Issuu on Google+ a literary journal

fall v2 2011 a literary journal

fall v2 2011 art jeremy mayer

4 … “Bust V” (detail) 16 … Interview: Jeremy Mayer: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone 18 … “Penis” 19 … “Nude V (progress) 20 … “Bust V” 21 … “Deer III” 22 … “Dead Cat III” 23 … “Nude II”

petra gabriele dannehl 94 ... Poem 1 | "Sheep Passing/Schafe ziehen vorbei" | Öl auf Leinwand | 120 x 160 cm 95 ... "Durch den Wald III" | Öl auf Leinwand | 70 x 70 cm 96 ... "Directions" | Öl auf Holz | 30 x 30 cm 97 ... "Move on IV" | Öl auf Holz | 40 x 40 cm 98 ... "Incontro" | Ölmischtechnik auf Leinwand | 100 x 90 cm 99 ... "Zwölf" | Ölmischtechnik auf Leinwand | 100 x 90 cm 100 ... Poem 2 101 ... "View-Point Mountain" | Öl auf Leinwand | 100 x 80 cm 102 ... "Land in Sicht" | Öl auf Leinwand | 100 x 120 cm 103 ... "Neuland" | Öl auf Leinwand | 150 x 170 cm 105 ... Epilogue | Poem 4 & 5

fiction 9 … Always Watching—Madeleine Swann

poetry 5 … l’Ombre—Kate Zaliznock 6 … Elementals—Edward Harsen 7 … As It May Have Been for Ruth and Boaz—Edward Harsen 8 … I Saw the Chameleon—Edward Harsen 9 … Always Watching—Madeleine Swann 12 … Behind My Back—Mark Goad 13 … Roundhouse—Mark Goad 14 … The Garbage Bag—Ryan Palmer 15 … Generation—Hanny Castano 24 … Sublunary Picatrix—Edward Harsen 25 … I Saw the Chameleon—Edward Harsen 26 … Found—Gretchen Meixner 28 … Finding the Romanovs—Gretchen Meixner 30 … Ill Rhyl—Tom Rowley-Conwy 31 … Damaged Goods—Mar Trujillo 32 … Demon—M.Y. Lermontov, translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili

about editor: Jesse De Clercq contributing editor: Laurits Haaning all work copyright © 2011 the noted contributed unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved. all work published with first worldwide rights by permission of the contributors. po box 7738 tahoe city california 96145 e: front & back cover photograph: ‘Penguin’ - Jeremy Mayer

Bust V (detail) Jeremy Mayer

l’Ombre Kate Zaliznock

black eyes black mouth blank stare blank shot black door black walls windows once painted with all of Michelangelo’s colors all now blended to black. black waters black tides black ships black sails a moonless night on an unnamed road black paper black ink black plot black thoughts I saw a painting once black paint black square hung on a black nail on a white wall And I thought to myself, ‘What a simple thing.’ But I know better now. Now I know better.

Kate Zaliznock - l’Ombre | 5

Elementals Edward Harsen

The old women have a ritual for this place: They go to the well and yell into it until a breeze blows up. They will tell you that a woman years ago yelled up a gale, houses were flattened and men were carried off in the winds. When seeds flew into the famined fields, two women shouted into the well and rain came. The well is older than the town. It gives no water.

Edward Harsen - Elementals | 6

As It May Have Been for Ruth and Boaz Edward Harsen

I walk past the house garden, hear the songbird change keys. Knowing you love me, I chuckle. In your eyes, mine have time to lose focus in the lawn’s fall and rise into spring green oak and maple. Knowing you see me, I see perfectly. Married today, this now becomes always, and you and I, we -closer than the family that gave me, closer than air against my breath. And this is how I know forests don’t fight for sun, but delight in each instant of tree become sapling, lives become life, your God my God.

Edward Harsen - As It May Have Been for Ruth and Boaz | 7

I Saw the Chameleon Edward Harsen

From your suit I knew you had been in rain, even after days of travel. The blue plastic vinyl and tweed weave train seats left an imprint. Your hair smelled of distinct Atlantic cities. But that is past. Now you lay out a change of clothes for the week to come: in yellow you will be hungry and lean eagerly; the grey and pink will hold you on your heels for perspective; then the red plaid and exhaustion. With flung hat and feet prized out of shoes, you’ll sink into a deep suite chair, hide there until the higher shadows wheel off, the Arizona sun sets and messages pass you, indistinguishable from your future.

Edward Harsen - I Saw the Chameleon | 8

Always Watching Madeleine Swann

Julia picked up the envelope waiting on her welcome mat, inhaling the paper scent. Her name was on the front in the usual scrawling black marker pen, the handwriting unknown yet recognisable. Sitting on her leather sofa, Julia savoured the sensation. She removed the letter, ignoring the ripples of middle age coursing down her hands. Two photographs fell out. Biting her lip with excitement she studied them. It was the day she had gone to the shops in her cream outfit and, with a model’s posing, she studied a shop window. “Always watching,” read the black marker on torn lined paper. Nobody had said such things to her before; her sister Sam had been the one the men followed, first with their eyes and then their hands as they grew older. Despite her clumsy shyness Julia had fumbled in back seats like most girls, but the one to make everything better never came. “You’ll find someone,” Sam had assured on her own wedding day, her face sparkling with happiness. She had been wrong. Then the first letter arrived and everything changed. Rising slowly, contemplating a cup of tea, Julia reluctantly rang the local police station and then her office to explain she would be late. Impatiently she paced the room, waiting for the officers to arrive. She thought of the first letter, the first time he had made his move. She had been leaving for the office on a bright, warm morning. She had become used to receiving only bills but this had been so personal, so studied. He had eyes only for her. She had carried it in her bag for days. She felt the police’s rising frustration each time they took down the latest details of her case. “No, I don’t know many people. No, I don’t speak to anyone at work,” she had explained to the young officer with spots on his chin. “No, there’s no reason I don’t speak to them,” she continued, avoiding his pitying gaze. “Nobody has acted peculiarly.” That last question she always answered impatiently. As far as she was concerned everybody acted peculiarly, with their parties and weekend plans and double meanings. Madeleine Swann - Always Watching | 9

The letter writer was the only one she knew with any consistency. It was her sister who had ruined everything. Sam had noticed Julia’s new happiness on a weekend visit, her yearly sympathy call. She had grown frustrated when Julia refused to be unhappy. “What are these?” Sam had demanded, holding up the crumpled pieces of paper from the kitchen drawer when Julia got home from the shops. “You can’t let him get away with this! Honestly, Julia, if I wasn’t around you would never look after yourself. You need to stop burying your head.” Julia wanted to tell Sam that whoever sent the letters posted them through her door personally. There was no address, so her hand was placed where his had been immediately afterwards. Perhaps he waited a moment to listen at the door before skulking away. At night she imagined the same hand wrapping itself around her, pulling her tight. But Julia said none of these things, only lowered her head and promised to call the police. She moved to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. Her tasteful pine surfaces were covered in sun as it poured through the open blind, and she removed a tiny key from her pocket. Unlocking the drawer, she gazed at the few letters and photographs she had held back from the investigation. The day she had informed her boss as promised, he had grimaced and tried to look sympathetic, his face strained and awkward. Occasionally one of her coworkers asked her for details, their mawkish faces ready to drink in anything she said. They gave up when their desire for a thrill wasn’t met. She added the new letter to the diminished pile in the drawer and re-read the old ones. The door bell rang. She invited the police in, the one with thick nostril hair and the other looking as though he should be at school. They refused a cup of tea and asked her to take a seat, an act she found amusing in her own home. The one with sprouting hair looked pleased with himself. “We’ve had a breakthrough,” he said. “Someone was spotted on the CCTV we had installed and he’s been recognised. Seems it’s a man called David Hay who works in construction. No family, no known friends, history of exposure and harassment. We’ve brought him in for questioning now, should have some answers for you.” He sat back, waiting for her to thank him tearfully. She managed a tight smile, and the policemen rose. “No doubt you’re exhausted by all this,” he said, obviously disappointed with her reaction. “We’ll let you get on with your day.” “Yes, thank you so much, officers,” she said, showing them out. She drifted back into the kitchen. The bag had been left in her cup of tea which was now Madeleine Swann - Always Watching | 10

a dark brown. She hated strong tea. Its surface rippled when a single tear fell from her face, disrupting the liquid like a lake when a child throws a stone in. “History of exposure,” the policeman had said. So she wasn’t the first; he had others. She reached out for the letters and ran her fingers over the top one, “always watching.” Sighing deeply, she tried to swallow her disappointment and picked up her bag for work.

Madeleine Swann - Always Watching | 11

Behind My Back Mark Goad

I do not do what I want to do, wrote the apostle, but the very thing I do not want. Sometimes I sneak behind my own back finding too late myself a surprise to myself. Then I consider this stranger whose contemptible familiarity is as unavoidable as a mosquito buzzing your naked foot, at midnight stung.

Mark Goad - Behind My Back | 12

Roundhouse Mark Goad

My father loved me best when I could be taken by the hand and led to his holy places. The great shrine was the roundhouse where the last steam locomotives on the B & O line were taken for repairs. We were allowed inside by the grace of a proud railroad man. The locomotives were monstrous and beautiful, bigger than a Fourth-of-July-Ohio sky mounted with thunderheads. I was allowed to touch – what harm could a child do? (The new diesels were the enemy after all.) Thrilling, the cold black iron, and wonderful, the great drive-wheels twice my height. I ventured once to lay my fingertips against the wheel’s concave shining circumference that had rolled across a thousand thousand miles of silver track – oh, it would so easily crush a little kid with no regret at all. But I was not afraid. My father’s hand, like God’s own, held me fast. Years later, when I insisted he let go, he looked at me reproachfully, like a child crushed by something he would never understand.

