|dgar Po. Voron (v razlichnyh perevodah) ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- OCR Bychkov M.N. mailto:bmn@lib.ru ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door - '"Tis some visiter", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Nameless _here_ for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir", said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely", said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou", I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before - On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless", said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never - nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch", I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting - "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! (1844-1849) Voron Raz, kogda ya v gluhuyu polnoch', blednyj i utomlennyj, razmyshlyal nad grudoj dragocennyh, hotya uzhe pozabytyh uchenyh foliantov, kogda ya v polusne lomal nad nimi sebe golovu, vdrug poslyshalsya legkij stuk, kak budto kto-to tihon'ko stuknul v dver' moej komnaty. "|to kakoj-nibud' prohozhij, - probormotal ya pro sebya, - stuchit ko mne v komnatu, - prohozhij, i bol'she nichego". Ah, ya otlichno pomnyu. Na dvore stoyal togda studenyj dekabr'. Dogoravshij v kamine ugol' oblival pol svetom, v kotorom vidna byla ego agoniya. YA strastno ozhidal nastupleniya utra; naprasno sililsya ya utopit' v svoih knigah pechal' po moej bezvozvratno pogibshej Lenore, po dragocennoj i luchezarnoj Lenore, imya kotoroj izvestno angelam i kotoruyu zdes' ne nazovut bol'she nikogda. I shoroh shelkovyh purpurovyh zaves, polnyj pechali i grez, sil'no trevozhil menya, napolnyal dushu moyu chudovishchnymi, nevedomymi mne dosele strahami, tak chto v konce koncov, chtoby zamedlit' bienie svoego serdca, ya vstal i prinyalsya povtoryat' sebe: "|to kakoj-nibud' prohozhij, kotoryj hochet vojti ko mne; eto kakoj-nibud' zapozdalyj prohozhij stuchit v dver' moej komnaty; eto on, i bol'she nichego". Moya dusha togda pochuvstvovala sebya bodree, i ya, ni minuty ne koleblyas', skazal: "Kto by tam ni byl, umolyayu vas, prostite menya radi Boga; delo, vidite, v tom, chto ya vzdremnul nemnozhko, a vy tak tiho postuchalis', tak tiho podoshli k dveri moej komnaty, chto ya edva-edva vas rasslyshal". I togda ya raskryl dver' nastezh', - byl mrak i bol'she nichego. Vsmatrivayas' v etot mrak, ya dolgoe vremya stoyal, izumlennyj, polnyj straha i somneniya, grezya takimi grezami, kakimi ne derzal ni odin smertnyj, no molchan'e ne bylo prervano i tishina ne byla narushena nichem. Bylo prosheptano odno tol'ko slovo "Lenora", i eto slovo proiznes ya. |ho povtorilo ego, povtorilo, i bol'she nichego. Vernuvshis' k sebe v komnatu, ya chuvstvoval, chto dusha moya gorela kak v ogne, i ya snova uslyshal stuk, - stuk sil'nee prezhnego. "Navernoe, - skazal ya, - chto-nibud' kroetsya za stavnyami moego okna; posmotryu-ka, v chem tam delo, razuznayu sekret i dam peredohnut' nemnozhko svoemu serdcu. |to - veter, i bol'she nichego". Togda