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Tag Archives: From the battlefield

История одной нелюбви

18 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by Davíd Lavie in In English, In Russian, Original, Poetry & Prose

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Archetype, Astrology, Children, Chocolate, Enigma, Family, From the battlefield, Kung Fu, Love letter, Money, Union, Unlove, Women

Однажды я не любил одну женщину.

Я не любил ее активно. Моя активность, правда, внушила женщине, что я ее люблю. Так физическое отличается от душевного.

Мы встретились в кружке тай-чи. У нее кошачья фигура и большие серые глаза. Она хлопала ресницами в моем направлении и водила бедрами уходя в ином. Я наблюдал, ибо не замечать все это было бы еще пошлей.

Делала она все это с чувством меры. Все в ней было со вкусом и еще чуточку пере. Одевалась она феерически; но в том то и дело – что слегка вызывающе. Глаза были очень светлые и слишком большие, бедра выдающиеся, аромат тончайший, вкус головокружительный. Всего чуточку пере. В самый раз она была, кроме характера.

Было в нем что-то стальное, с примесью молибдена и старых традиций качества. Из нее получился бы знатный японский клинок, но на поле боя я оказался с белорусской ведьмой.

Волосы пшеничные, ржаные, с вереском. Кожа смуглая, изгиб поясницы маловероятный, губы пухлые, губы многогранные. Руки костлявые. Это видимо выдавало ведьменную ее натуру. Ухаживала она за собой, как служанка за Клеопатрой, к встречам нашим готовилась тщательно, профессионально, бесконечно. На ее прикроватном столике я как-то увидел книгу Искусство романа; читать, а тем более писать, романы времени у нее не было.

По этому всему, любя ее я не позволял себе влюбиться в нее.

*                *                *

Я сидел у нее на кожаном диване, недалеко от самой южной точки Манхэттена. Мы уже погуляли по микрорайону; был теплый майский вечер. Поели; она сказала, заходя со мной в кафе: Мужчину нужно сначала накормить, а то от голодных – никакого толку. Поговорили о пустяках и о разном; она все отсыпала мне комплименты. Я вроде знал, что где-то у нее есть муж, который давно не появлялся в Нью-Йорке. Сам я за день до этого прилетел откуда-то, где у меня была девушка. Прыгать из одной кровати в другую, да еще в чужую, я не собирался. Потом, в образовавшейся тишине, она сказала: Интересно, что будет если я сделаю вот так. Встала со своего кожаного дивана, поцеловала меня в губы и опять села. Такие выпады хорошо получались у нее в кружке тай-чи…

Бежать. Бежать не глядя. Надо было бы. Но мужская гордыня и лакомый кусок… Вот так все и началось. Чуть позже, я несколько минут извинялся перед ней за то, что часто бывает у мужчин когда они впервые оказываются в постели с определенной очень красивой женщиной. Потом извиняться было не за что. На следующее утро мы ехали в одном вагоне метро, рядом но далеко друг от друга.

Через пару недель, когда она уже говорила о том, что все это было суждено и предрешено (оказывается, ей один знакомый астролог посоветовал завести со мной роман) я написал ей:

Странное чувство –
Моя отрешенность,
                       твоя решительность,
Моя излишняя скромность,
Которая, на фоне – бенгальского ли –
огня, просто смешна.
 
Запретное чувство –
Где вожделение?
Без него все это просто “постель”.
Есть ли то состояние
(Есть ли то нестояние)
Мне наказание?
 
     Но ничего…
                       хорош жук,
                                           ханжа-шмель;
     Вскарабкался все-таки по стеблям стройным;
     В единстве ног
                          и рук
                                  усом хлебнул медовый хмель.
 
И это чувство – 
Этот испаряющий все ураган,
Этот… Это… Нечто –
                                      всё
Несущееся вечно вперед в голове,
Прущее лишь ввысь,
                                  лишь вглубь,
                       лишь в то – сплошь из гладей и плоскостей –
                       мирры пространство,
                       лишь в ту точку,
                       которая – в точку.
 
                       В нёбо – пальцем,
                       В матку – жаром.
 
Да, да, такое чувство,
Что я две недели ходил
Одолеваемый неуправляемыми волосами,
Не стригся лишь потому что хотел
Чтобы ночью ты, судорожными руками
по ним водила
и, изгибаясь, за них тянула.
 
Чем локоны длинней, тем слаще стоны;
Стоны двоих – и благородней и милей.
 
Глупое чувство –
                            скорее всего. 
Это работа такая.
Я, за вредность, даю молоко,
а мне – за удовольствие – мед-сахар.
Когда уволят – будет несладко,
но и не горько, 
                         что уже хорошо.
 
Несуществующее чувство –
Чувств – нет, равно как и отношений;
                                                       одни ощущения – 
Но грех пенять – 
                           ведь какие!
 
 
Разразились кошачие выпады 
тихим громом.
Герметична и парализующе проста
договоренность.
Чисто пробита надобность в танцах приличия
острым ломом,
Всё в романчике-книжке есть этой…
                                                        но не предрешенность.

Еще недели через две, когда я вошел в химическую зависимость от нее, а она от меня, я написал лишь полушутя:

At the tip of a pike-shaped piece of land lives a cat.
A lonely cat, a comely cat, a lovely cat – a she-cat at that.
She has pinot grigio at dinner, a business letter is written at lunch;
for breakfast she has a lotus pose.
In short, this is the cat with the four long paws
and a cat’s stretch to give any cat pause.
 
Svelte curve, suede fur, sweet purr – that’s her.
 
She likes fish and eats it delicately, with half-closed eyes;
and the ocean she loves so much is glad to surprise
with the carp’s swell, the trout’s tell-tale fins,
the flounder’s sly hustle, the great bass’s bustle,
the red snapper’s wry grin…
 
It happened one day, though, that a particular fish – 
a plaice or a perch, maybe turbot, no – halibut!
Or maybe a crucian (part Russian) from Malibu…
A shark, then. 
                  Oh, let’s just make it gefilte fish –
very fond, for a change, of cats, and not just the other way ’round –
leapt up in the air, sparkled a bit in the sun, and was swallowed.
 
Settling inside her, like an eel in a burrow,
it explored every crevice, every fold, every furrow,
and this strange caress – fiery, deep and slow,
as no meal before, set the cat aglow.
 
And she swore by all ye gods and little fishes
That this one particular fish was most delicious.

*                *                *

И все-таки я убежал. Я уехал к той девушке, хотя уже думал только об этой. Она случайно узнала незадолго до моего отъезда и прореагировала очень ровно. Утром в августовский день отъезда я проснулся в ее благоухающей постели. Мои д’артаньяновские усы были пропитаны ее ароматом. Перед аэропортом я их сбрил.

Я вернулся через 7 недель по семейным делам и она неожиданно встречала меня в аэропорту. Самолюбию угодила, нечего сказать. Я повел ее в дорогой французский ресторан, где, обнаглев, позволил себе рапсодическую тираду по поводу того, как я скоро буду наслаждаться роскошной женщиной. Позже, не стерпев разницы во времени, я заснул в постели.

Она была крынкой меда
                                     среди медведей,
Была всего лишь погодой
                                       на завтрашний день.
Как древо смолой истекала,
                                          А аромат…
В нем что-то напоминало 
                                      старый мускат,
Кагор в елисеевских бочках,
                                          Шато д’Икем,
Сакуру в белых почках, незренну никем.
 
Смола себя обратила в зерно янтаря,
что аромат сохранило, и не зря.
Слепого в нем восхищенье, 
                                         пророка вздох,
глухого ночное пенье
                                и бес, и Бог.

*                *                *

Еще через 7 месяцев я вернулся. К тому времени мы регулярно не общались. Потом я узнал, что она беременна от одного из медведей из кружка тай-чи. Это было облегчением, потому что теперь я знал, что стальной клинок в медовых ножнах придется носить иному. На ее дне рожденья я произнес тост, в котором желал ей в жизни стержня, вокруг которого она, как женщина, могла бы обвиться.

Я даже принес ей цветы в роддом. Потом я видел ее дочь, приносил какие-то подарочки. Потом, слишком теплым мартовским днем, она пригласила меня к себе. Я, как водилось раньше, купил изысканные французские сладости и, хорошо понимая, что должен был отказаться, поехал к ней. Только чай, говорил я себе.

Выглядела она как-то неестественно хорошо. Ребенка уложила быстро. А потом и меня.

Следов родов не было. Она восстановилась по-ведьменски. Сладость осталась та-же.

Итак.
И так развязался бантик.
 
Его завязали: лев-романтик,
Лань-королева и Винни-Пух.
Кто-то был слеп, кто-то был глух,
над всеми витал звездный дух.
 
Казалось, то был пионерский узел, –
так он ладной гладью лоснился –
но кто-то его затянул, сузил,
и он, как в фокусе, испарился.
 