Mark Goad - Roundhouse | 13

The Garbage Bag Ryan Palmer

I had the honor of rummaging through your garbage this morning. You untied it in front of me and I sifted through, piece by piece. What an interesting collage you own, jumbled together, hidden behind that thin layer of plastic. Vile and dirt mixed with art, while rotten apples wrapped in hair decay on top of tears spawned from love and pain. Some parts bulge and point, stretching the corners and the seams, and the slightest touch could break them free. But you hold it altogether, while it yearns to erupt, and split down the middle. Funny how it is. All the contrary of sickness to health stuffed and crammed in this pale plastic. What a marvel is your soul, with its putridity and its beauty side by side. What a mystery is your skin, holding all of you-Let´s be untied this afternoon, and let ourselves fall to the floor...sifting through the pieces One by one

Ryan Palmer - The Garbage Bag | 14

Generation Hanny Castano

Schools flooded with business cards and premature crooks, spitting out the few creative minds, burning beyond ashes intellectual dignity. The generation of bulimic skeletons expurgating their souls, of third world stomachs eating third world stomachs, of international companies vomiting third world stomachs; Is Moloch putting a shotgun to his head, begging for its own survival; absent to Shakespeare? Carton boxes filled with comics and convicts incarcerated for begging; impaired for balance. It’s here, in the dirt, in the dry wind that burns cheekbones; in the doctors and psychologists, in the ecologists and presidents, in the blue collar sharks, in the thousands of corporation buildings, in minimum wage hitting the same wall for decades. Under our noses, in the oil, dictating corpses toward a totalitarian state of traumatized veterans and drunkards. The generation is here, to stay.

Hanny Castano - Generation | 15

Jeremy Mayer:

We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone

There’s plenty of articles out there about your work as sculptor using typewriter parts. I’d like to dig a little deeper into your history as an artist and what drives you. So, when I was first introduced to you, it was when I was dating Sara--after you two had split. That’s completely irrelevant and we barely dated two weeks. She was hip to what I was only interested in. But, prior to that, I was introduced to you through the Native American drawings you were selling through that gallery in the Boatworks Mall. I think that was when you first moved to Tahoe from Minnesota, right? Yep. I was 19. I was pretty naive about what I wanted to do with art. At that point I wanted to sell it because I had no money and couldn’t afford basic necessities, like a clue, for instance. Right then I started playing with nascent ideas I had about new technology, mostly fearful, paranoid, and dystopian in nature. I gave up getting paid for making what I wanted, and it was the best creative move I ever made.

Tell us about your training as an artist. You’ve worked in numerous mediums, from stained glass to other traditional mediums. I love the piece you did with the storm trooper--what was it called? And is it still for sale? When I win the lottery, I have every intention of purchasing it. I threw the drawing away the last time I moved. Shit. Sorry. It was too damned big. I drew a lot as a kid. When I got to the age where I was told that I should have gone to art school, I wound up doing other things that I feel gave me real-world experience that I wouldn’t ever regret. I’ve detailed cars; washed windows; operated and repaired snowcats(tracked snow vehicles); painted houses; designed corrugate packaging; restored stained glass windows; did production graphic design; cast sculptures of Hindu deities, architectural adornments, and anatomical models; and in between all of these jobs made art for sale and for me. I did all my own book lernin’. William Gibson’s work has a big influence on your work to date. When were you introduced to his work? What other artists have influenced you? And what do you think about the Steampunk movement and that, on occasion, you are associated with that movement?

Jeremy Mayer: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone | 17

Started reading WG in the 90’s. The stories neatly zipped together some dystopian imagery for me- kind of a mix of Metropolis, Maxx Headroom, Yvgeny Zamiatin’s “WE”, and Mad Max. I liked to imagine the post-apocalyptic sewer-dwelling craftsman, dodging but also tweaking and using the lattice of the structure and confinement that technology brings to the masses. People use the word Steampunk (furthermore spelled SP because I hate writing out the whole word) to describe too broad a swath of aesthetics. SP to me is Neo-Victorian/Retro Goth and about a “what-if” scenario involving the viability of Babbage’s Difference Engine. Can’t get any more obscure or fictional, and, in turn, using the word to describe anything with a machine in it smacks of a lack of awareness about recent art history. There are many more recent art historical references that are obvious precursors to this kind of aesthetic (Rube Goldberg, Calder, Bontecou, Tinguely, Hausmann, Epstein, etc.) and I think that to describe my work and similar work with the SP label is just wrong. I’ve been doing this for 17 years now. I know now that the foundations of SP were around then, but I personally didn’t see SP until it started popping up on the web few years ago. I don’t hate it, but I’m not at all interested in it, and my work isn’t it. I think you’ll get a similar response from many other artists who do work similar to mine. They won’t scoff at it since they probably don’t want to piss off a great number of their fans, but i know they agree that there’s more to this than top hats, gears, and goggles.

Most recently, you hosted a group show of fellow artists and sculptors living in the East Bay at your warehouse/live/work studio. I got lost for two hours trying to find it after missing the only apparent exit that will get you there. Who in Oakland’s city planning department can I complain to about this? And how is the exhibit going? Don’t talk shit about Oakland, or Oakland will beat your ass. Umm...shit. The show was great. We sold a lot of work and had an excellent time. FTW. Jeremy Mayer: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone | 18

Nude V (in progress) Jeremy Mayer

previous: Penis III

You and Nemo Gould occupy the same warehouse now. I don’t think we’ve ever really talked at length about how you were introduced to him and the other artists you are friendly with. Since then you’ve formed a collective--sorry, forget the name of the collective... It’s been one of those 3am wake up days on a work day and my brain feels like a lump of stale hardened bread that has suddenly been dipped in standing water. Sorry about your self-imposed malady. It’s okay. I’m over it. The collective is AKA, which is an acronym that our dear reader can make up the words to. We have a blog which is a aggregator that grabs posts from similarly-minded artists and craftspersons. We show together at the Bay Area Maker Faire, and drink beer sometimes if we’re in the same place at the same time.

At this point, you’ve received a ton of attention online by entities such as Wired and so on. And you’ve made some significant sales/commissioned works--as well as the large acquisitions by Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. Tell us about that. And, at this point, what is your major objective in where you want your work to go? We’ve discussed at length your current objections to having your work represented by traditional galleries. Is there any gallery you would like to represent your work? I’ve had some really excellent press for doing something so odd. It definitely helps me continue doing this odd thing. Jeremy Mayer: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone | 20

Deer III Jeremy Mayer

previous: Bust V

I want to do the best work I can, whatever that means. You’ll see some painting from me in the next couple of years, some 3D work, and perhaps some furniture design. I love making stuff, especially stuff that I’m not making for anyone else’s profit but my own. Right now I’m interested in making larger pieces that I can show for a little while in small museums so that more people can see the work. Because of the web, artists can depend much less on galleries right now, and that trend is evolving and expanding similarly to how it did with the record industry and publishing. When I hear an artist say “I don’t like to promote myself or deal with clients, so I need a gallery”, I had better not also hear them complain about the flaky gallerists who complain about flaky artists, or gallerists who describe artists as being in their “stable”, or describe artists as working “for a gallery”, or don’t pay the artists, or don’t call the artists back and especially not when the artist is due a payment, a payment which is half of what it would be if you had the fucking fortitude to handle it all yourself and cut out some of the evil scumbags in this business. The web has made it all pretty simple to do yourself, with some fairly minimal learning and investment of time and money. Certainly not all galleries are evil, mind you- I’ve dealt with many and call some gallerists my friends- but their hold on the art world at present is tenuous. I’m lucky to have some skills and interests that allow me to circumvent the whole gallery/artist clusterfuck and still manage to make a living. I don’t doubt that I’ll eat those words someday, but for now, I can manage myself quite happily and effectively, and I hope that this trend of artists empowering themselves individually and collectively continues. -- for more about Jeremy Mayer:

or Google ‘jeremy mayer, typewriter, sculpture’ in any combination

Jeremy Mayer: We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone | 22

Nude II Jeremy Mayer

previous: Dead Cat III

Sublunary Picatrix Edward Harsen

I am facturing a bird of fortune, trying to find significance in geese. They bray meaning to the trees, and if I am waiting or worried, thinking about food, listening to children, I make a mental note, but the goose-sign so far seems to be encrypted. Over the Hudson River a white crane imitates a gull. I mistake the crane anyway for the cow egret, who, African, crossed the Fernando de Noronha Plain to Brazil and bred north, a bird determined. I should mention how I surprised a Great Blue Heron at Tiana Bay. There was an inhuman eye, fully round, fakily set like that in a blond teddy bear. Struck clear gold and unthinking, an eye like a sword-straight beak, like backward knees. So my folklore follows from my caprice: when the killdeer screeches I reverse course; whistle with the thrush to freely pass him on the street; gesture minutely to the red-tail hawk so the mice get a head start. Seeing one crane means there is one crane. Seeing a heron means I am impossible.

Edward Harsen: Sublunary Picatrix | 24

I Saw the Chameleon Edward Harsen

From your suit I knew you had been in rain, even after days of travel. The blue plastic vinyl and tweed weave train seats left an imprint. Your hair smelled of distinct Atlantic cities. But that is past. Now you lay out a change of clothes for the week to come: in yellow you will be hungry and lean eagerly; the grey and pink will hold you on your heels for perspective; then the red plaid and exhaustion. With flung hat and feet prized out of shoes, you’ll sink into a deep suite chair, hide there until the higher shadows wheel off, the Arizona sun sets and messages pass you, indistinguishable from your future.