ya tolknul stavni, i v okno, gromko hlopaya kryl'yami, vletel velichestvennyj voron, ptica svyashchennyh dnej drevnosti. On ne vykazal ni malejshego uvazheniya; on ne ostanovilsya, ne zapnulsya ni na minutu, no s minoyu lorda i ledi vzgromozdilsya nad dver'yu moej komnaty, vzgromozdilsya na byust Pallady nad dver'yu moej komnaty, - vzgromozdilsya, uselsya i... bol'she nichego. Togda eta chernaya, kak eben, ptica vazhnost'yu svoej postupi i strogost'yu svoej fizionomii vyzvala v moem pechal'nom voobrazhenii ulybku, i ya skazal: "Hotya tvoya golova i bez shlema, i bez shchita, no ty vse-taki ne trus', ugryumyj, staryj voron, putnik s beregov nochi. Povedaj, kak zovut tebya na beregah plutonovoj nochi". Voron karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" YA byl krajne izumlen, chto eto neuklyuzhee pernatoe sozdan'e tak legko razumelo chelovecheskoe slovo, hotya otvet ego i ne imel dlya menya osobennogo smysla i nichut' ne oblegchil moej skorbi; no, ved', nado zhe soznat'sya, chto ni odnomu smertnomu ne bylo dano videt' pticu nad dver'yu svoej komnaty, pticu ili zverya nad dver'yu svoej komnaty na vysechennom byuste, kotorym bylo by imya _Bol'she nikogda_! No voron, vzgromozdivshis' na spokojnyj byust, proiznes tol'ko odno eto slovo, kak budto v odno eto slovo on izlil vsyu svoyu dushu. On ne proiznes nichego bolee, on ne poshevel'nulsya ni edinym perom; ya skazal togda sebe tiho: "Druz'ya moi uzhe daleko uleteli ot menya; nastupit utro, i etot tak zhe pokinet menya, kak moi prezhnie, uzhe ischeznuvshie, nadezhdy". Togda ptica skazala: "_Bol'she nikogda_!" Ves' zadrozhal ya, uslyhav takoj otvet, i skazal: "Bez somneniya, slova, proiznosimye pticeyu, byli ee edinstvennym znaniem, kotoromu ona nauchilas' u svoego neschastnogo hozyaina, kotorogo neumolimoe gore muchilo bez otdyha i sroka, poka ego pesni ne stali zakanchivat'sya odnim i tem zhe pripevom, poka bezvozvratno pogibshie nadezhdy ne prinyali melanholicheskogo pripeva: "Nikogda, nikogda bol'she!" No voron snova vyzval v moej dushe ulybku, i ya podkatil kreslo pryamo protiv pticy, naprotiv byusta i dveri; zatem, uglubivshis' v barhatnye podushki kresla, ya prinyalsya dumat' na vse lady, staralsya razgadat', chto hotela skazat' eta veshchaya ptica drevnih dnej, chto hotela skazat' eta pechal'naya, neuklyuzhaya, zlopoluchnaya, hudaya i veshchaya ptica, karkaya svoe: "_Bol'she nikogda_!" YA ostavalsya v takom polozhenii, teryayas' v mechtah i dogadkah, i, ne obrashchayas' ni s edinym slovom k ptice, ognennye glaza kotoroj szhigali menya teper' do glubiny serdca, ya vse sililsya razgadat' tajnu, a golova moya privol'no pokoilas' na barhatnoj podushke, kotoruyu laskal svet lampy, - na tom fioletovom barhate, laskaemom svetom lampy, kuda ona uzhe ne sklonit svoej golovki bol'she nikogda! Togda mne pokazalos', chto vozduh nachal malo-pomalu napolnyat'sya klubami dyma, vyhodivshego iz kadila, kotoroe raskachivali serafimy, stopy kotoryh skol'zili po kovram komnaty. "Neschastnyj! - vskrichal ya sebe. - Bog tvoj chrez svoih angelov daet tebe