Свисают томно и нежно 
                                   атласные ленты,
подобно белью, брошенному небрежно.
Это подарок друг другу,
а в таком деле, лучшее – арранжементы.
(Дарить – уже скучнее, чем выбирать…)
 
Придет время преподнести
                                         этот роман богам –
Завяжется бант, как трос,
морским узлом, похожим на шрам.
А пока…
 
А пока –
Мне не уйти от бессмертных слов –
Я – пионер, и всегда готов.

В середине мая в одночасье по всему Нью Йорку появилась сирень. Я знал, что она особенно ее любит. У прагматичного грека-цветочника я заказал душистый, тяжелый, дорогущий букет и послал его ей через весь город, приписав

Когда б сирень как ты благоухала
Ее бы оставалось очень мало;
И вместе с тем, прими эти цветы
И научи их пахнуть так, как ты.

Через некоторое время она предложила мне жениться на ней. В постели. Сказала, что ей нужно остаться в стране и что статус ей нужен сразу. Я должен был согласиться на то, что она обвинит меня в оскорблениях и угрозах и, пытаясь спасти ее от опасного мужа, иммиграционные органы дадут ей срочный статус. Я согласился на это. Так физическое отличается от умственного.

Мы даже ездили к юристу, которая все это мне объяснила, таким образом совершив преступление, достойное потери адвокатской лицензии. Мы решили устроить красивую микро-свадьбу в мэрии. Черный костюм и галстук, белая рубашка, новые туфли, кремовый платок из изысканнейшего французского шелка. Она купила дорогое кремовое платье, которое потом сдала. Когда мы выходили из загса, велокурьер, съезжавший с бруклинского моста засмотрелся на нее и полетел через руль, приземлившись у наших ног и бормоча извинения. Мы распили бутылку шампанского из бокалов в сквере мэрии, на виду у полицейских. Когда мы шли по Бродвею нас остановил аристократического вида путешественник с огромным рюкзаком за спиной и от души пожелал нам счастья в семейной жизни. Мне стало перед ним неудобно; по большей части это представление было блефом. Хотя и не полностью. Придя домой после ресторана, я взял ее на руки, а потом и в объятья, теперь – как жену, – и это было хорошо.

За несколько дней до свадьбы я, человек традиционных взглядов, написал ей письмо на красивой старой бумаге и запечатал его в плотном конверте сургучом со своим именным клеймом. Посредством этого письма я официально просил ее руки.

Дорогая и вожделенная мною Л.Л.!

Ввиду международной обстановки и не сложившихся обстоятельств, извольте ходить за меня замуж. Вы перевернули моё мироощущение аккурат вверх тормашками и, с некоторых пор, белый свет мне стал не мил без Вашей Светлости в качестве моей законной супруги. Так что, сделайте любезность и пойдите со мной под венец.

Ваша лепота и роскошные формы сразили бы любого. Так чем же хуже я всех остальных? Вроде ничем; а коль так, будьте добры да будьте моей благоверной.

Подумайте только: Ваша мудрость и прекрасный вкус схлестнутся с моим неизлечимым прекраснодушием и беспрестанным Вами восхищением. Не это ли идиллия? А кто-то еще что-то там говорил насчет шалаша в Финском заливе. Хотя я не против. Можно и в шалаше. Главное – чтоб не в грехе.

Словом, сделайте меня самым счастливым человеком на планете и станьте моей суженой. За мужней любовью дело не постоит, даю слово. Ну а о супружеском долге я и не заикаюсь… Надеюсь, Вам и так все ясно. Тут, знаете ли, страсть, какая страсть…

Ну что еще могу Вам такого ввернуть, чтобы Вы потеряли сомнения и голову?

Мужчина я скромный, но в одежде знаю толк. Если что, могу за наряд похвалить. За волосы ничего мне не стоит комплимент отпустить. Пью вино, но учитывая цены, алкоголизм мне не грозит. Курить не курю. О всем остальном вечном здесь даже как-то и неудобно.

Будет Вам от меня честь и хвала. Буду любить и жаловать. На руках также носить буду. Вкратце, вроде бы всё. Подробнее: дальше – больше.

Ходите, ходите замуж за меня, Ваша Светлость, не пожалеете.

Преданный Вам до гроба,

[ИО]

*                *                *

По утрам она часто переносила крошечную девочку свою к нам постель. Ребенок лежал между нами и смотрел на меня. Видимо она хотела, чтобы дочь привыкла ко мне.

Beauty.

Beauty is what I saw in the angle of her extended arm when she rested on it, half-asleep, as the baby cried in the morning, before fluttering out of bed to tend to it.
The beauty of form, as the angle of the arm reflected the line of her hip, where the elbow met the waist, the way it fit as she stood, walked, was.

Beauty of texture beguiled my even sleepy eyes with the undulating, complex waves and woven color of her wheat-and-rye hair. More than two feet long, this waterfall of blonde fabric was right there before me, too beautiful not to touch and kiss and dig my fingers into, even though I knew that it was distracting her from having to get up because the baby was still crying, awake, awet and asking for attention.

*                *                *

Позже, когда ленты бывшего банта распались на волокна, я попытался мысленно сфотографировать то, что не поддается ни языку, ни уму, и неизменно искажается – особенно воспоминаниями.

I need to commit the last time we made love to paper because it was so… sweet, yes, sweet, in every sense, as nothing I’d tasted before. I felt easy and sure, familiar with her desire. She was relaxed, holding nothing back, and flowered with such a sure, exquisite fragrance that, even though I was spoiled by her – knowing her – it was – yes – ecstasy just to inhale the pure parfume. This is the stuff that tries men’s souls and makes great fragrance houses in Grasse fear bankrupcy.

I need to write of our last time together before time makes it seem mythic, more majestic, more unearthly, more earthly or sweeter than it was.

*                *                *

Мы поехали за город, к ее знакомым. Предварительно она попросила меня прибить два волнистых зеркала в дочерней спальне. Формой они напоминали малайский кинжал. Чуть позже я почувствовал их под лопаткой.

Я задержался, возясь с дрелью и хлипкими стенами, и мы выехали на 15 минут позже, чем собирались. Она кричала на меня у машины держа дочь на руках, обвиняя меня в том, что из за меня у ребенка срывается график сна, из за чего она будет плакать. Прохожие оборачивались. Дочь уже плакала. Так на меня никто никогда не кричал. Она говорила со мной даже не как с подчиненным.

Почему-то я не ушел оттуда, а сел в машину с ними и два с половиной часа ехал молча пока она первые полчаса оскорбляла меня, а потом пока еще два часа мы искали дом друзей. Дочь плакала. Я делал все это ради нее, на автомате, – чтобы ребенок подышал свежим воздухом.

Когда мы наконец приехали, продолжать быть с ней рядом было невозможно. Но почему-то я считал, что в присутствии хозяев должен играть роль счастливого мужа/любовника. У меня заболело сердце. Я конечно знал, что у нее такой характер, но сделать мне так больно… Хотя, наверное, я сделал все это намного больнее для себя, чем оно могло быть.

Спали мы в одной кровати, но я спал максимально далеко от нее. Дотронуться до женщины, которой я повелевал своим касанием теперь было бы для меня немыслимым.

Утром было еще тяжелее. В какой-то момент стало невыносимо. Мне было нечем дышать. Мы оба оказались на кухне. Она подошла ко мне сзади, по-мужски, обняла меня и сказала: Давай оставим это позади. Есть же столько прекрасного, общего у нас. Я согласился, но не сразу. Я не мог так быстро перестроиться и сделать вид, что ничего не было. Видимо, она ожидала мгновенной реакции, как с подчиненными. Ничего не изменилось.

Обратно мы ехали под постоянный плач дочери, свинцовые обвинения и исполняемую детским хором Old McDonald Had a Farm. Я довез их до дома с волнистыми зеркалами и ушел из него навсегда.

I.
 
Ухожу.
Это в общем-то дело мужское.
Учусь быть мужчиной – 
ведь пора, – ведь младенцу-мужчине, Ему,
тридцать-три было.
                           Скоро и нам. 
                                             Пора.
 
Ухожу.
         Да. 
            Нет, скорей – выхожу.
 
Почему бы нам не посмотреть на все это
как на анфиладу
                        залов, спален,
гостиных в каком-то дворце?
(Кто против дворца, прошу выйти в сад.)
 
Хоть двадцать на двадцать на двадцать зала,
скучно в ней пребывать все лето,
зиму всю коротать в столовой жильцы не рады;
Хлопотливо, конечно, но зато –
сегодня – в фасаде, завтра – в торце.
 
Поэтому и выхожу из покоев,
                                          роскоши хладной не рад.
 
Что-то скудно с питанием что-ли в этой зале?
Подадимся далее; там, небось, с этим делом богаче.
 
А вообще, то есть конкретно, – в мужском металле
тяга к камню прослеживается; тем паче,
что от камня он происходит; но не искра,
а тепло ему нужно от камня.
                                            Говоря
на родном нашем индо-европейском:
он заветно шепчет, чуть не религиозно, “Шакти…”,
а ему в ответ намек и усмешка – “Дурак ты…”
 
 
II.
 
