deeds in posterity renown,
Like in the heavens stars, will shine.
I ask that the great prophet let me
Touch just the dust beneath your feet
And revel in your words’ sweet current
No less than in your countenance!
The heavenly powers I entreat
That they extend their wings of sapphire
And you protect invisibly
From every evil, ill, and boredom;
That in posterity your deeds’ fame
Shine as the stars in heaven do.
Translation 1: Unsigned translation on PoetryHunter.com, see https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-prince-meshchersky/
Translation 2: Segel, Harold in The Literature of Eighteenth-Century Russia: An anthology of Russian literary materials of the age of classicism and the Enlightenment from the reign of Peter the Great, 1689-1725 to the reign of Alexander I, 1801-1825, Dutton, NY, 1967.
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