zabvenie, on posylaet tebe bal'zam zabveniya, chtoby ty ne vspominal bolee o svoej Lenore! Pej, pej etot celebnyj bal'zam i zabud' pogibshuyu bezvozvratno Lenoru!" Voron karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" "Prorok! - skazal ya, - zloschastnaya tvar', ptica ili d'yavol, no vse-taki prorok! Bud' ty poslan samim iskusitelem, bud' ty vykinut, izvergnut bureyu, no ty - neustrashim: est' li zdes', na etoj pustynnoj, polnoj grez zemle, v etoj obiteli skorbej, est' li zdes', - povedaj mne vsyu pravdu, umolyayu tebya, - est' li zdes' bal'zam zabven'ya? Skazhi, ne skroj, umolyayu!" Voron karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" "Prorok! - skazal ya, - zloschastnaya tvar', ptica ili d'yavol, no vse-taki prorok! Vo imya etih nebes, rasprostertyh nad nami, vo imya togo bozhestva, kotoromu my oba poklonyaemsya, povedaj etoj gorestnoj dushe, dano li budet ej v dalekom |deme obnyat' tu svyatuyu, kotoruyu angely zovut Lenoroj, prizhat' k grudi moyu miluyu, luchezarnuyu Lenoru!" Voron karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" "Da budut zhe eti slova signalom k nashej razluke, ptica ili d'yavol! - vskrichal ya, pripodnyavshis' s kresla. - Idi snova na buryu, vernis' k beregu plutonovoj nochi, ne ostavlyaj zdes' ni edinogo chernogo peryshka, kotoroe moglo by napomnit' o lzhi, vyshedshej iz tvoej dushi! Ostav' moj priyut neoskvernennym! Pokin' etot byust nad dver'yu moej komnaty. Vyrvi svoj klyuv iz moego serdca i unesi svoj prizrachnyj obraz podal'she ot moej dveri!" Voron karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" I voron, nepodvizhnyj, vse eshche sidit na blednom byuste Pallady, kak raz nad dver'yu moej komnaty, i glaza ego smotryat, slovno glaza mechtayushchego d'yavola; i svet lampy, padayushchij na nego, brosaet na pol ego ten'; i dusha moya iz kruga etoj teni, koleblyushchejsya po polu, ne vyjdet bol'she nikogda! (1885) Perevodchik neizvesten Voron Pogruzhennyj v skorb' nemuyu i ustalyj, v noch' gluhuyu, Raz, kogda ponik v dremote ya nad knigoj odnogo Iz zabytyh mirom znanij, knigoj polnoj obayanij, - Stuk donessya, stuk nezhdannyj v dveri doma moego: "|to putnik postuchalsya v dveri doma moego, Tol'ko putnik - bol'she nichego". V dekabre - ya pomnyu - bylo eto polnoch'yu unyloj. V ochage pod peplom ugli razgoralis' inogda. Grudy knig ne utolyali ni na mig moej pechali - Ob utrachennoj Lenore, toj, ch'e imya navsegda - V sonme angelov - Lenora, toj, ch'e imya navsegda V etom mire sterlos' - bez sleda. Ot dyhan'ya nochi burnoj zanaveski shelk purpurnyj SHelestel, i neponyatnyj strah rozhdalsya ot vsego. Dumal, serdce uspokoyu, vse eshche tverdil poroyu: "|to gost' stuchitsya robko v dveri doma moego, Zapozdalyj gost' stuchitsya v dveri doma moego, Tol'ko gost' - i bol'she nichego!" I kogda preodolelo serdce strah, ya molvil smelo: "Vy prostite mne, obidet' ne hotel ya nikogo; YA na mig usnul trevozhno: slishkom tiho, ostorozhno, - Slishkom tiho vy stuchalis' v dveri doma moego..." I otkryl togda ya nastezh' dveri doma moego - Mrak nochnoj, - i bol'she