Здесь что-то не так.
                            С кровинкой пламя.
Да с какой там кровинкой – Красное Знамя –
орден которого на груди висит;
орган огня ноет и барахлит.
 
Это опасно тому, кто огненный насквозь,
тому, кто в саванне – кот, кто ящур в народных сказках;
противопоказан нам как белый охотник,
так и с копьем на белом коне всадник.
 
 
III.
 
Певчую птицу как правило держат в клетке,
артиста заслуженного – в кроватке;
то есть дают попрыгать в постели,
чтобы с душой, с вдохновением пели.
 
Тут же треба трошки иная птиця –
(согласитесь – сложно с этим не согласиться) –
здесь нужна птица-скот, птица-пахарь, петух индейский, индюк.
Индустриально-промышленно-финансовый комплекс,
при нем, конечно, скорее всего “мерседес”, “ролекс”,
спесивость, естественно, индюка; надменность,
к цифрам подход, знание цен – главная ценность.
 
Но, на самом деле, индюк иль индус – это стержень – 
Тот тост-пожелание, к которому я так привержен.
Я, поверь мне, от сердца (буквально) тебе желаю
самого главного; 
                        лишь одного не знаю:
Кто мы? В чем между нами связь?
 
Скрывает ответ санскрита вязь.
Что общего? Зачем? Почему, вообще
все это, и все это именно так?
 
Карма? 
         (нагуляна?)
                         случай?
                                   пустяк?
Опять не знаю, да и все это тщетно, конечно.
 
Во всяком случае, умом не понять,
а сердцем – лучше не надо.

*                *                *

К счастью, наши изначальные планы официально обвинить меня в угрозах и насилии ни к чему не привели. Она не отвечала на мои письма, сообщения, подарки. Я переживал насчет ее статуса, но для нее важнее было меня забыть. Тогда я, с трудом, но забыл ее сам.

Несколько месяцев спустя, теплым майским днем, она заявилась ко мне на работу, вычурно одетая, с летучей гривой и в растрепанных чувствах, вдруг требуя тем-же стальным тоном, чтобы я пошел с ней на собеседование в иммиграционную службу. Но для меня все это было позади. Не полностью, но позади. У нее дергался глаз, она ненавидяще смотрела на меня, потом обругала матом, вспорхнула и билась, как пшенично-ржаная моль, о стеклянные двери кафе. Я выступил вперед, провернул ручку и выпустил ее на волю. Статус она со временем получила.

Позже я нашел начало стишка, который я написал к рождению ее дочери:

God, bless this child with every little thing 
in your dominion;
                       let her to the sun 
fly up with ladybugs, and dance and sing
and drink from buttercups and laugh and run
from little boys, and…

Protected: Ulysses ‘n Agamemnon

24 Friday Aug 2012

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Young Baron Münchausen’s Letter To a Lady

14 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by Davíd Lavie in Original, Prose

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Baron Münchausen, From the battlefield, Love letter, Women

Summer 1736

Dear Dear One!

I write to you from the heat of battle – one I will not likely survive.

The Turks’ incursion on our garrison began in the dead of night. Our scouts silent, our sentries silenced by marksmen, we were taken by surprise, gravely unprepared for the ensuing bloodbath.

It has been ten straight hours of fighting. Nothing at this point is what it seems. Man and beast have turned into a single heaving mass; the hills have disintegrated into muddy slides, with not a single blade of grass left, just the bloodthirsty sword blades of unhinged, desperate men. Horses are victims and villains both: pierced readily with spears in order to unseat their riders, then trampling their own downed masters in incriminating panic.

Trapped in the overrun trenches breathing fire and death, just yesterday’s brave warriors are today’s bleating, shrieking sheep, begging for mercy and relief from this infernal bloodletting.

The dust of these tan hills, now auburn with our blood, hangs as a cloud above the battlefield, occluding light and blotting out the sun. Whatever we turn our eyes to is a nebulous sight, as unclear and indistinct as are our chances of surviving.

Five times in as many months we have pushed back these fiends from Asia Minor, and fifty times they have come back, swarming our positions in wave after impetuous wave of rat-like ferocity, their bugle boys eking frightening, strident battle calls from what appear to be brass-plated human hearts. These recalcitrant savages refuse to take a hint, attacking again and again, willing to give their lives – their only possessions in this world, and even those they hardly own – for the Sultan’s slightest whim.

How many times our side has plotted to depose the Sultan! How many spies posing as diplomats and merchants have we sent to the Ottoman court, meant to stir up rebellion and overthrow the despot, instead ending up as an ingredient in the Sultan’s soup.

Of course, we know what he’s after. In his towering cupidity, the Sultan is seeing nothing but gold ducats in his swine-slit eyes – why else would he invade a stretch of Lower Prussia known chiefly for its barren fields and dying villages?! Where’s the chance for profit, you would ask. Ah, but there is one resource Liebefrauland is known for above all in the Teutonic lands – and that is its fair maidens. Of course, I hardly need tell you this, my little Liebefraulandmädchen.

Fearing for the safety of your native province’s most precious resource, The High Command sent Your Humble Servant, along with a detachment of specially trained soldiers to secure the deliverance of all the fair maidens in this province from the pilaf-stained clutches of the Sultan.

Of course, some generals demurred at my being chosen. I was a man of strange tastes and leanings, they said, too eclectic in my choice of personal staff. True, my valet is a one-eyed, hunchbacked dwarf and my arms bearer is a yearling bear, but I am an egalitarian at heart, and I say every specimen of every species deserves an equal opportunity to serve in the army and uphold the spirit of bold adventure, while rescuing maidens from defilement no less. Besides, each of my little helpers has the strength of a dozen men. As for me, although somewhat maniacally fastidious on the twin points of boots always shining and firearms always working, I’m a congenial employer, pleasant and friendly, an occasional satirical remark notwithstanding.

In the end, the military bigwigs’ influence and grumbling militated against my being given full freedom to execute my plan. They made me check in with headquarters daily – an egregious outrage! Of course, now that all lines of communication are destroyed, I have complete theoretical freedom to do everything that in practice I cannot do. Oh, facetious fate – ever laughing, seldom spreading joy! The company of men I was originally given was down to a platoon this morning and, my manservant informs me, is now a mere squad – and not a firing one at that, since we are fresh out of ammunition. The aggregate impression from the many sources of bad news is that we’ll be cut down in hand-to-hand combat quite soon.

“I write to you from the heat of battle – one I will not likely survive.”
Illustration by Aleks Zelenina

The generals – oh, they take their vicarious pleasure in our fighting for their cause! They lie in the tents while we die in the trenches. They scrutinize maps and pore over dispatches while we agonize in pain and pour our hearts out in last letters to loved ones. Death is endemic to the battlefield – it comes with the territory; this much I know. That is precisely why I write this to you.

Mulier est malleus per quem Deus et mollit et malleat universum mundum, the ancients used to say. Woman is the hammer with which God softens and shapes the world. As I am about to face death, I know for sure that it is you who shaped my world, who softened my rough edges – you who made me a better man. I am a man of strict codes and firm convictions, but if you are doing the shaping, then consider me malleable. You engendered my highest motives, inspired my best actions, gave rise to my greatest successes. Everything of importance in my life, darling, I did for you. You, my love, are my reason for living and, the way this battle is going, for dying as well.

In the scope of Creation, man’s time on Earth is but a flit of a firefly’s bottom – a momentary flash in the Universe’s pan, a sudden bit of light in a vast, enveloping darkness; an evanescent scent of roses cutting through the stench of nothingness and death.

Half-naked fakirs in India might drone on on the importance of leaving worldly pleasures behind. Saffron-and-burgundy-robed monks in Tibet will talk of casting off the bonds of attachment. Black-frocked ‘men of God’ may carry on about the need to shield the immortal soul from all temptation. Wooly-haired philosophers will suggest coolly contemplating the world via the mind, leaving no room for the intelligence of the heart. Let them. True as their creeds might be, my love for you alone is the lodestar of my life’s journey, my singularly awesome inspiration, the why and wherefore of the grand adventure that has been my time on this lovely blue sphere that is our home.

Farewell, my lovely. You set my heart asmile. I shall love you always.

Yours for ever,

Karl Friedrich Hieronymus, Baron Münchausen

P.S. I beg of you, I order you, I enjoin you: Be happy!

LOVE

01 Monday Aug 2005

Posted by Davíd Lavie in From Russian, In English, Prose

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1. And when Death itself approaches our bed on cat’s paws and, uttering “ahem”, starts to strip from us our priceless and, up to this point, dear life, there will be one emotion we will likely most regret losing in the process.

2. Of all the marvelous things and feelings that nature, in its infinite generosity, has showered upon us, our most piteous parting will, I think, probably be with love.

And to use the language of poetic analogy, as it departs from this world, our extracted soul will start to flail and groan, begging to go back, embarrassing itself, and saying that it hadn’t yet seen everything there is to see and that it would still like to see something else.