Edward Harsen: I Saw the Chameleon | 25

Found Gretchen Meixner

There is something vulnerable About you, vulture, About your drug-rimmed eyes and Quiet, deliberate desperation. You treat my body like you’re Cleaning the barrel of a gun. I am not the subject matter, Nor the manifestation of your Unspoken, unaltered violence. Churning through your hands is The hollowness of human skin The barbaric last words of a Slaughtered animal, but maybe I am, altogether too forgiving. Maybe it is your own blood Caked in your very own nails. Perhaps you cry because You ran out of cartridges With one target left, one more Personification of brutal pain. Each heavy heart, a constant Reminder of interrupted pleasure. None of the girlish tears were Shed for you, no one settled Happily into your hungry, Overbearing arms. You kill What is not you. You break what Others wouldn’t want to be touched. You delight in my tight, gripping fingers Wound around you, because they are Wanted elsewhere, because they have Been here, and there, and now you. Gretchen Meixner: Found | 26

I was dismissed when Other battles could be won easier. You wanted to split apart wounds And plant them in soil, so they grow And grow again. Your heart beats A war cry and your body speaks Involuntary death, a scream, a Bullet barreling into me, tearing Open and splitting the organs, Wasting through and melting down. A gun shot, a massacre, but my Body will resurrect, the bullet is Drawn and the cut is sewn and cold You keep on keeping score with The taste of metal on your lips, Blood tracing your movements, Vulnerable even when you feed Because your cells cannot close Up the chasm in the stomach To keep the mind from spilling out.

Gretchen Meixner: Found | 27

Finding the Romanovs Gretchen Meixner

I haven’t slept Since they found The remaining Romanovs, Those creaky bones Resting in acids and Slimy, insect carcasses. Anastasia, lost, Kept in 8mm mystery Plump face obscured By the Siberian wild. Mass graves tremble under The weight of kings with Silent, brass powers who Issue orders by their Dull, heavy scepters. I think about the density Of bone, its chalky substance Lingering in the throat As it burns and imbues The air with silent cancers. Blood becomes desolate As soon as it jumps on Satin, and clutching fingers. What once was all, now Collects calmly on the floor, Stopping and clotting Along the splintered grooves. How does a city bury Its owners? A mystery kept, Received and then denied.

Gretchen Meixner: Finding the Romanovs | 28

A sacrifice was made to the Gods of chaos, but no came To claim its reward. Death breeds death, And ravenous chasm opens Swelling and swallowing Beholders and their prey. Fingerprints on branches Tell a story of deception, Of white handkerchiefs used To mop up the spill and Allow children to steady Their dreams within a dream. Cities have not stopped moving, But ravines close up and Devour their contents into Wide, ruby mouths. Bodies buried and buried Again, without malice, Just the steady stream Of man’s heavy passion Weighing them down.

Gretchen Meixner: Finding the Romanovs | 29

Ill Rhyl Tom Rowley-Conwy

The North Wales coast brochure boasted: ‘Rhyl, the jewel in our crown!’ Now the hinges rust in this ghost town. Urban regeneration, seagull infestation, roadworks, traffic jams and methadone programs; front page news. No chain stores barMaccy’s and Woolies (RIP). Charity and pound shops line our high street. Morrison’s bags roll by like tumbleweed. Manchester’s infested this Liverpool overspill accents and lexicons clash big fish, small ponds, fighting over girls, drugs and cash in the town’s one night spot. Drive in from the east to be greeted by a torched hotel, a collapsed roof and scorched rafters do not contest the depressing sight of a rusting fun fair to the west. Neither of these wreckswill be cleared for years. Like the arcades on the front the town comes to light during the summer months. Sun burned thighs, spilt ice cream and donkey rides slightly swell this seaside economy and the hinges are greased until autumn at least.

Tom Rowley-Conwy: Ill Rhyl | 30

Damaged Goods Mar Trujillo

Young brown eyes stealing glances at the long straight neck, the fullness of the back, the firm brown skin. She’d never seen anything like him. Small, inexperienced palms itched to feel, touch, soft fingertips yearned to love him. Entering the cold room she found him on the floor begging her to hold him as she warmed his neck with her breast and pulled him up against her, her cheek against his head. Her face flushed as she pulled him between her legs, skirt hiking up, one Converse clad shoe on either side of him, her black tipped fingers caressed his neck while others ran down his body, ran down and felt how strong he was, how dark, how right. They want to see him too, they want to see him and play, but she won’t let them. Grimy little hands full of peanut butter and clay. He’ll be safe were he is, waiting for her touch, for her eyes, especially at night. Night is when she leaves her bed, she leaves her other life for him, for his warmth, for his love, for all he’s said. Tears stream down stream down her face and onto his body and now she’ll have more time without them without their needs and wants without their constant nagging. Now she’ll have more time with him. He drives her to blood as the calloused hands experience more experience more watching the strings turn red with love turn red with life turn red with sacrifice watching the wood turn gray with use as her hands are etched with age and her eyes turn milky white as she strains to read the Prokofiev Symphonia Concertante for Cello, but her ears are still intact and they still hear his ragged breath struggling to find a way to fill up the empty room.

Mar Trujillo: Damaged Goods | 31

ДЕМОН Восточная Повесть М. Ю. Лермонтов

Часть I I Печальный Демон, дух изгнанья, Летал над грешною землёй, И лучших дней воспоминанья Пред ним теснилися толпой; Тех дней, когда в жилище света Блистал он, чистый херувим, Когда бегущая комета Улыбкой ясною привета Любила поменяться с ним. Когда сквозь вечные туманы, Познанья жадный, он следил Кочующие караваны В пространстве брошенных светил; Когда он верил и любил, Счастливый первенец творенья! Не знал ни злобы, ни сомненья, И не грозил уму его Веков бесплодных ряд унылый… И много, много… и всего Припомнить не имел он силы!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 32

DEMON the Oriental Tale M.Y. Lermontov Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: To my cousin Irina, who has always cared for me

Part I I Sad Demon, the lone banished spirit, Flew over the sinful miserable earth, And his best memories, being still vivid, Did crowd before him, gained their strength; Of days in Heaven, where brightly shining He stood, the Cherub, free from sin, And when across the wide sky scudding, A comet, amicably smiling, Loved to exchange that smile with him. When through the eternal wide-spread fog he, So eager for cognition, gazed At flocks of numerous heavenly bodies, Round him in boundless wandering space; Believed and loved, in a state of grace The happy first-born of the Creation, Didn’t know neither spite nor hesitation, And was unaware of any threat From future epochs, full of sorrow… He thought, and then he lost the thread What else to think, which way to follow…

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 33

II Давно отверженный блуждал В пустыне мира без приюта: Вослед за веком век бежал, Как за минутою минута, Однообразной чередой. Ничтожной властвуя землёй, Он сеял зло без наслажденья, Нигде искусству своему Он не встречал сопротивленья – И зло наскучило ему. III И над вершинами Кавказа Изгнанник рая пролетал: Под ним Казбек, как грань алмаза, Снегами вечными сиял, И, глубоко внизу чернея, Как трещина, жилище змея, Вился излучистый Дарьял, И Терек, прыгая, как львица С косматой гривой на хребте, Ревел, - и горный зверь и птица, Кружась в лазурной высоте, Глаголу вод его внимали; И золотые облака Из южных стран, издалека Его на север провожали; И скалы тесною толпой, Таинственной дремоты полны, Над ним склонялись головой, Следя мелькающие волны; И башни замков на скалах Смотрели грозно сквозь туманы – У врат Кавказа на часах Сторожевые великаны! И дик и чуден был вокруг Весь божий мир; но го��дый дух Презрительным окинул оком Творенье бога своего, И на челе его высоком Не отразилось ничего.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 34

II For oh, so long, the lone outcast Roamed sadly through the endless universe; The century after century passed Like in a swift train running minutes, As a monotonous and dull row. He sowed the miserable earth below With harm – with joyless, hard persistence: Nowhere and never his wicked skill Had met obstruction or resistance, And he lost interest in his will. III And he flew over the Caucasus summits – The lone exile from paradise, Kazbeck below, as diamond’s facet, Shone with eternal snow and ice. And deep beneath so gloomily blackening Cleft wound just as a snake’s dark dwelling – Thus Demon saw the Darial's* winds. The roaring Tharg there dashed down jumping With its mane shagging on the head, And all the beasts and birds around it Their keen ear to its bangs did lend All charmed with it, with deep attention; And flocks of gold and lovely clouds, From distant countries, from the south Saw it in northerly direction. And riverside cliffs in compact rows Stood there and looked mysteriously drowsy, Inclining heads in courteous bows While watching waves that flashed past, closely. And towered castles on the rocky juts Stared sternly through the foggy distance, Just as the mighty powerful giants, Placed there to guard the Caucasus entrance. And curious, wild was all around God’s world, but the proud spirit glowered, Glanced over it with scorn, disdaining All that was created by his God, And not a sign these scenes impressed him, At his wide forehead one could spot. *Darial - gorge of the river Tharg.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 35

IV И перед ним иной картины Красы живые расцвели: Роскошной Грузии долины Ковром раскинулись вдали; Счастливый, пышный край земли! Столпообразные раины, Звонко-бегущие ручьи По дну из камней разноцветных, И кущи роз, где соловьи Поют красавиц, безответных На сладкий голос их любви; Чинар развесистые сени, Густым венчанные плющом, Пещеры, где палящим днём Таятся робкие олени; И блеск, и жизнь, и шум листов, Стозвучный говор голосов, Дыханье тысячи растений! И полдня сладострастный зной, И ароматною росой Всегда увлаженные ночи, И звёзды, яркие как очи, Как взор грузинки молодой!.. Но, кроме зависти холодной, Природы блеск не возбудил В груди изгнанника бесплодной Ни новых чувств, ни новых сил; И всё, что пред собой он видел, Он презирал иль ненавидел! V Высокий дом, широкий двор Седой Гудал себе построил… Трудов и слёз он много стоил Рабам послушным с давних пор. С утра на скат соседних гор От стен его ложатся тени. В скале нарублены ступени; Они от башни угловой Ведут к реке, по ним мелькая, Покрыта белою чадрой, Княжна Тамара молодая К Арагве ходит за водой. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 36