nichego. Vse, chto duh moj volnovalo, vse, chto snilos' i smushchalo, Do sih por ne poseshchalo v etom mire nikogo. I ni golosa, ni znaka - iz tainstvennogo mraka... Vdrug "Lenora!" prozvuchalo bliz zhilishcha moego... Sam shepnul ya eto imya, i prosnulos' ot nego Tol'ko eho - bol'she nichego. No dusha moya gorela, pritvoril ya dver' nesmelo. Stuk opyat' razdalsya gromche; ya podumal: "Nichego, |to stuk v okne sluchajnyj, nikakoj zdes' netu tajny: Posmotryu i uspokoyu trepet serdca moego, Uspokoyu na mgnoven'e trepet serdca moego. |to veter, - bol'she nichego". YA otkryl okno, i strannyj gost' polnochnyj, gost' nezhdannyj, Voron carstvennyj vletaet; ya priveta ot nego Ne dozhdalsya. No otvazhno, - kak hozyain, gordo, vazhno Poletel on pryamo k dveri, k dveri doma moego, I vsporhnul na byust Pallady, sel tak tiho na nego, Tiho sel, - i bol'she nichego. Kak ni grustno, kak ni bol'no, - ulybnulsya ya nevol'no I skazal: "Tvoe kovarstvo pobedim my bez truda, No tebya, moj gost' zloveshchij, Voron drevnij. Voron veshchij, K nam s predelov vechnoj Nochi priletayushchij syuda, Kak zovut v strane, otkuda priletaesh' ty syuda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". Govorit tak yasno ptica, ne mogu ya nadivit'sya. No kazalos', chto nadezhda ej navek byla chuzhda. Tot ne zhdi sebe otrady, v ch'em domu na byust Pallady Syadet Voron nad dveryami; ot neschast'ya nikuda, - Tot, kto Vorona uvidel, - ne spasetsya nikuda, Vorona, ch'e imya: "Nikogda". Govoril on eto slovo tak pechal'no, tak surovo, CHto, kazalos', v nem vsyu dushu izlival; i vot, kogda Nedvizhim na izvayan'i on sidel v nemom molchan'i, YA shepnul: "Kak schast'e, druzhba uleteli navsegda, Uletit i eta ptica zavtra utrom navsegda". I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". I skazal ya, vzdrognuv snova: "Verno molvit' eto slovo Nauchil ego hozyain v dni tyazhelye, kogda On presleduem byl Rokom, i v neschast'e odinokom, Vmesto pesni lebedinoj, v eti dolgie goda Dlya nego byl ston edinyj v eti grustnye goda - Nikogda, - uzh bol'she nikogda!" Tak ya dumal i nevol'no ulybnulsya, kak ni bol'no. Povernul tihon'ko kreslo k byustu blednomu, tuda, Gde byl Voron, pogruzilsya v barhat kresel i zabylsya... "Strashnyj Voron, moj uzhasnyj gost', - podumal ya togda - Strashnyj, drevnij Voron, gore vozveshchayushchij vsegda, CHto zhe znachit krik tvoj: "Nikogda"? Ugadat' starayus' tshchetno; smotrit Voron bezotvetno. Svoj goryashchij vzor mne v serdce zaronil on navsegda. I v razdum'i nad zagadkoj, ya ponik v dremote sladkoj Golovoj na barhat, lampoj ozarennyj. Nikogda Na lilovyj barhat kresel, kak v schastlivye goda, Ej uzh ne sklonyat'sya - nikogda! I kazalos' mne: struilo dym nezrimoe kadilo, Prileteli Serafimy, shelesteli inogda Ih shagi, kak dunoven'e: "|to Bog mne shlet zabven'e! Pej zhe sladkoe zabven'e, pej, chtob v serdce navsegda Ob utrachennoj Lenore sterlas' pamyat' - navsegda!.. I skazal mne Voron: "Nikogda". "YA molyu, prorok zloveshchij, ptica ty il' demon veshchij, Zloj li Duh tebya iz Nochi, ili vihr' zanes syuda Iz pustyni