But that’s nonsense. It’s seen everything. And these are nothing but empty excuses, pointing rather to the highfalutedness of our feelings and aspirations than to anything else.

3. Of course, besides all of that there are all kinds of exceptional and worthy happenings and sensations that we will sigh after plaintively.

We will, no doubt, be sorry never to hear the music of marching bands and symphony orchestras, never to, say, go on a cruise aboard a ship or gather sweet-smelling lilies-of-the-valley in the forest. We will be most sad to leave our wonderful job, and sad not to lie on the seashore with the object of relaxing.

Yes, these are all wonderful things, and we will also be sorry to part with all of them, of course. And maybe we’ll even shed a tear. But it is love that will beget a special and most bitter bout of tears from us. And when we part with this emotion, the majesty of the entire world before us will probably be extinguished, and it will seem to us empty, cold and of little interest.

As one poet said:

Love gives color to life,
Love is the charm of nature,
There exists an inner conviction
That all that replaces love is worthless.

So you see, the French poet De Miusse pronounced everything worthless compared with this emotion. But, of course, he was somewhat mistaken. Went a bit too far out on that limb, he did.

4. Besides, we would do well to remember that these lines were uttered by a Frenchman. That is, someone by nature very sensitive and, excuse the thought, probably a womanizer, who, under the effect of extraordinary emotion could really let some such nonsense fly.

These Frenchmen over there in Paris (much as we’ve been told) they come out in the evening onto the boulevards, and except for all kinds of cuties that they call chickies, from the get-go they see positively nothing else. That’s how much they appreciate female grace and beauty!…

So we have reason to dampen the uncommon fire of these poetic lines a bit.

5. But have a look at a Russian poet. The Russian poet stays on par with the fiery Gallic brain. And more still. We find not just love, but even infatuation in these surprising verses:

O, infatuation! How much stricter than fate is your mettle,
Greater even than ancient commandments…
Sweeter still than the call of the bugle to battle.

Which allows us to conclude that this great poet of ours thought this emotion something extraordinarily lofty, as something or other of a magnitude not to be equaled even by the text of the criminal code, nor by the teachings of father or, you know, mother. In short, nothing, says he, had the same impact on him as this emotion did. The poet is even hinting at something or other here about being drafted into the army – says that he couldn’t care less for that. Looks like the poet’s probably got something he’s not saying.

Mentioned the bugle’s call to battle and all of a sudden got all mysterious on us. I bet he dodged the draft himself in his day. That’s probably why he’s getting all allegorical.

Prose, in this respect, is much easier to deal with. You can’t have nebulousness like that in prose. Everything’s clear. But, as you can see, even poetry can be explained.

6. No less impressive are another Russian poet’s verses.

Actually, this poet once had his house burn down, the house where he was born and spent his best childhood days. And it’s a curious thing what this poet obtained for himself as comfort after the fire.

He tells it like this. He describes it in a poem. This is what he writes:

It seemed that all of childhood’s joys
Had vanished in the burning house,
And death to me was welcome then,
And I bent down to the water,
But then, a woman in a boat
The moon’s reflection mirrored, gliding,
And if she should have the desire
And if the moon allows it too,
I’ll build myself a new abode
In that unknown heart of hers.

Et cetera, something to that effect.

7. That is, in other words, liberally translating lofty verse into egalitarian prose, we can partly understand how this guy, mad with grief, wanted to throw himself into the water, but at this critical moment he saw a pretty woman taking a boat ride. And so he all of a sudden fell in love with her at first sight, and this love eclipsed, so to speak, his horrible suffering and even distracted him from the toils of locating a new place to live. Especially since, judging by the poem, the poet seems to just want to move in with this lady. Or maybe he wants to build an addition onto her house if she, as he nebulously puts it, should have the desire, and if the moon and management allow it.

Well, in terms of the moon, the poet threw her in for a sort of a greater poetic impact. I mean, the moon, really, has little to do with all of this. As far as building management goes, it might very well turn him down, even if the lady in the boat has the desire, since these two lovebirds aren’t officially married, and, who knows, maybe there’s something impermissibly fishy going on here.

8. I mean, I don’t know, maybe this coarse mind of a soldier, worked over with heavy artillery in two wars, doesn’t apprehend the intricate and delicate poetic pattern of verse and feeling. But we do venture to think approximately in that vein, based on a certain knowledge of life and an understanding of the real needs of people whose lives don’t always follow the canons of florid poetry.

So basically, even here the poet speaks of love as the greatest of emotions, which, assuming a certain carefree streak, may substitute for even the most basic things, even including living arrangements. But we’ll let the poet sort out these kinds of opinions with his conscience.

But this, of course, is not the view of only three fiery poets.

For all the others have sung words of love even more ridiculous and shameless than these, while strumming carelessly, so to speak, the strings of even the most dilapidated lyres.

9. Something or other out of Apukhtin comes to me now:

My heart leapt up, in love again,
Shoop, shoobe-doop, doop-doop…
All that the soul holds holy and dear…
Shoop, shoobe-doop…

And this was no boy of eighteen writing. A serious man of about forty-eight wrote this; very extremely fat and unhappy in his personal life. Nevertheless, as you can see, he too thinks that all is dead and lifeless until love comes into one’s heart.

I’m remembering more crazy verses:

What is love? What is love? Love! Oh, what is your name?
Love is fire in the blood; it is blood in the flame…

Something, something; pretty damn… I don’t know…

It is paradise lost, yet regained again.
Death trumps life, yet love rules over mortal domain.

10. I’d say even French poetry falls a bit flat here – they don’t have that, you know, crazy energy, like we see in these lines. And this was a Russian poetess. She lived in the beginning of this century and was, by all accounts, pretty good-looking. With a developed poetic temperament, to be sure. That lady was probably shaking all over when she was composing this poem. Which is really more of a biographical detail than a sample of poetry… The poor husband had it rough enough, I bet… She must have been real fickle. Hardly did anything. Probably spent the whole day laying around in bed without even washing that mug of hers. And reading her little poems aloud all the time. And her idiot-husband sitting there; “Oh,” he exclaims, “this is amazing, honeybunny, it’s genius!” And she says, “Really?”…

The idiots! And then they both up and died. She got tuberculosis, I think, and he must have gotten infected with something too.

11. Here’s where all these skeptics, academics and pedants, whose hearts have iced over in their lonely wanderings through the polar regions of science, reading these lines of verse, will probably shrug and say that what we have here is the unwarranted view of certain excessively fiery hearts, promiscuous souls and a perverted worldview.

And they will be surprised that this emotion has been described in such views and such poems and such words, which they had not even known about, and could not even have thought that something like this had ever been said about it.

And maybe it really is surprising that this is so, and that we have this kind of poetry, but not long ago we happened upon this work of prose by a singer – Fyodor Ivanovich Shalyapin. So, in this book he admits with complete candor that everything he did in his life he did mainly for love and for a woman. These are the kinds of opinions of love that we hear from poetically minded people.

12. And as far as sober-minded and levelheaded people, as far as philosophers and all kinds of, you know, thinkers, whose minds have shed much light on life’s most mysterious and complicated aspects, as far as these people go, for the most part they didn’t say much about this emotion, but there were times, of course, when they looked its way, chuckled, and were even known to utter certain pithy quotes showcasing their life experience.

We can, if you so desire, give you one of the more melancholy quotes, which is by Schopenhauer, one of the gloomiest philosophers the world has known.

This gloomy philosopher, whose wife undoubtedly cheated on him at every turn, said this about love:
“Love is a blind will to live. It lures man with the illusion of individual happiness, making him the means to its ends.”

Of the more inane sayings of old, there’s:
“Love is a sort of harmony of celestial sounds.”

Of the more poetic:
“Never hit a woman, not even with a flower.”

Of the more sober ones, but tending towards idealism:
“Love springs from those advantages, which the loving one values all the more the less he himself commands them.”

Plato, a known philosopher, even proposed this theorem:
“The essence of love is the polar difference between possibly even greater contradictions.”

As an example of a truer aphorism, we offer the words of our glorious poet and philosopher, Pushkin:

She fell in love, in time and season;
A seed that falls into the ground
By springtime’s fire is thus unbound.
The myriad pangs of gentle passion
Had long assailed her virgin breast –
Her heart would welcome any guest.

14. But that is the philosophy and mechanics of love, in a manner of speaking.

As far as more rigorous research in this field, we really don’t know much about these things. And maybe there’s no need to know, even. Because consciousness spoils and clouds over almost everything it touches.

Dostoevsky really had it right: “Too much consciousness and even any kind of consciousness at all is an illness.” Another poet said: “Woe from wit.” And we do believe these words were far from having been said by chance. Whether it springs from idiosyncrasy – or most probably there is a certain exact formula; something from the uninvestigated realm of electricity – the truth is we know nothing and positively do not want to know anything about the origins of love.

And so, realizing that we know little about love, but at the same time, recognizing that this tender emotion encompasses something significant and even grand, it is with a feeling of special awe and with our heart aflutter that we take into our hands the weighty tomes of history.