IV Then other pictures – bright and splendid Scenes blossomed out in front of him: The vales of Georgia, their vast carpet, Stretched in the distance, rolled in green. The land of such a sumptuous dream! The views, with poplars decorated, And merrily running ice-cold streams Along the motley pebbly bottoms, Rose shrubs, where nightingales’ sweet trills Sing praises of their beautiful partners Which listen there mutely when they sing. The lofty plane trees in full power With ivy covered for retreat, Cool caves, in which in parching heat The timid deer go to take cover. The lustful life and green leaves’ noise, And rumbling of so many a voice, The fragrance of innumerable flowers! And the voluptuous heat at noon, With aromatic spicy dew Invariably moistened nights of southland, And stars, as bright as shining eyes and As Georgian maiden’s fiery look! But save the envy, save its coldness, The sheen of nature did not awake In the exile’s soul, turned quite fruitless, Neither new feelings, nor new strength; And all, that he around him gazed at, Was deeply scorned by him and hated! V A lofty castle with vast rich grounds Was once by gray Gudal constructed… It cost the slaves much tears and suffering While washing with their sweat that ground. From morning on the slopes of mounts The shadows from that castle are falling. Steps, carved in rock, lead downward, going Down to the river, to the plain. And down those footsteps merrily running, All covered with a snow-white veil, Young princess Tamar, bright and sparkling, Comes to the river every day. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 37

VI Всегда безмолвно на долины Глядел с утёса мрачный дом; Но пир большой сегодня в нём – Звучит зурна, и льются вины – Гудал сосватал дочь свою, На пир он созвал всю семью,На кровле, устланной коврами, Сидит невеста меж подруг: Средь игр и песен их досуг Проходит. Дальними горами Уж спрятан солнца полукруг; В ладони мерно ударяя, Они поют – и бубен свой Берёт невеста молодая. И вот она, одной рукой Кружа его над головой, То вдруг помчится легче птицы, То остановится, глядит – И влажный взор её блестит Из-под завистливой ресницы; То чёрной бровью поведёт, То вдруг наклонится немножко, И по ковру скользит, плывёт Её божественная ножка; И улыбается она, Веселья детского полна. Но луч луны, по влаге зыбкой Слегка играющий порой, Едва ль сравнится с той улыбкой, Как жизнь, как молодость живой. VII Клянусь полночною звездой, Лучом заката и востока, Властитель Персии златой И не единый царь земной Не целовал такого ока; Гарема брызжущий фонтан Ни разу жаркою порою Своей жемчужною росою Не омывал подобный стан! Ещё ничья рука земная, По милому челу блуждая, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 38

VI The castle, there standing on the mountain, Gazed always at its nearby dales; Now there a feast is taking place – Wines flow, tunes of zurna* are sounding. Gudal’s dear daughter will be wed, And a big party is being held. The carpets on the roof are crowded With maids – among them sits the bride: In games and songs their hours do glide, Meanwhile behind the distant mountain The semicircle of the sun doth hide. They gaily clap their hands, the maidens, And sing, but now the tambourine Is in the young bride’s pretty hand and She lifts it high and starts to jingle, Accompanying this with its spin. Just as a rapid bird she’s darting; Now pauses, lingers, and her glance Is lovely, soft - all shine - and sparkles From under eyelashes, prettily arched. Now moves her brow - expressing pride, All of a sudden stoops forward slightly And her little foot divinely glides On the rich carpet elegantly. And she so happy, merrily smiles Filled with the gaiety of a child. Faint moonlight, shimmering on the surface Of water with its quivering rays, Bears but a weak and rare resemblance To that smile, as a young life gay.

*Zurna – Caucasian bagpipes.

VII Swear by the midnight brilliant star, Swear by the dawn and sunset sunbeam, Not any Persian shah so far, No earthly king or any man, Has ever kissed such eyes, believe me. The harem’s splashing cool fountain On hot and sultry hours of summer Never has washed with its pearl shower M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 39

Таких волос не расплела; С тех пор как мир лишился рая, Клянусь, красавица такая VIII В последний раз она плясала. Увы! заутра ожидала Её, наследницу Гудала, Свободы резвую дитя, Судьба печальная рабыни, Отчизна, чуждая поныне, И незнакомая семья. И часто тайное сомненье Темнило светлые черты; И были все её движенья Так стройны, полны выраженья, Так полны милой простоты, Что если б Демон, пролетая, В то время на неё взглянул, То, прежних братий вспоминая, Он отвернулся б – и вздохнул… IX И Демон видел… На мгновенье Неизъяснимое волненье В себе почувствовал он вдруг. Немой души его пустыню Наполнил благодатный звук – И вновь постигнул он святыню Любви, добра и красоты!.. И долго сладостной картиной Он любовался – и мечты О прежнем счастье цепью длинной, Как будто за звездой звезда, Пред ним катилися тогда. Прикованный незримой силой, Он с новой грустью стал знаком; В нём чувство вдруг заговорило Родным когда-то языком. То был ли признак возрожденья? Он слов коварных искушенья Найти в уме своём не мог… Забыть? Забвенья не дал бог: Да он и не взял бы забвенья!.. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 40

And cooled such a beauty with its rain. No man on earth, in fit of passion, His love caressing with affection, Has ever loosened such nice braids; Ever since the world has lost its Eden, Not ever has such a beautiful maiden Bloomed in the shine of southern days. VIII She would not look so idle tomorrow; Alas! The days, that was to follow, Had for the girl, unaware of sorrow, In store a life, for her unknown; Submission to quite new relations, Farewell to old and loved connections, And the fireside, she did not know. And often her secret hesitations Made her bright features sad and deep, And all her movements and her actions Were so refined in their expressions, So full of charm, so simple and neat, That if the Demon, lonely soaring In heavens, could see her that bright day, He, his old jolly days recalling, Would deeply sigh and turn away. IX And Demon saw and for a moment He felt an inexplicable torment – All of a sudden it pierced his breast. And beneficial sound and feelings Filled his tired soul, all lifeless, wasted. And he perceived the charm and holiness Of beauty, love, of a virtuous life! And for a while that view, its sweetness Was pleasure in his eyes - his mind Was gladdened, rejoiced by rows of endless Past and bright days, which shone like stars, And he liked this, enjoyed this burst. He was by some new power captured, Met with a sorrow, yet unknown, Now his new sense with him debated, He heard again the native tong. Was that a sign of renovation? M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 41

И долго сладостной картиной Он любовался – и мечты О прежнем счастье цепью длинной, Как будто за звездой звезда, Пред ним катилися тогда. Прикованный незримой силой, Он с новой грустью стал знаком; В нём чувство вдруг заговорило Родным когда-то языком. То был ли признак возрожденья? Он слов коварных искушенья Найти в уме своём не мог… Забыть? Забвенья не дал бог: Да он и не взял бы забвенья!.. X Измучив доброго коня, На брачный пир к закату дня Спешил жених нетерпеливый. Арагвы светлой он счастливо Достиг зелёных берегов. Под тяжкой ношею даров Едва, едва переступая, За ним верблюдов длинный ряд Дорогой тянется, мелькая: Их колокольчики звенят. Он сам, властитель Синодала, Ведёт богатый караван. Ремнём затянут ловкий стан; Оправа сабли и кинжала Блестит на солнце; за спиной Ружьё с насечкой вырезной. Играет ветер рукавами Его чухи, - кругом она Вся галуном обложена. Цветными вышито шелками Его седло; узда с кистями; Под ним весь в мыле конь лихой Бесценной масти, золотой. Питомец резвый Карабаха Прядёт ушьми и, полный страха, Храпя косится с крутизны На пену скачущей волны. Опасен, узок путь прибрежный! M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 42

He could not think about temptation, Such purpose did not touch his thought. This to forget? – Wasn’t given by God, And he’d not take such a donation! X Having exhausted his good horse, By sunset an eager bride-groom was In hurry to a wedding party, At last he reached clear river Aragvi. There carrying many a valuable gift, A row of camels follows him. They’re moving step by step and hardly, Advancing forth in long single file Along the stream, between the mountains, Little bells are tinkling all the time. The lord of Sinodal is leading This caravan with its merry guests; A belt’s about his slender waist, His dagger with its golden trimming Reflects the sun. There on his back – Is a rifle that’s skillfully engraved. An easy breeze of this fine evening Tousles his chukha* – the whole of it With costly and fine lace is trimmed. A harness shows the art of embroidery, And charms an eye, looks rich, attractively. His horse is covered with the frothy sweat, The horse of high blood, of high breed. It is the Karabach’s dashing offspring, It wriggles its ears and fearfully snorting Looks down the steep bank, looks askance At foaming waves and at their jumps. The riverside is full of danger! There on the left - a rocky path, Opposite are streams that dash with anger. The snowy peaks are getting darker, It’s late, all around a veil of haze, The caravan mended its slow pace. *Chukha - Caucasian nobleman’s outer garment

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 43

Утёсы с левой стороны, Направо глубь реки мятежной. Уж поздно. На вершине снежной Румянец гаснет; встал туман, Прибавил шагу караван. XI И вот часовня на дороге… Тут с давних пор почиет в боге Какой-то князь, теперь святой, Убитый мстительной рукой. С тех пор на праздник иль на битву, Куда бы путник не спешил, Всегда усердную молитву Он у часовни приносил; И та молитва сберегала От мусульманского кинжала. Но презрел удалой жених Обычай прадедов своих. Его коварною мечтою Лукавый Демон возмущал: Он в мыслях, под ночною тьмою, Уста невесты целовал. Вдруг впереди мелькнули двое, И больше – выстрел! – что такое?.. Привстав на звонких стременах, Надвинув на брови папах, Отважный князь не молвил слова; В руке сверкнул турецкий ствол, Нагайка щёлк и, как орёл, Он кинулся… и выстрел снова! И дикий крик и стон глухой Промчались в глубине долины – Недолго продолжался бой: Бежали робкие грузины! XII Затихло всё; теснясь толпой, На трупы всадников порой Верблюды с ужасом глядели; И глухо в тишине степной Их колокольчики звенели. Разграблен пышный караван; И над телами христиан M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 44

XI A chapel at the road, inside it Since ancient times some prince’s been sleeping, And is revered now, as a saint – Killed by someone’s revengeful hand. And since there has remained a custom Wherever a traveler would pass by, He’d pray here with devotion, ardor For his good fortune and survival. That holy prayer was his defender Rescued him from a Muslim dagger. But the betrothed has disdained This custom of an ancient date. Sly Demon with wicked skill and secretly Pushed him to go on with his ride, In the surrounding dark he mentally Kissed her sweet lips, caressed his bride. Two men appeared from out of hiding, Then shooting! What’s the matter? Darn it! The prince rose on his stirrups, startled, Pulled on his brows his high papakh,* And, not saying word, the bridle he tightened; A Turkish rifle in his hand twinkled, He made a jerk and as an eagle Dashed forth and shots around resounded. A loud wild cry and hollow groans Filled faintly the surrounding regions, The skirmish did not go on long They fled the field - those timid Georgians. *Papakh – high fur cap.