mertvoj, vechnoj, beznadezhnoj, beskonechnoj, - Budet li, molyu, skazhi mne, budet li hot' tam, kuda Snizojdem my posle smerti, - serdcu otdyh navsegda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". "YA molyu, prorok zloveshchij, ptica ty il' demon veshchij, Zaklinayu nebom. Bogom, otvechaj, v tot den', kogda YA |dem uvizhu dal'nej, obnimu l' dushoj pechal'noj Dushu svetluyu Lenory, toj, ch'e imya navsegda V sonme angelov - Lenora, luchezarnoj navsegda?" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". "Proch'! - voskliknul ya, vstavaya, demon ty il' ptica zlaya. Proch'! - vernis' v predely Nochi, chtoby bol'she nikogda Ni odno iz per'ev chernyh, ne napomnilo pozornyh, Lzhivyh slov tvoih! Ostav' zhe byust Pallady navsegda, Iz dushi moej tvoj obraz ya istorgnu navsegda!" I otvetil Voron: "Nikogda". I sidit, sidit s teh por on tam, nad dver'yu chernyj Voron, S byusta blednogo Pallady ne ischeznet nikuda. U nego takie ochi, kak u Zlogo Duha nochi, Snom ob®yatogo; i lampa ten' brosaet. Navsegda K etoj teni chernoj pticy prigvozhdennyj navsegda, - Ne vospryanet duh moj - nikogda! (1890) Perevod Dm. Merezhkovskogo Voron Kak-to v polnoch', v chas ugryumyj, polnyj tyagostnoyu dumoj, Nad starinnymi tomami ya sklonyalsya v polusne, Grezam strannym otdavalsya, - vdrug neyasnyj zvuk razdalsya, Budto kto-to postuchalsya - postuchalsya v dver' ko mne. "|to, verno, - prosheptal ya, - gost' v polnochnoj tishine, Gost' stuchitsya v dver' ko mne". YAsno pomnyu... Ozhidan'e... Pozdnej oseni rydan'ya... I v kamine ochertan'ya tusklo tleyushchih uglej... O, kak zhazhdal ya rassveta, kak ya tshchetno zhdal otveta Na stradan'e bez priveta, na vopros o nej, o nej - O Lenore, chto blistala yarche vseh zemnyh ognej, - O svetile prezhnih dnej. I zaves purpurnyh trepet izdaval kak budto lepet, Trepet, lepet, napolnyavshij temnym chuvstvom serdce mne. Neponyatnyj strah smiryaya, vstal ya s mesta, povtoryaya: "|to tol'ko gost', bluzhdaya, postuchalsya v dver' ko mne, Pozdnij gost' priyuta prosit v polunochnoj tishine - Gost' stuchitsya v dver' ko mne". "Podaviv svoi somnen'ya, pobedivshi spasen'ya, YA skazal: "Ne osudite zamedlen'ya moego! |toj polnoch'yu nenastnoj ya vzdremnul, - i stuk neyasnyj Slishkom tih byl, stuk neyasnyj, - i ne slyshal ya ego, YA ne slyshal..." Tut raskryl ya dver' zhilishcha moego: T'ma - i bol'she nichego. Vzor zastyl, vo t'me stesnennyj, i stoyal ya izumlennyj, Snam otdavshis', nedostupnym na zemle ni dlya kogo; No kak prezhde noch' molchala, t'ma dushe ne otvechala, Lish' - "Lenora!" - prozvuchalo imya solnca moego, - |to ya shepnul, i eho povtorilo vnov' ego, - |ho - bol'she nichego. Vnov' ya v komnatu vernulsya - obernulsya - sodrognulsya, - Stuk razdalsya, no slyshnee, chem zvuchal on do togo. "Verno, chto-nibud' slomilos', chto-nibud' poshevelilos', Tam, za stavnyami, zabilos' u okoshka moego, |to - veter, - usmiryu ya trepet serdca moego, - Veter - bol'she nichego". YA tolknul okno s reshetkoj, - totchas vazhnoyu pohodkoj Iz-za stavnej vyshel Voron, gordyj Voron staryh dnej, Ne sklonilsya on