We cannot wait to see the worthy role that this emotion played in the lives of nations. We desire to witness larger-than-life things or the, you know, magnificent deeds of certain persons that happened on account of love. And therefore, to indulge the soul, we make ourselves more comfortable in our armchair and, lighting an aromatic cigar, we begin to turn the yellowed pages of history with a sure hand.

And this is what we see.

15. First, all we ever get are all sorts of goddam petty love stories and small, stupid, everyday-life stuff – all kinds of marriages, proposals and weddings, arranged by businesslike and sober minds.

Here we see some kind of duke… Something or other… He is marrying the king’s daughter with hopes for the throne.

Here, another VIP, desiring to snag a number of cities to append to his lands, also proposes to some fit-prone princess…

The Russian Grand Dukes… Something, something… From the era of the Tartar yoke… “They endeavour to outwit one another (according to one historian) in order to marry the Hun’s daughters, with the aim of obtaining his favour…”

Here’s another one, some – so help me – Khylperykh I… King of the Francs… Marries the daughter of the King of Spain… literally, we read, “with the aim of scoring a win over his enemy, Prince Ziegbert.”

16. And the thing is, historians write about all these dealings, cloaked with love but lined with commerce, without any kind of – how to put it – exhilaration, but in a languid, bureaucratic tone, as if these things were completely unimportant and all-too-familiar. The historians don’t even add any personal comments, nothing like: “Tut-tut!” or “That’s a heck of duke for ya!” or “Now, that’s not nice!” or even “Look, another shameless bastard!”

Nope, we hear no exclamations of this sort from the impartial historians. Although, if you think about it, once you start exclaiming, there wouldn’t be enough exclamations to go around, because in the course of world history we seem to see a sea of similar affairs.

But we probably won’t be making a list of these commercial dealings. We would like to touch on more interesting matters. Although, to be honest, many, many amazing happenings and stories worthy of the modern reader’s attention are known in this department.

17. For instance, here is a very fun fact. Its, shall we say, characteristic plot is what appealed to us. It’s very typical, this fact is. It’s taken from old times in Russia. We’re talking the time of Ivan the Terrible.

This German duke, called Golschtinski, arrives in Russia.

We have no idea what he was doing in that Germany of his, but historians have discovered that he came to Russia with the purpose of furthering his political ends by means of marrying Ivan IV’s cousin’s daughter.

And so he arrives. All gussied up, probably. Wearing some sort of silk pantaloons. Bows. Ribbons. A rapier on the hip. Gotta be a real lanky guy, with a ruddy mug and a huge red moustache. Probably a drinker, a screamer, and a pawer.

So he comes to Russia, and since everything has already been arranged by letter, the wedding day is set.

18. Everybody’s running around, it’s this huge hassle. Mother of the bride’s everywhere at once. Chickens being slaughtered. The bride being led to the banya. The groom’s sitting with Dad. Putting the vodka away. Probably lying up a storm. You know, like, “let me tell ye – in Germany, where I come from, …” You know, like, “we’re Dukes!” and all that.

And suddenly something really sad happens. The bride, alas, dies unexpectedly. She returns from the banya, is taken with a terrible cold, the poor lass, and dies within the space of three days.

The groom, stricken with unutterable woe, of course, wants to go back to Germany. And here he is, all falling apart, saying his good-byes to the parents, when all of a sudden he hears:

“O, Mister Duke! Don’t go yet. As your luck would have it, we’ve got another young lady for you. True, she is a bit older than the first, and she’s not as nice to look at, but maybe she’ll do after all. You came all this way from Germany – it would be a shame to return empty-handed.

So the duke says:

“Of course she’ll do. Why didn’t you tell me before? No question about it. I mean – come on! Where is she? Lemme have a gander.”

All in all, the mourning aside, they were soon wed.

19. But, who the hell knows, maybe such facts and acts occurred only among kings and happened only to dukes and such?

Maybe nowhere but the palaces of kings did this cold pragmatism and marriage without any kind of love thrive, on account of, you know, things like diplomatic necessities, chronic shortages of funds or all kinds of unwholesome conditions of kingly life.

Maybe when it comes to mere mortals, it’s just the other way around – maybe the course of love ran naturally, bringing joy and happiness to the hearts of everyone.

Yeah, right.

It strikes us that certain categories of mere mortals were kind of not even interested in love. I mean it’s common knowledge that the landed and the affluent married off their loyal serfs in any way it struck them to do it.

Not long ago, we had occasion to read that Russian landowners married their serfs in this manner: they lined them up according to height and married them to whoever matched – tall men with tall women, short little ones with little short ones. And then this list of pairs was sent to the priest to be enacted. As you can see, love wasn’t really the prime consideration here.

And as far as different sorts of, excuse my French, government officials, profiteers, carpetbaggers and so forth, it doesn’t seem like the dear sirs understood much about love either. To them, getting married was akin to striking a deal. And the way they had it set up was that without a dowry no one would even let you in the door.

20. And even if we aim for a higher plane and take, for example, a smattering of counts, barons and men of commerce, it turns out that even with all the leisure in their lives, they still didn’t have much of an idea of the true color of love.

Here’s a wonderful little short story of a historical nature, which paints in vivid detail how it worked back then.

In the France of Louis XV (1720 we’re talking about), this one profiteer accumulated a huge fortune through all kinds of shady dealings. He achieved everything. And had it all. But on top of that, he got the overwhelming urge to associate himself with the oldest aristocratic dynasty in all of France. He had a bout of fantasizing, this guy, and knowing no bounds on account of his wealth, decided to have his daughter marry an impoverished marquis by the famous name of d’Ouau.

The daughter was actually just three years old at the time. The marquis was actually about thirty. And even though the dowry was outrageously huge, the impoverished marquis had no intention whatsoever of waiting for twelve years.

Shrugging in the most elegant Gallic fashion and sending sparks around the room with his gleaming lorgnette, he probably said to the profiteering dad in a hoarse voice:

“Monsieur, although nothing would please me more than to become your son-in-law, the bride you offer me is much too young. Let her grow up a bit, and then we’ll see. There’s a chance I will marry her.”

21. But the status-conscious dad desired to become the marquis’s relation immediately. This would allow him to touch the highest rungs of aristocracy, so to speak. And so he struck this agreement with the marquis. The latter is paid a huge monthly salary until the daughter is of legal age. After twelve years, the marquis has to marry her. And the engagement takes place now.

For nine full years, the marquis received the exact amount of his salary and denied himself none of life’s pleasures. And then, the little twelve-year-old bride fell ill with diphtheria and died.

We can just imagine how the profiteering daddy howled and cried. First of all, what a pity! – such a young girl, and then, just think of all that money gone down the drain! And, of course, it would be foolish to expect the esteemed marquis to return even a measly part of it. That marquis guy was probably telling the woestruck dad, while rubbing his hands together, “Well, you understand, I’m sure, how it is about the money. The girl croaked – I’m in luck.”

22. But that’s nothing. Even more curious things have been known to happen in the love department. It is, for example, very strange to read about all these men – all kinds of pretty boys, barons, brave knights, cavalry officers, men of commerce, landlords, and czars – getting married without laying their eyes on their brides. And this was a pretty common occurrence. And we, the modern reader, do find it somewhat baffling. The only thing they’d ask was what the family does, and the finances and such, and how the bride is doing property-wise, what post daddy holds or what lands he rules, and that’s it. Well, maybe some of the grooms who weren’t big on taking risks asked what, approximately, their second half looks like – you know, whether she’s got a hump or not, things like that – and that’s it.

Then they said ‘yes’ and were married in the dark, so to speak, eyes closed, sight unseen. The bride they would see at the very last moment.

No, today, we can’t even imagine how this would have gone off in these parts. We’d probably have a whole lotta wailing, neurotic yelling, second thoughts, commotion, black eyes and broken noses and the devil knows what else. But over there, they somehow managed without that.

23. But not without the occasional trouble or outrage.

For example, we know of two world-class scandals.

The first is famous to the point that even in theatres it is played out as a grotesque tragedy and royal conflict.

Philip II of Spain, a geezer of about sixty, had a mind to marry off his son and heir, the famous Don Carlos. For his wife he chose the French princess Isabelle, which was advantageous and necessary, as dictated by high politics. But he had never seen the princess. All he knew was that she’s real young and antsin’ to get married, but he had no idea what she looked like.

But when he saw her after the engagement, he fell in love and married her himself, to the great chagrin of his son, who was also partial to the charms of his beautiful bride. This, as we know, caused the conflict between father and son.

24. The second scandal took place in Persia. The Persian king Ambyses (son of the famous Cyrus) proposed to the daughter of the Egyptian pharaoh Amasis II (529 BC). Ambyses did this without having seen the bride. Travel and transportation in those times was a pretty hefty proposition, and the trip to Egypt would have taken months.

Rumor had it, though, that the Egyptian pharaoh’s daughter is alone among women in her beauty and attractiveness.

And so, the mighty Persian king, whose father had conquered practically the entire world, decided to propose to the daughter of the Egyptian pharaoh by mail.