XII All round calmed down. Now crowded, mad, The camels stared wide-eyed at the dead All terror-struck and now abandoned, And in the silence of the steppe Their little bells’ tinkling was resounding. The caravan’s pillaged and deserted, And now above the Christian head A night bird’s circling in the gloom. Alas, they will not lie in tombs Amidst their ancient family graves, Where their forebears’ old bones are laid! M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 45

Чертит круги ночная птица! Не ждёт их мирная гробница Под слоем монастырских плит, Где прах отцов их был зарыт; Не придут сёстры с матерями, Покрыты длинными чадрами, С тоской, рыданьем и мольбами, На гроб их из далёких мест! Зато усердною рукою Здесь у дороги, над скалою, На память водрузится крест; И плющ, разросшийся весною, Его, ласкаясь, обовьёт Своею сеткой изумрудной; И, своротив с дороги трудной, Не раз усталый пешеход Под божьей тенью отдохнёт… XIII Несётся конь быстрее лани, Храпит и рвётся, будто к брани; То вдруг осадит на скаку, Прислушается к ветерку, Широко ноздри раздувая, То, разом в землю ударяя Шипами звонкими копыт, Взмахнув растрёпанную гривой, Вперёд без памяти летит. На нём есть всадник молчаливый! Он бьётся на седле порой, Припав на гриву головой. Уж он не правит поводами, Задвинув ноги в стремена, И кровь широкими струями На чепраке его видна. Скакун лихой, ты господина Из боя вынес, как стрела, Но злая пуля осетина Его во мраке догнала!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 46

They won’t come here, their wives and mothers, Depressed, in grief, with black veils covered, They will not come, those sobbing mourners, From distant places to their graves. Instead, by somebody’s endeavor, Where over the rock the way is narrower, A cross in memory will be raised. In spring the ivy over and over Again will twine round it its stems To form a bright green, emerald netting, And a tired traveler, aside stepping, Instead of farther on to step, Below God’s shadow will take rest! XIII Faster than a deer the horse’s galloping, As if for battle, he’s snorting, spoiling; Now stops and lingers at full speed And lends an ear to the far wind, Dilating his big nostrils widely, Now kicks the earth impetuously, mightily With sounding spurs of his strong hooves, And the long tousled mane flapping wildly, Is rushing through the fading hues, A silent horseman on it riding! He’s pressing to the mane his head, And so is joggling in the saddle. No more the man his horse is guidingHis toes are in the stirrups slack, A bloodstain on his back is widening And clearly shows on the chaprack.* Good horse, you did it, helped your master Escape disaster, you were smart, But the Osset’s wicked lead was faster And it caught up him in the dark! *Chaprack – lining under the saddle.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 47

XIV В семье Гудала плачь и стоны, Толпится на дворе народ: Чей конь примчался запалённый И пал на камни у ворот? Кто этот всадник бездыханный? Хранили след тревоги бранной Морщины смуглого чела. В крови оружие и платье, В последнем бешенном пожатье Рука на гриве замерла. Недолго жениха младого Невеста, взор твой ожидал: Сдержал он княжеское слово, На брачный пир он прискакал… Увы! но никогда уж снова Не сядет на коня лихого!.. XV На беззаботную семью Как гром слетела божья кара! Упала на постель свою, Рыдает бедная Тамара; Слеза катится за слезой, Грудь высоко и трудно дышит; И вот она как будто слышит Волшебный голос над собой: «Не плачь дитя! Не плачь напрасно! Твоя слеза на труп безгласный Живой росой не упадёт: Она лишь взор туманит ясный, Ланиты девственные жжёт! Он далеко, он не узнает, Не оценит тоски твоей; Небесный свет теперь ласкает Бесплотный взор его очей; Он слышит райские напевы… Что жизни мелочные сны, И стон и слёзы юной девы Для гостя райской стороны? Нет, жребий смертного творенья Поверь мне, ангел мой земной, Не стоит одного мгновенья Твоей печали дорогой!» M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 48

XIV The home of Gudal’s filled with mourners, People crowd the yard with cries and moans; Whose horse there, that dashed in wind-broken, Lies at the gates now on the stones? Who is that mute and lifeless rider? With on his face engraved disaster, Seen in the wrinkles of his dark brow? With blood is stained his weapon, clothing, By his stiffened hand, on the mane holding, The fierce last grasp was clearly shown. You didn’t wait long for your betrothed, He didn’t deceive you, faithful bride; He kept his word, just as he promised And made at gallop his long ride… But from now on, alas, he’ll never Mount his good horse with joy and pleasure! XV God’s penalty as a thunderclap Has flown down on the carefree family; The fiancée’s fallen on her bed, Lies all in grief, is weeping bitterly. Hot tear is falling upon tear, Her breast is breathing fast and deeply, But then she thought she heard unexpectedly Some magic voice just by her ear: “Don’t cry in vain my child, my darling, Your tears won’t bring him back, revive him, He cannot be to life returned; They only mist your sight, your lovely Young cheeks will be by their fire burnt. He’s far away, and your great sorrow Will not be known or recognized, Celestial beams now flowing follow And fondle his incorporeal eye! He to the heavenly tunes is listening What are the petty dreams of life, What are a maiden’s moans and weeping For him, the guest of paradise? No mortal creature’s lot and evil, My earthly angel, do trust me, Is worth the shortest moment even Of your noble sorrow, of your grief!” M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 49

«На воздушном океане, Без руля и без ветрил, Тихо плавают в тумане Хоры стройные светил; Средь полей необозримых В небе ходят без следа Облаков неуловимых Необъятые стада. Час разлуки, час свиданья Им не радость, ни печаль; Им в грядущем нет желанья И прошедшего не жаль. В день томительный несчастья Ты об них лишь вспомяни; Будь к земному без участья И беспечна, как они!» «Лишь только ночь своим покровом Верхи Кавказа осенит, Лишь только мир, волшебным словом Заворожённый, замолчит; Лишь только ветер над скалою Увядшей шевельнёт травою, И птичка, спрятанная в ней, Порхнёт во мраке веселей; И под лозою виноградной, Росу небес глотая жадно, Цветок распустится ночной; Лишь только месяц золотой Из-за горы тихонько встанет И на тебя украткой взглянет, К тебе я стану прилетать; Гостить я буду до денницы И на шелковые ресницы Сны золотые навевать…» XVI Слова умолкли в отдаленье Вослед за звуком умер звук. Она, вскочив, глядит вокруг… Невырaзимое смятенье В её груди; печаль, испуг, Восторга пыл – ничто в сравненье. Все чувства в ней кипели вдруг; M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 50

“You see in the aerial ocean Choirs of planets and of stars, See them float without emotions, Having neither wheels nor musts. In outstretched and boundless valleys You can see the wavy clouds, See them swim not leaving traces, Flocked together in immense crowds. Hours of parting, hours of greeting, Neither do sadden them, nor turn gladThey have neither any wishes, Nor compassion and regret. In disaster, in misfortune, Be like them, reflect on them, And reject your feelings’ torture, They are not your soul’s concern!” “When summits of the Caucasus Mountains Are wrapped in covers of the night, And when the world, as if enchanted By a magician, shuts its eye, And when the grass – on the rock growing, Sways easily when a breeze is blowing, When hidden in it a dozing lark Flits merrily, lovely in the dark, When a small flower in bloom of morning The dew from heavens eagerly swallowing Starts opening, fragrant blossoming out, And when risen from behind the mount The modest moon at you in secret Casts from above its glances quickly, Just then I’ll hurry up to thee, Stay till the daybreak on a visit, And on your eyelash’s, such thick-silky, Will call up golden starry dreams.” XVI The words then stopped, like an illusion, No more was heard that magic sound, Amazed, she jumped up, looked around… By inexplicable, sudden confusion She strongly, deeply was perturbed, And overwhelmed by that intrusion, Her trembling soul was shocked, was moved. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 51

Душа рвала свои оковы, Огонь по жилам пробегал, И этот голос чудно-новый, Ей мнилось, всё ещё звучал. И перед утром сон желанный Глаза усталые смежил; Но мысль её он возмутил Мечтой пророческой и странной. Пришлец туманный и немой, Красой блистая неземной, К её склонился изголовью; И взор его с такой любовью, Так грустно на неё смотрел, Как будто он об ней жалел. То не был ангел-небожитель, Её божественный хранитель: Венец из радужных лучей Не украшал его кудрей. То не был ада дух ужасный, Порочный мученик – о нет! Он был похож на месяц ясный: Ни день, ни ночь – ни мрак, ни свет!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 52