uchtivo, no, kak lord, voshel spesivo I, vzmahnuv krylom lenivo, v pyshnoj vazhnosti svoej On vzletel na byust Pallady, chto nad dver'yu byl moej, On vzletel - i sel nad nej. Ot pechali ya ochnulsya i nevol'no usmehnulsya, Vidya vazhnost' etoj pticy, zhivshej dolgie goda. "Tvoj hohol oshchipan slavno, i glyadish' ty prezabavno, - YA promolvil, - no skazhi mne: v carstve t'my, gde noch' vsegda, Kak ty zvalsya, gordyj Voron, tam, gde noch' carit vsegda?" Molvil Voron: "Nikogda". Ptica yasno otvechala, i hot' smysla bylo malo. Podivilsya ya vsem serdcem na otvet ee togda. Da i kto ne podivitsya, kto s takoj mechtoj srodnitsya, Kto poverit' soglasitsya, chtoby gde-nibud', kogda - Sel nad dver'yu govoryashchij bez zapinki, bez truda Voron s klichkoj: "Nikogda". I vziraya tak surovo, lish' odno tverdil on slovo, Tochno vsyu on dushu vylil v etom slove "Nikogda", I krylami ne vzmahnul on, i perom ne shevel'nul on, - YA shepnul: "Druz'ya sokrylis' vot uzh mnogie goda, Zavtra on menya pokinet, kak nadezhdy, navsegda". Voron molvil: "Nikogda". Uslyhav otvet udachnyj, vzdrognul ya v trevoge mrachnoj. "Verno, byl on, - ya podumal, - u togo, ch'ya zhizn' - Beda, U stradal'ca, ch'i muchen'ya vozrastali, kak techen'e Rek vesnoj, ch'e otrechen'e ot Nadezhdy navsegda V pesne vylilos' o schast'i, chto, pogibnuv navsegda, Vnov' ne vspyhnet nikogda". No, ot skorbi otdyhaya, ulybayas' i vzdyhaya, Kreslo ya svoe pridvinul protiv Vorona togda, I, sklonyas' na barhat nezhnyj, ya fantazii bezbrezhnoj Otdalsya dushoj myatezhnoj: "|to - Voron, Voron, da. No o chem tverdit zloveshchij etim chernym "Nikogda", Strashnym krikom: "Nikogda". YA sidel, dogadok polnyj i zadumchivo-bezmolvnyj, Vzory pticy zhgli mne serdce, kak ognistaya zvezda, I s pechal'yu zapozdaloj golovoj svoej ustaloj YA pril'nul k podushke aloj, i podumal ya togda: YA - odin, na barhat alyj - ta, kogo lyubil vsegda, Ne pril'net uzh nikogda. No postoj: vokrug temneet, i kak budto kto-to veet, - To s kadil'nicej nebesnoj serafim prishel syuda? V mig neyasnyj upoen'ya ya vskrichal: "Prosti, muchen'e, |to bog poslal zabven'e o Lenore navsegda, - Pej, o, pej skorej zabven'e o Lenore navsegda!" Karknul Voron: "Nikogda". I vskrichal ya v skorbi strastnoj: "Ptica ty - il' duh uzhasnyj, Iskusitelem li poslan, il' grozoj pribit syuda, - Ty prorok neustrashimyj! V kraj pechal'nyj, nelyudimyj, V kraj, Toskoyu oderzhimyj, ty prishel ko mne syuda! O, skazhi, najdu l' zabven'e, - ya molyu, skazhi, kogda?" Karknul Voron: "Nikogda". "Ty prorok, - vskrichal ya, - veshchij! "Ptica ty - il' duh zloveshchij, |tim nebom, chto nad nami, - bogom, skrytym navsegda, - Zaklinayu, umolyaya, mne skazat' - v predelah Raya Mne otkroetsya l' svyataya, chto sred' angelov vsegda, Ta, kotoruyu Lenoroj v nebesah zovut vsegda?" Karknul Voron: "Nikogda". I voskliknul ya, vstavaya: "Proch' otsyuda, ptica zlaya! Ty iz carstva t'my i buri, - uhodi opyat' tuda, Ne hochu ya lzhi pozornoj, lzhi, kak eti per'ya, chernoj, Udalis' zhe, duh upornyj! Byt' hochu - odin vsegda! Vyn' svoj zhestkij klyuv iz serdca