The pharaoh, who harbored a rare affection for his only daughter, had no desire to send her off to undiscovered countries. At the same time, he feared to offend the Master of the Universe with his refusal. And so, he chose the most beautiful of his female slaves and sent her to Persia in place of his daughter. What’s more, her sent her as his daughter, supplying her with the appropriate information for that purpose.

History relates to us that Ambyses, having married the woman, truly loved her, but when the artifice was accidentally discovered, he mercilessly put her to death and, offended to his very heart, set out to make war on Egypt.

This was probably one of the grandest love dramas ever, which shows how love can spring, and also how it can end.

25. Oh, how vividly we can see in our mind’s eye the dramatic scene and the tragic moment when the lie was revealed in its entirety.

They’re sitting there in an embrace on a Persian ottoman.

On this really low-slung bench; and you can just imagine all these eastern sweetmeats and things to drink they have there – all kinds of Turkish delight and honey-cakes and so on. This really fat Persian dude with a huge fan in his hands is chasing the flies away from these sweets.

And Ambyses, the King of Persia, having taken a glass of, you know, sherry or brandy or whatever, looks upon his beautiful wife with an enthralled gaze, whispering all kinds of sweet little nothings in her ear, like, “My pretty little Egyptian mummy, you! How was your life in Egypt? Your daddy, the Pharaoh, must have spoiled you rotten. And how could he not, when you’re so sweet? My dear princess, I fell in love with you at the very first sight for your regal bearing, and so on.”

26. Now, it’s not clear whether at this point she put too much faith in her womanly charms, or God knows what was happening in her little woman’s heart, but she laughs a sparkling laugh and says that the funny thing is that the pharaoh’s daughter has got her own life in Egypt, while Ambyses, the King of Persia, he’s just gaga over her, the one next to him, who’s got nothing to do with the pharaoh’s daughter. He’s fallen in love with a simple girl of slave stock. This is what love can do with a man’s heart.

It is hard not to shudder when imagining what happened next.

He probably started screaming in an unnatural voice. Jumped up from the sofa in just his underpants. One of his slippers slipped off. Lips went white. Hands are shaking. Knees are buckling.

“What?!” he screamed in Persian. “What did you just say?! Ministers! Arrest the impostress!”

The ministers come running.

“Oh! Oh! What’s happened? Your majesty, please calm yourself! … See, you have lost a slipper, and it is most unbecoming of a king to be in just one slipper.”

But, of course, it isn’t so easy to calm oneself, because an enormous blow has been dealt to the ego.

27. And so, in the evening, after the poor Egyptian girl had her head roundly cut off, Ambyses is probably having an extended council with his ministers.

Nervous, waving his hands, he walks the room in fits and starts.

“I can’t believe what a bastard that Egyptian pharaoh is!” he exclaims indignantly.

The ministers sigh respectfully, shake their heads and shrug, exchanging glances full of malevolence.

“And what am supposed to do now, huh? After being slapped in the face like that? Go to war with this punk?”

“That’s an idea, your majesty.”

“But he’s awfully far, the sonofabitch, … I mean, Egypt… That’s in Africa, right? That’s almost a year’s journey … Probably need camels to get there…”

“That’s all right, your majesty … The armies will make it.”

“I showed her love,” says Ambyses, working himself up again. “I received her like an Egyptian princess, fell madly in love with her, and it turns out she was something else … How can this be, I ask you? What am I, a dog, that I cannot have his daughter? Where does he get off sending me crap on the sly, huh? … Huh!?!”

28. The foreign minister, working hard not to burst laughing out loud, says:

“The real problem, your majesty, is the international PR, … the scandal….”

“That’s exactly right! …. That’s what I mean – the scandal. What to do, what to do?!”

“The real problem, your majesty, is that this will go down in the annals of history, that’s the worst part of it … I mean, Persia, … King Ambyses, … Got slipped a slave girl…”

“Enough, you sonofabitch! Enough already! Call up the armies! Set out at once! Egypt must be conquered and erased off the face of the frigging Earth!”

To make a long story short, Ambyses led the armies himself and in short order conquered Egypt. But, by that time, the sad and senile pharaoh Amasis had died. His nephew Psammetichus, seeing he was in for no good, took his own life. As far as the daughter, who started the whole mess – unfortunately, history gives us no clues about her fate.

One history professor I know, who teaches at university, told me that Ambyses sent the Egyptian girl to one of his minister’s harems. But we can’t vouch for the truth of that. Although it is possible, of course. Anyway, the love they had vanished like smoke. Which shows plenty well what a pound of the stuff is worth.

29. So what do we have here? Seems like things ain’t so great for love, are they? Where is the notorious love glorified by poets and singers? Where is this emotion, sung of in wondrous poems?

Could it be that these know-nothing poets, rhyme slappers, and lovers of all kinds of grace and beauty have allowed such a shocking exaggeration to take place? Because we don’t really see any of these impressive sufferings while reading our history.

I mean, sure, we do see a thing here and there between the pages. But there’s too little, really. We want an unforgettable jewel of a story shining from every page. But all we get is some pathetic little love story once every hundred years.

We barely scraped up a few of these romantic narratives here. And to do that we had to diligently read history in its entirety, starting with all kinds of, pardon me, Chaldaeans and Ethiopians, and the creation of the world, and all the way up to our times.

And all we’ve got is what you’re gonna see next. Here, for instance, is a pretty powerful love, as a result of which this one daughter ran her dad over with a chariot.

Here’s how it happened.

30. Servius Tulius, the Roman caesar, had a daughter. And the daughter had a husband, this pretty disreputable guy. But the daughter loved him exceptionally nevertheless.

And so this sneak contrived a scheme to depose this daughter’s noble father – Servius Tulius, that is. Now, to be honest, Servius Tulius was kinda old, and he engaged in all kinds of losing wars with – wouldn’t you know it – some kind of Etruscans. Still, it wasn’t right to depose him. And there certainly was no need to kill him. That was just downright messed up.

Yet this dynamic son-in-law consulted the old man’s daughter and decided to kill her daddy after all. And she agreed, out of love for this bloodsucker.

And so the wheeling-and-dealing son-in-law hires a murderer and has the noble old man mercilessly stabbed to death in the middle of the forum.

He falls without even uttering a sound. And the people say: “Who will be the emperor now, we ask?”

And instead of weeping inconsolably and flinging herself upon the body of her dead dad, this daughter of a murdered father springs into a chariot, and wishing to greet her husband, the new emperor, with a joyous cry she runs the body of her freshly killed father the hell over.

A powerful sight, although utterly disgusting to some extent. And a substantial love this caesar’s daughter exhibits. I mean, you gotta really love someone to run the old man over at a moment like this.

There she is, standing up in the chariot. Whooping. Hair waving about. A grimace contorts her face.

“Hail!” she screams to the new emperor, and rides toward him over whatever’s in the way.

People in the crowd are yelling:
“Hey, looks like this shameless wench had the gall to ride over her own father.”

But this was love, no matter what you say. Mixed in with a little bit of a desire to rule herself. I mean – it’s really hard to say.

31. But here’s a love that was even stronger, which happened to this one pretty famous historical lady in her sunset years.

Catherine II, the Russian Empress, as she was growing old, (being, oh, fifty-eight years of age or so,) lost her wits over this one young, valiant pretty boy – Plato Zuboff. He was twenty-one, and he really was quite good-looking. Although his brother Valerian was even more handsome. The Russian Museum in St. Petersburg has both of their portraits, and it’s true: the brother was amazingly handsome.

But the old hag saw the brother later on, which is why in the meantime, not knowing what’s up, she immediately fell in love with Plato. When she saw Valerian, she caught her breath and said: “Hmmm. Coulda had me that young man. But since I’ve already fallen in love with Plato, I’ll just stick to what I’ve got.”

But Plato, seeing the huge effect Valerian had on the hag, sent that little brother of his off to war, where the pretty boy had his leg ripped off by a cannonball.

And so the hag was all about Plato, showering him with all kinds of wonderful privileges.

It’d be fun to imagine how their little affair sprang up. The pretty boy was probably awful coy at first, and would just freeze up when the elderly dame would get pushy. I mean, anyone would freeze up. I mean, you got your Holy Empress, so to speak, The Monarch of All of Russia and so on, and here, all of a sudden – what the hell?! – these crude advances!

32. So let us imagine this affair.

“Embrace me, you fool!” the empress would entreat.

“Gee, I mean, I can’t, Your Majesty,” the minion would mutter. “Out of, you know, timidity and awe for your imperial title.”

“Oh, just forget about that. Come, call me Catherine Vasilievna (or whatever her full name was.)

And so, with a strained laugh, the kid would respectfully touch the empress’ shoulders, already touched by signs of age. But in time he grew accustomed to it and received much more in return for his love than was just.

At twenty-four the pretty boy was already commander-in-chief, the governor-general of the Novorossiysk region, and the head of the entire artillery. This not-exactly-young woman fell deeper and deeper in love with him with each passing year, and was running out of favors to lavish upon him.