It strove to tear off its chains, fetters, She felt her blood was hot as hell, And that new voice so strangely tender, Still sounded – so it seemed to her. At daybreak she, for rest desiring, Cried herself finally to short sleep, But during it she strangely dreamed A vision – prophetic and surprising: A misty and mute guest stood there With an unearthly handsome air; He, bending forward at her bedside, Showed such affection in his sad eyes, At her so sorrowfully stared, As though for her he deeply felt. There not an angel stood before her, He was not her divine protector – A shiny crown of rainbow beams Did not adorn the curls of his. Nor he resembled a wicked spirit, The dreadful vicious martyr, nay! He looked like a calm and quiet evening Neither dark of night, nor light of day!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 53

Часть II I «Отец, отец, оставь угрозы, Свою Тамару не брани; Я плачу: видишь эти слёзы, Уж�� не первые они. Напрасно женихи толпою Спешат сюда из дальних мест… Немало в Грузии невест; А мне не быть ничьей женою! О, не брани, отец, меня. Ты сам заметил: день от дня Я вяну, жертва злой отравы! Меня терзает дух лукавый Неотразимою мечтой; Я гибну, сжалься надо мной! Отдай в священную обитель Дочь безраcсудную свою; Там защитит меня спаситель, Пред ним тоску свою пролью. На свете нет уж мне веселья… Святыни миром осеня, Пусть примет сумрачная келья, Как гроб, заранее меня…» II И в монастырь уединённый Её родные отвезли, И власяницею смиренной Грудь молодую облекли. Но и в монашеской одежде, Как под узорною парчой, Всё беззаконною мечтой В ней сердце билося, как прежде. Пред алтарём, при блеске свеч, В часы торжественного пенья, Знакомая, среди моленья, Ей часто слышалася речь. Под сводом сумрачного храма Знакомый образ иногда Скользил без звука и следа В тумане лёгком фимиама; Сиял он тихо, как звезда; M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 54

Part II I “Don’t threaten me father, oh, do cease please, Your accusations give me pain, You see my grief, my broken spirits, You see me shading tears again. Young men in vain come here together From different regions, different sides There are in Georgia many brides, But I will never marry, never! O, do not scold me, do not blameYou see yourself that day by day I fade away - a victim of poisoning By the wicked spirit, who is pursuing Me with an irresistible dream Exhausted am I, do help me! Let me go to a sacred convent, There your imprudent child will go, I will be by our Savior sheltered, In weeping I will shed my woe! There is no joy for me in future, So let the sacred peace obscure There in the convent all my torture, Let its cell hide me, like a tomb…” II And to a solitary lonely convent Her friends and relatives did take her, And in a hair shirt, crudely woven, The young girl’s bosom was robbed there. But even in her monastic garment, As earlier in her fashionable clothes, She kept in mind her lawless thoughts, And in her breast her heart still suffered. Before the altar candles’ soft lights, At church, while hours of solemn singing, While prayers she many times heard clearly The familiar speech from different sides. Below the vault of that sad convent She saw his eerie shape sometimes, Saw his perturbing traceless glides In clouds of incense, like some figment. He – as a star – shone faintly there, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 55

Манил и звал он… но – куда?… III В прохладе меж двумя холмами Таился монастырь святой. Чинар и тополей рядами Он окружён был – и порой, Когда ложилась ночь в ущелье, Сквозь них мелькала, в окнах кельи Лампада грешницы младой. Кругом, в тени дерев миндальных, Где ряд стоит крестов печальных, Безмолвных сторожей гробниц, Спевались хоры лёгких птиц. По камням прыгали, шумели Ключи студёною волной, И под нависшею скалой, Сливаясь дружески в ущелье, Катились дальше, меж кустов, Покрытых инеем цветов. IV На север видны были горы. При блеске утренней Авроры, Когда синеющий дымок Курится в глубине долины, И, обращаясь на восток, Зовут к молитве муэдзины, И звучный колокола глас Дрожит, обитель пробуждая; В торжественный и мирный час, Когда грузинка молодая С кувшином длинным за водой С горы спускается крутой, Вершины цепи снеговой Светло-лиловою стеной На чистом небе рисовались И в час заката одевались Они румяной пеленой; И между них, прорезав тучи, Стоял, всех выше головой, Казбек, Кавказа царь могучий, В чалме и ризе парчевой. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 56

And called and beckoned, but to where? III Between two hills, in pure sweet coolness A holy convent was concealed, There plane and poplar trees’ green fullness Since times of old surrounded it. When in the gorge the daylight darkened, Among the trees dim glowing started Lit by the nun, whom tortured her sin. There in the shade of almond trees, Where rows of crosses one’s eye grieves, Amidst those grave-stones’ silent guards Would often rehearse the light birds’ choirs. And on the stones, arousing noises, Flowed waters of quick ice-cold streams, Which near the over-jutting cliffs, Together flowing – merging voices Rolled further down between the shrubs, And with white hoarfrost covered flowers. IV Right to the north were seen the mountains. When bright Aurora’s brilliance’s starting, And when an easy smoke, light blue, Arises from the depths of valleys, When to the east with their keen look The muezzins start offering prayers, When sonorous sounding of the bell Is heard and all around starts awaking, When in the charming morning spell, A Georgian maid, her large jug carrying Down the steep mount comes to the spring, To fill her jug with its cold stream, The high and snowy mountain peaks As a great wall of lilac tints Stood on the blue sky proudly posing, And at a sunset put on clothing – Wrapped up themselves in sun-tinged sheet. And among them, through the clouds cutting It stood, high holding its proud head, The mighty king of the Caucasus, Kazbeck, Arrayed and turbaned in brocade! M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 57

V Но, полно думою преступной, Тамары сердце недоступно Восторгам чистым. Перед ней Весь мир одет угрюмой тенью; И всё ей в нём предлог мученью – И утра луч и мрак ночей. Бывало, только ночи сонной Прохлада землю обоймёт, Перед божественной иконой Она в безумье упадёт И плачет, и в ночном молчанье Её тяжёлое рыданье Тревожит путника вниманье; И мыслит он: «То горный дух Прикованный в пещере стонет!» И чуткий напрягая слух, Коня измученного гонит. VI Тоской и трепетом полна, Тамара часто у окна Сидит в раздумье одиноком И смотрит в даль прилежным оком, И целый день, вздыхая, ждёт… Ей кто-то шепчет: он придёт! Недаром сны её ласкали, Недаром он являлся ей, С глазами, полными печали, И чудной нежностью речей. Уж много дней она томится, Сама не зная почему; Святым захочет ли молиться – А сердце молится ему; Утомлена борьбой всегдашней, Склонится ли на ложе сна, Подушка жжёт, ей душно, страшно, И вся, вскочив, дрожит она; Пылают грудь её и плечи, Нет сил дышать, туман в очах, Объятья жадно ищут встречи, Лобзанья тают на устах…

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 58

V But filled with thoughts such sinful, amenable, The heart of Tamar is unapproachable To joy of life, to pure delight. The world looks dull and she is weary, And everything for her is dreary The beam of morn, the dark of night. At times, when coolly darkness quickly Would veil the tired and sleepy earth, Before the icon – madly weeping She would fall down and loose her strength. And then her cry – when the skies darkened, And she so inconsolably suffered The casual rider’s ear attracted; “The spirit of the mount is there Chained in the cave and groaning bitterly” He thought amazed, his straining ear And forced his horse to go more speedily. VI Her spirit was by sorrow hit, That forced her, lone and sad, to sit There at the window, deeply thinking, With eager eyes for someone seeking. She waits and sighs, her look is troubled, But some voice whispers – he will come. ‘T was not in vain, that dreams caressed her, And he sometimes appeared to her, With eyes, expressing some grief’s pressure, With speeches – wonderfully fair. For many days for him she’s pining, Without exactly knowing why, When she for saints to pray is striving, Her heart for him would start to fly. And with the daily struggle being burdened When she lies down to take a rest, The pillow burns her, she is frightened, She cries and stifles, and weeping trembles. Her head, her chest is burning, glowing, Mist in her eyes, she cannot breathe, Her arms are longing to embrace him, And kisses are melting on the lips.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 59

VII Вечерней мглы покров воздушный Уж холмы Грузии одел. Привычке сладостной послушный В обитель Демон прилетел. Но долго, долго он не смел Святыню мирную приюта Нарушить, и была минута, Когда казался он готов Оставить умысел жестокий. Задумчив у стены высокой Он бродит: от его шагов Без ветра лист в тени трепещет. Он поднял взор: её окно, Озарено лампадой, блещет; Кого-то ждёт она давно! И вот средь общего молчанья Чонгура стройное бряцанье И звуки песни раздались; И звуки те лились, лились, Как слёзы, мерно друг за другом; И эта песнь была нежна, Как будто для земли она Была на небе сложена! Не ангел ли с забытым другом Вновь повидаться захотел, Сюда украдкою слетел И о былом ему пропел, Чтоб усладить его мученье?... Тоску любви, её волненье Постигнул Демон в первый раз; Он хочет в страхе удалиться… Его крыло не шевелится!.. И, чудо! из померкших глаз Слеза тяжёлая катится… Поныне возле кельи той Насквозь прожжённый виден камень Слезою жаркою, как пламень, Нечеловеческой слезой!..