moego, gde skorb' - vsegda!" Karknul Voron: "Nikogda". I sidit, sidit zloveshchij Voron chernyj, Voron veshchij, S byusta blednogo Pallady ne umchitsya nikuda. On glyadit, uedinennyj, tochno Demon polusonnyj, Svet struitsya, ten' lozhitsya, - na polu drozhit vsegda. I dusha moya iz teni, chto volnuetsya vsegda. Ne vosstanet - nikogda! (1894) Perevod K. Bal'monta Voron Kak-to v polnoch', v chas unylyj, ya vnikal, ustav, bez sily, Mezh tomov starinnyh, v stroki rassuzhden'ya odnogo Po otvergnutoj nauke i rasslyshal smutno zvuki, Vdrug u dveri slovno stuki - stuk u vhoda moego. "|to - gost',- probormotal ya, - tam, u vhoda moego, Gost', - i bol'she nichego!" Ah! mne pomnitsya tak yasno: byl dekabr' i den' nenastnyj, Byl kak prizrak - otsvet krasnyj ot kamina moego. ZHdal zari ya v neterpen'e, v knigah tshchetno uteshen'e YA iskal v tu noch' muchen'ya, - bden'ya noch', bez toj, kogo Zvali zdes' Linor. To imya... SHepchut angely ego, Na zemle zhe - net ego. SHelkovistyj i ne rezkij, shoroh aloj zanaveski Muchil, polnil temnym strahom, chto ne znal ya do nego. CHtob smirit' v sebe bien'ya serdca, dolgo v uteshen'e YA tverdil: "To - poseshchen'e prosto druga odnogo". Povtoryal: "To - poseshchen'e prosto druga odnogo, Druga, - bol'she nichego!" Nakonec, vladeya volej, ya skazal, ne medlya bole: "Ser il' Mistriss, izvinite, chto molchal ya do togo. Delo v tom, chto zadremal ya i ne srazu rasslyhal ya, Slabyj stuk ne razobral ya, stuk u vhoda moego". Govorya, otkryl ya nastezh' dveri doma moego. T'ma, - i bol'she nichego. I, smotrya vo mrak glubokij, dolgo zhdal ya, odinokij, Polnyj grez, chto vedat' smertnym ne davalos' do toyu! Vse bezmolvno bylo snova, t'ma vokrug byla surova, Razdalos' odno lish' slovo: shepchut angely ego. YA shepnul: "Linor" - i eho povtorilo mne ego, |ho, - bol'she nichego. Lish' vernulsya ya nesmelo (vsya dusha vo mne gorela), Vskore vnov' ya stuk rasslyshal, no yasnej, chem do togo. No skazal ya: "|to stavnej veter zyblet svoenravnyj, On i vyzval strah nedavnij, veter, tol'ko i vsego, Bud' spokojno, serdce! |to - veter, tol'ko i vsego. Veter, - bol'she nichego! " Rastvoril svoe okno ya, i vletel vo glub' pokoya Statnyj, drevnij Voron, shumom kryl'ev slavya torzhestvo, Poklonit'sya ne hotel on; ne koleblyas', poletel on, Slovno lord il' ledi, sel on, sel u vhoda moego, Tam, na belyj byust Pallady, sel u vhoda moego, Sel, - i bol'she nichego. YA s ulybkoj mog divit'sya, kak ebenovaya ptica, V strogoj vazhnosti - surova i gorda byla togda. "Ty, - skazal ya, - lys i cheren, no ne robok i uporen, Drevnij, mrachnyj Voron, strannik s beregov, gde noch' vsegda! Kak zhe carstvenno ty prozvan u Plutona?" On togda Karknul: "Bol'she nikogda!" Ptica yasno prokrichala, izumiv menya snachala. Bylo v krike smysla malo, i slova ne shli syuda. No ne vsem blagosloven'e bylo - vedat' poseshchen'e Pticy, chto nad vhodom syadet, velichava i gorda, CHto na belom byuste syadet, chernokryla i gorda, S klichkoj "Bol'she nikogda!". Odinokij, Voron chernyj, sev na byust, brosal, upornyj, Lish' dva slova, slovno dushu v