She allowed him to see all secret dispatches and intelligence from abroad. All the ministers and generals had to go through him to get to Catherine.

The young man would receive ministers and courtiers while reclining on a couch, wrapped in a silk Bukhara robe. Wizened generals would tremble reverentially as they stood at full attention in front of the pretty boy.

Head over heels in love, the old empress entrusted him with all the state secrets. Her love literally blinded her.

33. At the same time, this boy’s understanding of life and politics was quite vague. We know, for example, of his plan for a new Russia.

This mind-boggling work proudly lists the following cities as capitals of the first order: St. Petersburg, Berlin, Astrakhan, Moscow and Constantinople. Among the second-tier cities we, for some reason, have Krakow, Taganrog and Danzig. This plan has the following words:
“The woman who rules such a vast empire must become like the sun, whose benevolent glance warms everything within reach of its rays.” All in all, this plan alone tells us to what extent the old dame didn’t care about affairs of state, and how world politics was absolutely nothing compared with her last love.

But this is rather the portrait of someone aging in all her sad beauty than of the happy properties of love.

Yet here is a story for you of a big love that happened in someone’s full bloom.

34. This is also a fairly famous tale, which has been enacted on many a stage. So we won’t dwell on it for too long. It’s, shall we say, about how a Roman consul, Marc Antony, fell in love with the Egyptian queen Cleopatra. Well, actually, let’s refresh this story in our minds, especially since the touching story is extremely unusual. An ambitious man, who had reached a position of – believe it or not – great power, falls in love with a woman and forsakes absolutely everything. He forsook even the conquering armies he was leading. And became permanently stuck in Egypt.

As gifts, he gave Cleopatra Roman lands – albeit lands he conquered – Armenia, Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. And bestowed upon her the title of Queen of Kings. Having gotten wind of the military leader’s scandalous behavior, the Roman Senate hastily deprived Antony of the title of First Consul. But being lovestruck, Antony refused even to return to his homeland. And then, Rome declared war on Cleopatra. And everyone was in for a great fight.

Antony, together with Cleopatra, set out against the Roman army. As the Roman armies were nearing Alexandria, the Roman consul Octavian wrote Cleopatra a letter about how she may still save her life and throne if she sacrifices Antony.

35. Seeing that things weren’t going that great for her, Mrs. Queen decided to indeed sacrifice her fiery lover. And while Antony was battling Octavian, Cleopatra sent her lover a message via servants, saying that she had taken her life. She knew that Antony, besotted by her, would not be able to live with this sorrow. And wouldn’t you know it – upon learning of Cleopatra’s death, Antony ran himself through with a sword. Yet the wound wasn’t fatal. And learning that Cleopatra was alive, Antony ordered himself to be brought to her on a stretcher. And died in her arms, forgiving her for lying.

This amazing story really is about a pretty great love, which overshadowed absolutely everything else.

By the way, later on, Cleopatra also committed suicide.

The thing is that Octavian was going to send her to Rome as a trophy. She did try to also win this leader over with her flirting, but nothing came of it, and then, unwilling to live through the shame, she poisoned herself. And thirty of her servants poisoned themselves along with her.

And for some reason, we feel sorry for this beauty, to whom Octavian said: “You can quit your trickery, queen. I’m not gonna fall for that.” In the meantime, she was already forty, and she realized that the jig was up.

36. But here’s another great love that made one man forget even his revolutionary duty.

We’re talking about the famous Mme. Tallien.

During the French Revolution, Tallien, the Secretary General of the Revolutionary Council, was sent by Robespierre to Bordeaux in order to arrest the aristocrats who fled there.

And in a jail he met Teresa de Fontenay, a young woman who had been arrested. He fell in love with her and let her out of jail.

When Robespierre found out that Tallien let her out, he ordered that she be arrested again.

And then, joining forces with Danton’s supporters, Tallien waged a battle against Robespierre so fierce, that in a short time he managed to topple him. There’s no doubt that his love for Theresa Fontenay was one of the motives for this battle. Tallien later married her, but soon she left him to marry some grand duke.

But this isn’t all history tells us.

Apart from this, there were these small and at first sight unnotable events, but still, these events literally like the sun shone through the impenetrable forest. This indeed was great love.

37. For example, the Decembrists’s wives, these glorious society women, left it all and voluntarily, although no one had exiled them, went to Siberia with their husbands.

The ill Radischev was to be exiled. His wife had died not long before that. And his wife’s sister went along with him to live in a Siberian settlement.

The son of a wealthy landowner, the illustrious horse-guardsman Ivashov fell in love with Camilla, the governess who worked in his household. His parents, of course, refused to allow him to marry her. But a year later, when, as a Decembrist, Ivashov was sentenced to twenty years of exile in Siberia, the young governess voluntarily followed him.

The poet Robert Browning loved his wife dearly. When she died, the inconsolably grieving Browning put the most valuable thing he had into the coffin; it was a notebook with his newly written sonnets.

Although later on, when the poet fell in love again, he retrieved that notebook, but that’s not that important.

In 1796, in the midst of battle, Napoleon wrote to Josephine: “When I am far from you, the world is a desert where I am abandoned and alone. You are the only thought in my entire life.”

Lassale wrote to Helen Denniges: ”I have huge powers and I will multiply them a thousandfold in order to have you. There is no one in the world who is able to tear me away from you. I suffer more than Prometheus on the cliff.”

38. In love with his wife, Chernyshevsky wrote to Nekrasov: “Not for problems on a global scale do people drown or shoot themselves or turn into alcoholics – I experienced this and I know that the poetry of the heart carries as much weight as the poetry of ideas”.

The city of Weinsberg was besieged by the enemy. The victors let women leave the city before pillaging it. They also allowed each woman to take with her the one thing she considered most precious. And a few women carried their valiant husbands out of the city.

Of course, this last one sounds like a legend. Once every while, history is fond of inventing something touchy-feely; for the sake of moral balance, so to speak.

39. Here’s an interesting touchy-feely story.

Some knight was setting out on a campaign and entrusted his wife to his friend. The friend fell in love with the wife. The wife fell in love with him. But the oath of chastity is, of course, inviolable. And so, to preserve and test this chastity, they sleep in one bed, with a double-edged sword between them.

I mean, maybe they did put the sword between them, and maybe they really did sleep in the same bed – we’re not contesting the actual historical fact. But as far as everything else, we beg to doubt it.

And so, on this petty sentimental note, we end our historical short stories.

This is what history tells us about love.

Basically, it tells us very little about this emotion. You know, like, yeah, seems that there is this emotion. Seems that history did run into it at some point. Seems that there even were certain kinds of historical events and things that happened on account of it. And certain kinds of business done and crimes committed.

But it’s not as if it was something terribly huge, not really like what the poets sang about in their tenor voices – history barely knows anything like that. On the contrary, this emotion has pretty much been saddled by commercial souls. And it poses no threat to the quiet march of history.

40. No, this emotion hasn’t stood in the way of people traveling down the road which they are honestly and patiently treading.

And history can monotonously intone to us about what was and about how many “golde coins” a certain groom received for such and such a feeling.

Now, it’s true that we were talking about centuries past here. And maybe something’s changed?

Unfortunately, we have not been abroad, and on that account cannot fully satisfy your completely legitimate curiosity.

But we are of the opinion that it is unlikely that any kind of big changes have happened there.

There’s probably (so we think) some marquise with his big-sounding name, who is fiancé to a tiny three-year-old girl. And the daddy makes monthly salary payments.

And some aging dame, having lost sight of everything else, probably keeps some dancer Zuboff at her side, showering him with her largesse. Everything (we assume) is going the way it did before.

And as for how it is in our parts, we’ve had considerable changes happen.

41. And certain lamentable things having to do with love have actually started to disappear here bit by bit. For example, the financial calculations have practically stopped. And the monetary arrangements have gotten easier and much fewer in number. And really, all in all, all of it has somehow cleared up, and become less troublesome, and not as burdensome.

So, let us look at what kinds of negative things we might have in the love department. And, in a manner of speaking, let’s sweep up what we can with the steel broom of satire.

And so, on to the love stories from our lives.

WHAT HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING

01 Monday Aug 2005

Posted by Davíd Lavie in From Russian, In English, Prose

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Family, From the battlefield, The Blue Book, Union, Women

Sure, Volod’ka Zavitushkin was a bit hasty. There was that.

You could say Volod’ka actually didn’t even get a decent look at his bride. The honest-to-God-truth be told, he hadn’t even ever seen her without a hat and overcoat. That’s why all the main events unfolded on the street.

And as for going with his bride to get acquainted with her dear mother right before the wedding, well, he got acquainted without taking his coat off, he did. In the hall. On the go, so to speak.

And as for his bride, Volodya Zavitushkin met her in a streetcar. Five days before the marriage ceremony.

There he is, sitting in a streetcar, and suddenly he sees that this young lady materializes before him. This not-bad-looking young woman. Neat-looking. In a winter overcoat.

