1709: In Holy Week | Boris Pasternak
"На страстной"
Борис Пастернак
Еще кругом ночная мгла.
Еще так рано в мире,
Что звездам в небе нет числа,
И каждая, как день, светла,
И если бы земля могла,
Она бы Пасху проспала
Под чтение Псалтыри.
Еще кругом ночная мгла.
Такая рань на свете,
Что площадь вечностью легла
От перекрестка до угла,
И до рассвета и тепла
Еще тысячелетье.
Еще земля голым-гола,
И ей ночами не в чем
Раскачивать колокола
И вторить с воли певчим.
И со Страстного четверга
Вплоть до Страстной субботы
Вода буравит берега
И вьет водовороты.
И лес раздет и непокрыт,
И на Страстях Христовых,
Как строй молящихся, стоит
Толпой стволов сосновых.
А в городе, на небольшом
Пространстве, как на сходке,
Деревья смотрят нагишом
В церковные решетки.
И взгляд их ужасом объят.
Понятна их тревога.
Сады выходят из оград,
Колеблется земли уклад:
Они хоронят Бога.
И видят свет у царских врат,
И черный плат, и свечек ряд,
Заплаканные лица -
И вдруг навстречу крестный ход
Выходит с плащаницей,
И две березы у ворот
Должны посторониться.
И шествие обходит двор
По краю тротуара,
И вносит с улицы в притвор
Весну, весенний разговор
И воздух с привкусом просфор
И вешнего угара.
И март разбрасывает снег
На паперти толпе калек,
Как будто вышел человек,
И вынес, и открыл ковчег,
И все до нитки роздал.
И пенье длится до зари,
И, нарыдавшись вдосталь,
Доходят тише изнутри
На пустыри под фонари
Псалтырь или Апостол.
Но в полночь смолкнут тварь и плоть,
Заслышав слух весенний,
Что только-только распогодь,
Смерть можно будет побороть
Усильем Воскресенья.
Translated from the Russian by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
"In Holy Week"
Boris Pasternak
Still darkness, darkness everywhere.
And still so early in the world,
Innumerable stars appear
And each so bright in the night air
That if the earth could count them there,
It would sleep through Easter, lulled
By chanted psalm and chanted prayer.
Still darkness, darkness everywhere.
The world has only just begun
And, like eternity, the square
Lies outstretched to the corner there,
And daybreak will not warm the air
Until a thousand years have run.
Still the earth is bare as bare,
And doesn’t have a thing to wear
For ringing bells in the night air
Or echoing the choir out there.
From Maundy Thursday on,
Right up to Holy Saturday,
The water bores into the banks
And eddies on its way.
The wood is naked, unadorned,
And, for Christ’s Passion, there
It stands, a congregation
Of silent pines at prayer.
But in the little open space
In town, the trees, all bare,
Are gathered before the church
And through its railings stare.
Their gaze is horrorstruck.
And there is the cause of their fear.
The gardens spill as fences break,
The earth’s foundations shake.
God is being buried here.
And they see light at the holy gates,
Low candles that illuminate
Black robes and streaming cheeks-the crowd
That, now emerging, elevates
Christ’s cross and bannered shroud,
And birches at the outer gates
Make way for them and bow.
The procession goes the rounds
Of the monastery bounds
And brings back from the pavement
Spring, a babble of spring sounds,
Air tasting of the sacrament
And smelling of the ground.
And March dispenses flakes of snow
To cripples in the portico,
As if somebody who had borne
A reliquary raised the lid
And scattered every shred.
And singing lasts until the dawn,
When, having wept to their hearts’ content,
Gospel and psalm, all passion spent,
More quietly retreat
Along the lamplit street.
But fur and flesh will hold their breath
At midnight, hearing spring’s prediction
That wind and weather change direction,
And death may then be put to death
By the power of Resurrection.
My hands smell of beeswax, incense wafts through the air, and even when I close my eyes, I can see the candles flickering, taste the dozens of flames around me. It's Easter tonight, but not your Easter, the one of brightness and sun through stained glass windows and April azaleas taped to mite boxes, their scent mixing with the lilies. There are lilies here too, but not stained glass, just tall arches with the saints and Jesus, painted in ornate colors and gold leaf for the halos. I am here at midnight looking for a god that I suppose you have found elsewhere, a risen Lord among the "Welcome Happy Morning" hymns. I have inherited this from you -- a love of theology and of a god who I can't explain, not even to myself, or to you. You told me once that you didn't believe in hell, and I wonder now if that was to say you did believe in heaven. I think that's what you meant. After all your searching and turmoil, you'd find your God and husband again. In church, I don't think of this. I think of death and the candles and how there are so many of us here now, listening, looking for God in the church whose lights are all off, waiting for the priest to pass along the fire, waiting to find what you have found, to inherit the belief that you own.
