Text 13

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

‘Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

And in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idly as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yes, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon a slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

И бриз играл, и вал вставал,

И плыл наш вольный сброд

Вперед, в предел безмолвных вод,

Непройденных широт.

Но ветер стих, но парус лег,

Корабль замедлил ход,

И все заговорили вдруг,

Чтоб слышать хоть единый звук

В молчанье мертвых вод!

Горячий медный небосклон

Струит тяжелый зной.

Над мачтой Солнце все в крови,

С Луну величиной.

И не плеснет равнина вод,

Небес не дрогнет лик.

Иль нарисован океан

И нарисован бриг?

Кругом вода, но как трещит

От сухости доска!

Кругом вода, но не испить

Ни капли, ни глотка.

И мнится, море стало гнить,

0 Боже, быть беде!

Ползли, росли, сплетясь в клубки,

Слипались в комья слизняки

На слизистой воде.

Виясь, крутясь, кругом зажглась

Огнями смерти мгла.

Вода — бела, желта, красна,

Как масло в лампе колдуна,

Пылала и цвела.

И каждый взгляд меня клянет,

Хотя молчат уста.

И мертвый Альбатрос на мне

Висит взамен креста.

2.4 Edgar Allan Poe: a singular singer

In the 19^th century literary ballad writing thrived not only in England but across the Atlantic as well. Romanticism produced some great authors on American soil, too. The ballad was instrumental for Edgar Allan Poe (1809—1849). For him, it was chiefly music and musicality and recurrent themes. Perhaps, the fact gave Emerson a chance to dismiss Poe as "the jingle man" who was more interested in what the poems sounded like than in the message.

Edgar Allan Poe saw himself primarily as a poet. Yet his gothic tales of the grotesque and dark side of life have been the subject of even more immense critical scrutiny. Some critics have claimed him to be the originator of the detective story, while others saw him as an early forerunner of the science fiction jenre. However the critics divide, one undisputed fact is that Poe is a master of words.

His reputation has grown steadily since his untimely death and he has been much admired by the likes of R.L. Stevenson, Hart Crane and Baudelaire. Poe himself spoke often against the "heresy of didactic verses". He opposed firmly any attempt to proclaim or use poetry as means of indoctrination of any sort. Rhymed lines pretending to be poetry were disgusting to him. So many of his characters are given to poetry, sometimes strange, sometimes bizarre, but always genuine.

"I shall ever bear me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as the words of his wild fantasies, the result of that intense mental concentration…" This is said about Roderic Usher. The same can be applied to Poe himself: intense mental collectedness and concentration alone could produce those majestically romantic lines of his "rhapsodies".

Curiously, Russian literary developed an interest in Poe’s works very early on. The Raven, the famous ballad, alone was honoured with a plethora of versions: Andreevsky (1878), Palmin (1878), anonymous author (1885), Merezhkovsky (1890), Balmont (1894), Bryusov (1910), Zenkevich (1946), Gol (1988), Toporov (1988). This shows one thing only: Nevermore is hardly the word to describe Poe’s translations into Russian. On the contrary: again and again will his poems be translated! Especially such as the one that follows (Text 14).