And she’s standing, this very young lady in that winter overcoat of hers, in front of Volod’ka, and she’s hanging by a strap so as not to get knocked over by the passengers. And with the other hand, she’s clutching a package to her chest. Streetcar’s packed, of course. There’s shoving. The standing, frankly speaking, isn’t so hot.

So Volod’ka takes pity on her.

“Why don’t you sit down,” he says, “in my lap? It’ll be easier all the same.”

“Thanks,” she says, “but no thanks.”

“All right,” he says, “then why don’t you give me the package? Put it in my lap, don’t be shy. It’ll be easier all the same.” Nope, she’s not even surrendering the package. Maybe she’s scared he’s gonna filch it, or whatever it is. So Volod’ka Zavitushkin gives here another once-over, and is just stunned.

“My God,” he thinks, “you see the prettiest young women in streetcars.”

And they’re riding like this for two stops. Three. Four. Finally, Zavitushkin sees the young woman fighting her way exitward. No fool, Volod’ka gets up too. And by the exit, then, was where they made their acquaintance.

They exchanged names, began walking together. And everything kind of happened so quickly and without expense there, that in two days Volod’ka Zavitushkin even proposed to her too.

Maybe she said yes right away or whatever, but on the third day, there they were at the registry office to get officially married. This happened at city hall, and after that is when the main events actually started happening.

After the official ceremony, the newlyweds went to the bride’s dear mother’s place. Of course, Lord-knows-what is going on there. Table’s being set. There’s this heap of guests. It’s a family big deal – everyone’s awaiting the newlyweds.

And there are all these different kinds of ladies and gentlemen running all over the room, setting down the plates and silverware, and popping corks.

But Volod’ka Zavitushkin had lost his young bride while they were still in the hall. Those damn mommies and aunties, they surround him as soon as he walks in and start showering him with congratulations and start dragging him into the living room. They get him into the room. They’re saying something, shaking his hands, they’re curious to know what union he’s a member of.

But the only thing Volod’ka can see is that he can’t even make out where his young wife is. There are all these chics in the room. Each one’s twisting, each one’s turning; I mean, a guy just come off the street – someone coming in from where’s there’s natural light – he won’t be able to tell for his life.

“Man, oh, man,” thinks Volod’ka, “nothing like this has ever happened to me. Which one of them is my young bride?”

So around the room he begins to walk, stalking these dames. Comes up to one, then another one. But they’re not too eager to see him, you know, not much joy being expressed there.

Here’s where Volod’ka even got a little scared.

“Jeez,” he thinks to himself, “this is ridiculous. I can’t even find my own wife!”

And the relatives start looking at him strange, too, like, why’s the groom staggering around the room like an idiot and throwing himself at every dame he sees? So Volod’ka parks himself by a door, and just stands there all crestfallen.

“Oh, I hope they’re gonna start seating the guests real soon,” he thinks. “Maybe then things will clear up some. Whichever one sits down next to me must be the one. It would sure be nice if this blondie there sat next to me. ‘Cause if they slip me some dog, I’ll be stuck with her.”

And then the guests start sitting down at the table.

The dear mother is begging everyone to please-for-the-love-of-dear-God have a little more patience and wait some more. But you can’t hold these guests back; they’re going for the grub and the drink like wild people.

Then they take Volodya Zavitushkin and install him in the place of honor. And next to him, to one of his sides, they seat some dame.

So Volod’ka gave her a good look, and felt relieved.

“Whoa, she’s something,” he says to himself. “She’s not so bad,” he thinks. Looks much better without all that hattery too. The nose don’t stick out into the street so much,” he thinks.

Volodya Zavitushkin is overcome with feeling. He pours a little wine into his glass and her glass and makes for her to, you know, congratulate and kiss his bride.

And here’s where the main events started unfolding.

Here’s when the yelling and hollering started.

“This is one crazy sonofabitch,” people scream. “He’s going for all the dames. The young bride hasn’t even arrived at the table yet – still putting on the gloss – and he’s already starting to get fresh with another one!”

Here’s where this complete chaos and rubbish occurred.

Of course, Volod’ka should’ve turned everything into a joke. But he got awful offended. He got banged on the back of the head in all the commotion. Some relative whacked him with a bottle.

Volod’ka cries out: “To hell with all of you! You place all these broads around me, and then I’m supposed to figure out who is who!?”

The bride appears in a white virgin’s gown, clutching flowers in her little hands. “Oh, so it’s like that,” she says. “Well, there’ll be hell to pay for you.”

And, of course, again, there’s yelling, screaming and hysterical chaos. And, of course, the relatives want to throw Volod’ka outta there.

Volod’ka says: “At least let me eat something. Haven’t had a bite to eat since morning,” he says, “on account of all the hullabaloo.”

But the relations insisted and sent him flying down the stairs.

Next day, after work, Volodya Zavitushkin stopped by the registry office and got himself divorced.

There he heard some sour-sounding words, “Sometimes you’ll get these thoughtless marriages,” they told him. “But don’t do it again. Or you’ll end up in court.” And then they divorced him.

So now he’s single and can again get married to whoever’s willing.

But what good there is in marrying and why people should want to do it – that’s downright dumbfounding.

As a rule, wives cheat and – here’s the darndest thing – always love someone else instead of their husband. So, I don’t know about you, but my view is against a marriage like that. Although, as long as we’re talking about marriage, I’m for a strong and sturdy marriage. I’m just not blind to it, and know what’s involved.

Anyway, here’s what happened once in the love department.

[More stories…]

The Shield of Achilles

03 Wednesday Dec 2003

Posted by Davíd Lavie in From English, Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Achilles, From the battlefield, Thetis, War, Women

The Shield of Achilles
W. H. Auden

She looked over his shoulder
For vines and olive trees,
Marble well-governed cities
And ships upon untamed seas,
But there on the shining metal
His hands had put instead
An artificial wilderness
And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
An unintelligible multitude,
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign.

Out of the air a voice without a face
Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.

She looked over his shoulder
For ritual pieties,
White flower-garlanded heifers,
Libation and sacrifice,
But there on the shining metal
Where the altar should have been,
She saw by his flickering forge-light
Quite another scene.

Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
A crowd of ordinary decent folk
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.

The mass and majesty of this world, all
That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
And could not hope for help and no help came:
What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.

She looked over his shoulder
For athletes at their games,
Men and women in a dance
Moving their sweet limbs
Quick, quick, to music,
But there on the shining shield
His hands had set no dancing-floor
But a weed-choked field.

A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.

The thin-lipped armorer,
Hephaestos, hobbled away,
Thetis of the shining breasts
Cried out in dismay
At what the god had wrought
To please her son, the strong
Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long.

Щит Ахилла
У.Х. Оден

Она за плечом его ожидала
Увидеть лавр и лозу,
Мраморный, гордый город
И в море ладьи в грозу,
Но на блестящем металле,
Его рука кузнеца
Ландшафт неземной ковала
И небо из свинца.

В степи унылой, выжженной, пустой,
Где ни травинки, ни тропинки нет
И бродит только ветер холостой,
На голом месте, собрано чуть свет,
Несметно войско встретило рассвет.
Тысячи ног в строю, тысячи глаз
Смотрели ровно, слушая приказ.

Безликий голос воздух огласил,
Про дело правое – войне предлог –
Сухим, степенным тоном он гласил;
Клич не раздался, не трубили в рог,
Колонну за колонной, пыль от ног
Их унесла, ведомых верой, в бой,
Что кончился неведомой бедой.

Она за плечом его ожидала
Увидеть строгий обряд;
Белых тельцов в цветах,
Девственниц робкий взгляд,
Но на блестящем металле,
Там, где алтарь бы стал,
В мерцающем свете узрела
Она иной ритуал.

За проволокой – плац, казарма, cклад,
Чины лениво материли зной
И часовой потел, жаре не рад.
Простой народ смотрел немой толпой,
Недвижно, безучастно, как конвой
Подвел и привязал, как скот к колам,
Три бледных силуэта к трём столбам.

Суть и величие мирское, всё
Что праведно и правит бытием
Отсутствовало; их бы не спасло
Ничто, ибо они были никем.
Всё то, чего враги желали им
Свершилось, и, унижены дотла,
Их души пали прежде, чем тела.

Она за плечом его ожидала
Увидеть бой чемпионов;
Девушек, юношей в танце,
Грацией тел точеных
Музыке в такт играя.
Но на блестящем щите
Он выковал не танцам место –
А нищете.

Бесцельно оборванец там бродил –
Вдруг птица взвилась, увернув крыло
От камня, что он метко запустил.
Что слабых бьют, что легче сделать зло –
Законы были для него, не знавшего,
Что где-то, слово данное – закон
И плачут, потому что плачет он.

Гефест, угрюмо скалясь,
Прочь заковылял,
В груди великолепнейшей Фетиды
Крик ужаса застрял,
Когда увидела она, что бог свершил,
Желая её сыну угодить –
Бесстрашному и смертоносному Ахиллу,
Кому не долго оставалось жить.

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