I lost the red/and liquid breath of God inside my throat.
Борис Пастернак
Еще кругом ночная мгла.
Еще так рано в мире,
Что звездам в небе нет числа,
И каждая, как день, светла,
И если бы земля могла,
Она бы Пасху проспала
Под чтение Псалтыри.
Еще кругом ночная мгла.
Такая рань на свете,
Что площадь вечностью легла
От перекрестка до угла,
И до рассвета и тепла
Еще тысячелетье.
Еще земля голым-гола,
И ей ночами не в чем
Раскачивать колокола
И вторить с воли певчим.
И со Страстного четверга
Вплоть до Страстной субботы
Вода буравит берега
И вьет водовороты.
И лес раздет и непокрыт,
И на Страстях Христовых,
Как строй молящихся, стоит
Толпой стволов сосновых.
А в городе, на небольшом
Пространстве, как на сходке,
Деревья смотрят нагишом
В церковные решетки.
И взгляд их ужасом объят.
Понятна их тревога.
Сады выходят из оград,
Колеблется земли уклад:
Они хоронят Бога.
И видят свет у царских врат,
И черный плат, и свечек ряд,
Заплаканные лица -
И вдруг навстречу крестный ход
Выходит с плащаницей,
И две березы у ворот
Должны посторониться.
И шествие обходит двор
По краю тротуара,
И вносит с улицы в притвор
Весну, весенний разговор
И воздух с привкусом просфор
И вешнего угара.
И март разбрасывает снег
На паперти толпе калек,
Как будто вышел человек,
И вынес, и открыл ковчег,
И все до нитки роздал.
И пенье длится до зари,
И, нарыдавшись вдосталь,
Доходят тише изнутри
На пустыри под фонари
Псалтырь или Апостол.
Но в полночь смолкнут тварь и плоть,
Заслышав слух весенний,
Что только-только распогодь,
Смерть можно будет побороть
Усильем Воскресенья.
Translated from the Russian by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
"In Holy Week"
Boris Pasternak
Still darkness, darkness everywhere.
And still so early in the world,
Innumerable stars appear
And each so bright in the night air
That if the earth could count them there,
It would sleep through Easter, lulled
By chanted psalm and chanted prayer.
Still darkness, darkness everywhere.
The world has only just begun
And, like eternity, the square
Lies outstretched to the corner there,
And daybreak will not warm the air
Until a thousand years have run.
Still the earth is bare as bare,
And doesn’t have a thing to wear
For ringing bells in the night air
Or echoing the choir out there.
From Maundy Thursday on,
Right up to Holy Saturday,
The water bores into the banks
And eddies on its way.
The wood is naked, unadorned,
And, for Christ’s Passion, there
It stands, a congregation
Of silent pines at prayer.
But in the little open space
In town, the trees, all bare,
Are gathered before the church
And through its railings stare.
Their gaze is horrorstruck.
And there is the cause of their fear.
The gardens spill as fences break,
The earth’s foundations shake.
God is being buried here.
And they see light at the holy gates,
Low candles that illuminate
Black robes and streaming cheeks-the crowd
That, now emerging, elevates
Christ’s cross and bannered shroud,
And birches at the outer gates
Make way for them and bow.
The procession goes the rounds
Of the monastery bounds
And brings back from the pavement
Spring, a babble of spring sounds,
Air tasting of the sacrament
And smelling of the ground.
And March dispenses flakes of snow
To cripples in the portico,
As if somebody who had borne
A reliquary raised the lid
And scattered every shred.
And singing lasts until the dawn,
When, having wept to their hearts’ content,
Gospel and psalm, all passion spent,
More quietly retreat
Along the lamplit street.
But fur and flesh will hold their breath
At midnight, hearing spring’s prediction
That wind and weather change direction,
And death may then be put to death
By the power of Resurrection.
My hands smell of beeswax, incense wafts through the air, and even when I close my eyes, I can see the candles flickering, taste the dozens of flames around me. It's Easter tonight, but not your Easter, the one of brightness and sun through stained glass windows and April azaleas taped to mite boxes, their scent mixing with the lilies. There are lilies here too, but not stained glass, just tall arches with the saints and Jesus, painted in ornate colors and gold leaf for the halos. I am here at midnight looking for a god that I suppose you have found elsewhere, a risen Lord among the "Welcome Happy Morning" hymns. I have inherited this from you -- a love of theology and of a god who I can't explain, not even to myself, or to you. You told me once that you didn't believe in hell, and I wonder now if that was to say you did believe in heaven. I think that's what you meant. After all your searching and turmoil, you'd find your God and husband again. In church, I don't think of this. I think of death and the candles and how there are so many of us here now, listening, looking for God in the church whose lights are all off, waiting for the priest to pass along the fire, waiting to find what you have found, to inherit the belief that you own.
I lost the red/and liquid breath of God inside my throat.