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 60

VII Dark aerial cover of the evening Has wrapped the hills of Georgia up. Obedient to his pleasing feeling, The Demon flew to her place up. But a long time he couldn’t make up To enter that abode, he lingered, Feared to desecrate that holy building. And one could think he was about To give up his wicked, cruel intention. Along the wall in thoughtful tension He’s roaming causing fear, around Without the wind the leaves are quivering. Toward her cell he turns his gaze: From its little window the light’s streaming She’s waiting for someone all day! And unexpectedly the music Of the chongur and sweet and soothing Sounds of the song were clearly heard; And spread that harmony and spread As scalding tears, out of eyes running; That tender song had such an air, As if, born in the sky, with care It to the earth was sent from there. Maybe the angels there were striving To meet the former friend of theirs, Down from the sky have flown in stealth, And sung about his by-gone faith, To alleviate the Demon’s tortures? A grief of love and its emotions Now seized him first in all his times; He wants to go away, he’s frightened, His wings aren’t moving, he is tightened… And oh, his darkened grown cold eyes With bitter heavy tears are burdened! Now by the place, where that cell was, One a huge and burnt through stone sees Done by a tear which burnt and seeped, By the tear of supernatural force!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 61

VIII И входит он, любить готовый, С душой, открытой для добра, И мыслит он, что жизни новой Пришла желанная пора. Неясный трепет ожиданья, Страх неизвестности немой, Как будто в первое свиданье Спознались с гордою душой. То было злое предвещанье! Он входит, смотрит – перед ним Посланник рая, херувим, Хранитель грешницы прекрасной, Стоит с блистающим челом И от врага с улыбкой ясной Приосенил её крылом; И луч божественного света Вдруг ослепил нечистый взор, И вместо сладкого привета Раздался тягостный укор: IX «Дух беспокойный, дух порочный, Кто звал тебя во тьме полночной? Твоих поклонников здесь нет. Зло не дышало здесь поныне; К моей любви, к моей святыне Не пролегай преступный след. Кто звал тебя?» Ему в ответ Злой дух коварно усмехнулся; Зарделся ревностию взгляд; И вновь в душе его проснулся Старинной ненависти яд. «Она моя! – сказал он грозно, Оставь её, - она моя! Явился ты, защитник, поздно, И ей, как мне, ты не судья. На сердце, полное гордыни, Я наложил печать мою; Здесь больше нет твоей святыни, Здесь я владею и люблю!» И Ангел грустными очами На жертву бедную взглянул, И медленно, взмахнув крылами, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 62

VIII He longs for love and so he enters, For good his soul is open wide, For a new life he is determined, The time has come, by him desired. He feels that trembling during waiting, And the uncertain fear and doubt Now suddenly here became acquainted With his proud nature, his proud soul. That omen seems to be not promising! He, entering sees in front of him The Cherub with his dazzling beam; Protecting her, the beautiful sinner He – proudly splendid – stands and shines, And with an aspect of the winner Defends her with his wings and smiles. Divine pure light was bright and blinding, It dazzled the unclean sinful eye, And Demon met, instead of greeting With humiliation of his pride: IX “You, vicious and rebellious spirit, Don’t wait here for goodwill or greeting, You will not meet here with your friends. Dark malice has not breathed here ever, She is my love, my sacred treasure, Don’t dare to lay here your wicked trace!” The Demon stared into his face, The crafty grin made his look evil, A jealousy turned his face red, And in the sinful soul of Devil The fire awoke of his old hate. “No, she is mine!” – he answered threatening, “Abandon, leave her, she is mine, Too late you are yourself presenting, You cannot judge, you can’t decide! Her heart, with arrogance fully burdened, Has been marked off by me so long, By me her soul’s been always haunted, It’s me, who loves her, who owns her!” And angel, with his sad eyes glancing At her, the miserable sacrifice, Spread his bright wings and with them flapping M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 63

В зфире неба потонул. ……………………………………………… X Тамара О, кто ты? речь твоя опасна! Тебя послал мне ад иль рай? Чего ты хочешь? Демон Ты прекрасна Тамара Но молви, кто ты? отвечай… Демон Я тот, которому внимала Ты в полуночной тишине, Чья мысль душе твоей шептала, Чью грусть ты смутно отгадала, Чей образ видела во сне. Я тот, чей взор надежду губит, Я тот, кого никто не любит, Я бич рабов моих земных; Я царь познанья и свободы, Я враг небес, я зло природы, И, видишь, - я у ног твоих! Тебе принёс я в умиленье Молитву тихую любви, Земное первое мученье И слёзы первые мои. О! выслушай - из сожаленья! Меня добру и небесам Ты возвратить могла бы словом, Твоей любви святым покровом Одетый, я предстал бы там Как новый ангел в блеске новом. О, только выслушай, молю, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 64

Flew high into the boundless sky! ………………………………………………….. X Tamar Your speech spells danger, doth seem harmful, By hell or heaven you’ve been sent? What do you need? Demon You are so beautiful! Tamar But who are you? You have not said. Demon I am the one, to whom you listened In midnight silence many times, Whose hidden thought to your soul whispered, And of whose grief you’ve guessed the secret; Whom you have seen in dreams sometimes. It’s me, who kills all hopes with hatred, Whom no one loves, who’s loathed, hated, He, who’s a whip for his poor slaves The king of the cognition and freedom, All nature’s harm and heaven’s venom, Who at your feet now kneeling stays! I wished to move your heart, affect it And this is my quiet prayer of love, I’ve brought to you my earthly suffering, And my first tear, such a bitter one. O, listen now from regret, do pity me – You could bring me back to the sky, With your one word, yes, one word only, And in your holy love embodied, I would appear there, veiled in light As a new angel in my glory. O, listen to me, to you I pray, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 65

Я раб твой, - я тебя люблю! Лишь только я тебя увидел – Я тайно вдруг возненавидел Бессмертие и власть мою. Я позавидовал невольно Неполной радости земной; Не жить как ты, мне стало больно, И страшно – розно жить с тобой. В бескровном сердце луч нежданный Опять затеплился живей, И грусть на дне старинной раны Зашевелилася, как змей. Что без тебя мне эта вечность? Моих владений бесконечность? Пустые звучные слова, Обширный храм – без божества! Тамара Оставь меня, о дух лукавый! Молчи, не верю я врагу… Творец…Увы! я не могу Молиться... гибельной отравой Мой ум слабеющий объят! Послушай, ты меня погубишь; Твои слова – огонь и яд… Скажи, зачем меня ты любишь! Демон Зачем, красавица? Увы, Не знаю… Полон жизни новой, С моей преступной головы Я гордо снял венец терновый, Я всё былое бросил в прах: Мой рай, мой ад в твоих очах. Люблю тебя нездешней страстью, Как полюбить не можешь ты: Всем упоением, всей властью Бессмертной мысли и мечты. В душе моей, с начала мира, Твой образ был запечатлён, Передо мной носился он M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 66

I love you and I am your slave! As soon as I saw you, it happened, That I conceived a secret hatred For my immortal life and fate. I just involuntarily envied Your poor imperfect earthly life; To live not so as you – so pained me, Not next to you – a dreadful fright! Your light induced my heart and senses To gleam quite vividly again, And in the old wound all the sadness Stirred as a snake, as the old pain. What is my dull and miserable loneliness? Or my possessions – vast and boundless? They all are just as empty words, The temple, in which the Deity’s lost. Tamar Leave me alone you, cunning spirit, Don’t speak - I can’t believe a foe… I cannot pray, it is my woe I feel my weackening brain is drinking Your fatal venom, I am tired. I see, your presence poisons, kills me, Your words consume me, as a fire! Tell me, explain, why do you love me? Demon You wonder why? Heaven only knows; Being filled with a new life and feelings I proudly took off crown of thorns From my felonious head, I threw it Away with my expired old life, My Eden, my hell is in your eyes! I love you with unearthly passion That not by usual power is fed, With all my heart and all emotion, With all my thoughts and all my strength! Your image, from the world’s beginning Was deeply in my soul impressed, My eyes at it have always gazed, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 67

В пустынях вечного эфира. Давно тревожа мысль мою, Мне имя сладкое звучало; Во дни блаженства мне в раю Одной тебя недоставало. О, если б ты могла понять, Какое горькое томленье Всю жизнь,- века без разделенья И наслаждаться и страдать, За зло похвал не ожидать, Ни за добро вознагражденья; Жить для себя, скучать собой И этой вечною борьбой Без торжества, без примиренья! Всегда жалеть и не желать, Всё знать, всё чувствовать, всё видеть Стараться всё возненавидеть И всё на свете презирать!.. Лишь только божие проклятье Исполнилось, с того же дня Природы жаркие объятья Навек остыли для меня; Синело предо мной пространство, Я видел брачное убранство Светил, знакомых мне давно… Они текли в венцах из злата; Но что же? прежнего собрата Не узнавало ни одно. Изгнанников, себе подобных, Я звать в отчаянии стал, Но слов и лиц и взоров злобных, Увы! я сам не узнавал. И в страхе я, взмахнув крылами, Помчался – но куда? зачем? Не знаю… прежними друзьями Я был отвергнут… как эдем, Мир для меня стал глух и нем. По вольной прихоти теченья Так повреждённая ладья Без парусов и без руля Плывёт, не зная назначенья; Так ранней утренней порой Отрывок тучи громовой, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 68

‘T’was with me through the ether speeding. Alarming me, my soul’s cold peace, Your name to me was sounding sweetly, And in the Paradise, its bliss Its absence made me sad, I missed it. If you but knew, oh, if you knew The bitterness of tiresome languish When you are not able to distinguish Enjoyment from your suffering mood, When you are not praised for doing good, And for doing harm you are not punished; To live for self, be sick of self And of the struggle, that kills your strength And makes you neither fail, nor flourish! How hard is it to feel regret, To watch your life – so bad, abominable, To feel despised by your contemptible Deeds and around you all to hate! As soon as Heaven did curse, condemn me And I was banished by God’s word, For me – the nature’s firstling, nursling Its hot embrace at once grew cold. The space showed blue in its expansion, I saw the splendid decoration Of lovely planets, glorious stars; They flowed with golden crowns in silence, But they refused our old alliance And me, their friend, to recognize. For those, who were as me evicted, I looked and desperately called, But could not see such miserable victims, Yes, did not see and did not know. I flapped my wings – confused and weary, And flew away not knowing why, I do not know – my old friends’ feelings Rejected me, like Paradise The world turned deaf to me, closed eyes. Submitting to the fast waves’ caprice, Sometimes a little and damaged boat Does on the water alone float Without the masts and wheel, just aimless. So in the sunshine of the morn, From the great terrible black cloud torn, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 69

В лазурной вышине чернея, Один, нигде пристать не смея, Летит без цели и следа, Бог весть, откуда и куда! И я людьми недолго правил, Греху недолго их учил, Всё благородное бесславил, И всё прекрасное хулил; Недолго… пламень чистой веры Легко навек я залил в них… А стоили ль трудов моих Одни глупцы и лицемеры? И скрылся я в ущельях гор; И стал бродить как метеор, Во мраке полночи глубокой… И мчался путник одинокой, Обманут близким огоньком, И в бездну падая с конём, Напрасно звал и след кровавый За ним вился по крутизне… Но злобы мрачные забавы Недолго нравилися мне! В борьбе с могучим ураганом Как часто, подымая прах, Одетый молньей и туманом, Я шумно мчался в облаках, Чтобы в толпе стихий мятежной Сердечный ропот заглушить, Спастись от думы неизбежной И незабвенное забыть! Что повесть тягостных лишений, Трудов и бед толпы людской. Грядущих, прошлых поколений, Перед минутою одной Моих непризнанных мучений? Что люди? что их жизнь и труд? Они прошли, они пройдут… Надежда есть – ждёт правый суд, Простить он может, хоть осудит! Моя ж печаль бессменна тут, И ей конца, как мне, не будет; И не вздремнуть в могиле ей! Она то ластится, как змей, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 70

A fragment - in the blue sky, darkened, Where to put in not knowing, frightened – Alone, without the aim does fly, God knows from where, to where and why. People have not been by me long governed, I taught them sin, but not for long, I used to trod down all good deeds and To blacken all kind events with fraud; Not long… a flame of trust and fairness By me in them was overflowed, But did diserve they my this job The hypocrites and awful blockheads? I hid myself in gorges of mounts And as a meteor, rumbled around In deep, in complete midnight silence… And when a horseman in the darkness, Deluded by a near-by light Fell unexpectedly from the height, In vain he cried for help, his bloody Tracks whirled behind him down the slope, But somber amusements, filled with hatred Though gave me pleasure, but not long! When fighting with a hurricane, often, High having raised the mist of dust, In clothes of mist and lightning woven, I noisily rushed in stormy clouds, So that at war with furious elements To lower, suppress my loud heart rate, To free myself from evil reflections, And unforgettable to forget! But are those losses, deprivations, Efforts, misfortunes of the throng, Bygone and future generations Worthy a minute, moment of My unacknowledged painful passions? What are the people – their life and work? They come, they live and then they go. They are in hopes - such fair and simple – Of quick just jury with its sentence, But my old grief here will be still, Like me, it’s lasting, it is endless. It never sleeps in the dark tomb, It like a serpent wriggles and moves, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 71

То жжёт и плещет, будто пламень, То давит мысль мою, как камень, Надежд погибших и страстей Несокрушимый мавзолей. Тамара Зачем мне знать твои печали, Зачем ты жалуешся мне? Ты согрешил… Демон Против тебя ли? Тамара Нас могут слышать!.. Демон Мы одне. Тамара А бог! Демон На нас не кинет взглада: Он занят небом, не землёй! Тамара А наказанье, муки ада? Демон Так что ж? Ты будешь там со мной!

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 72

And like a flame it burns and splashes, It causes all my feelings’ crushing, A mausoleum, that’s what it is Of my lost hopes and my vain dreams. Tamar Why should I know your grief and sorrow, All your complaints and all your tears? You’ve sinned... Demon Did that affect you somehow? Tamar We may be heard. Demon No one is here. Tamar But God! Demon He’ll not cast at us glances – It’s heaven that troubles him, not the earth. Tamar But tortures of the hell, which punishes? Demon Well, what of that? I’ll be your strength.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 73

Тамара Кто б ни был ��ы, мой друг случайный, Покой навеки погубя, Невольно я с отрадой тайной Страдалец, слушаю тебя. Но если речь твоя лукава, Но если ты, обман тая… О! пощади! Какая слава? На что душа тебе моя? Ужели небу я дороже Всех, не замеченных тобой? Они, увы! прекрасны тоже; Как здесь, их девственное ложе Не смято смертною рукой… Нет! Дай мне клятву роковую… Скажи, - ты видишь: я тоскую; Ты видишь женские мечты! Невольно страх в душе ласкаешь… Но ты всё понял, ты всё знаешь – И сжалишся, конечно, ты! Клянися мне… от злых стяжаний Отречься ныне дай обет. Ужель ни клятв, ни обещаний Ненарушимых больше нет? Демон Клянусь я первым днём творенья, Клянусь его последним днём, Клянусь позором преступленья И вечной правды торжеством. Клянусь паденья горькой мукой, Победы краткою мечтой; Клянусь свиданием с тобой И вновь грозящею разлукой. Клянуся сонмищем духов, Судьбою братий мне подвластных, Мечами ангелов бесстрастных – Моих недремлющих врагов; Клянуся небом я и адом, Земной святыней и тобой, Клянусь твоим последним взглядом, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 74

Tamar My casual friend, whoever you may be – Forever having lost my peace With lurking hopes and quite inconciously I’m listening to your words in tears. But if you lied about your story, And are continuing with your fraud… Have mercy! Do you need such glory? Why do you need my soul, what for? Is’t true? Am I for heaven more valuable Than all those ones, you’ve disregard’d? They are so perfect too, so beautiful, Their beds - as my one, virgin, peaceful By mortal hand was never crumpled. No! Take the fatal oath, be faithful, Say, don’t you see? I’m sad, I’m mournful, You know of course the women’s dream! You fondle my fear, uneasy feelings, But I’m so weak and I am wavering, And I am sure – you’ll pity me. Do swear to me – all harm and wickedness Forever to abandon, to leave! Or aren’t there really sincere promises And oaths, in which one can believe? Demon Swear by the first day of the Creation, I swear by its conclusive day, Swear by the shame of criminal action, By truth, by its interminable fame. Swear by the pang of degradation And by the victory’s short term dream, By the delight at seeing thee, By the impending separation. Swear by the assembly of ghosts, By all my truthful sure fraternities, And by my ruthless watchful enemies – Impassive angels with their swords. Swear by the hell and by the Heaven, By earthly holiness and you, By your last glance, as sad as evening, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 75

Твоею первою слезой, Незлобных уст твоим дыханьем, Волною шёлковых кудрей, Клянусь блаженством и страданьем, Клянусь любовию моей; Я отрекся от старой мести, Я отрекся от гордых дум; Отныне яд коварной лести Ничей уж не встревожит ум; Хочу я с небом примирится, Хочу любить, хочу молиться, Хочу я веровать добру. Слезой раскаянья сотру Я на челе тебя достойном, Следы небесного огня – И мир в неведенье спокойном Пусть доцветает без меня! О, верь мне, я один поныне Тебя постиг и оценил: Избрав тебя моей святыней, Я власть у ног твоих сложил. Твоей любви я жду как дара, И вечность дам тебе за миг; В любви, как в злобе, верь, Тамара, Я неизменен и велик. Тебя я, вольный сын эфира, Возьму в надзвездные края; И будешь ты царицей мира, Подруга первая моя; Без сожаленья, без участья Смотреть на землю станешь ты, Где нет ни истинного счастья, Ни долговечной красоты. Где преступленья лишь да казни, Где страсти мелкой только жить, Где не умеют без боязни Ни ненавидеть, ни любить! Иль ты не знаешь, что такое Людей минутная любовь? Волненье крови молодое, Но дни бегут и стынет кровь! Кто устоит против разлуки, Соблазна новой красоты, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 76

By your first tear – as pure as a dew. Swear by your lips, so gently breathing, And by your silky wavy curls, I swear by suffering and by blessing, Swear by my passion and my love. I’ve given up all my rage and hatred, I have renounced my arrogant thoughts, Henceforth the venom of the flattery Won’t be a source of trouble and fraud. I’d like to reconcile with Providence, To pray and lead the pure existence, I want to love, to trust in good, I want to cleanse my soul and mood. With my repentant tears I’ll wipe off From my forehead the heavenly flame And may the world – not knowing sorrow Whither without me, fade away. Believe me, it is me - one only, Who has appraised you and perceived – And having chosen you for my holiness, I laid my power at your feet. For your love as for gift I’m dreaming; You’ll get eternity instead, Tamar, in love and rage – believe me – I am invariable, I am great. A free son of the boundless ether, I’ll take you to the distant stars, Then in all space you’ll reign forever And so our endless love will last. Without regret, without compassion You’ll look down at the miserable earth, Where neither true love, nor deep passion, Nor grace, nor real charms are of worth; There reign the crime and executions, There petty passions do succeed, In check are kept the sound emotions You have to bridle them and to stint. Or you don’t know, of what kind is it The love of people – the short-term love? The roughness of the blood and spirit, But days run fast and blood cools down. Who can resist, withstand the parting, Temptation with new charm, it’s gleam? M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 77

Кто устоит против разлуки, Соблазна новой красоты, Против усталости и скуки И своенравия мечты? Нет! Не тебе, моей подруге, Узнай, назначено судьбой Увянуть молча в тесном круге Ревнивой грубости рабой, Средь малодушных и холодных, Друзей притворных и врагов, Боязней и надежд бесплодных, Пустых и тягостных трудов! Печально за стеной высокой Ты не угаснешь без страстей, Среди молитв, равно далеко От божества и от людей. О нет, прекрасное созданье, К иному ты присуждена; Тебя иное ждёт страданье, Иных восторгов глубина; Оставь же прежние желанья И жалкий свет его судьбе: Пучину гордого познанья Взамен открою я тебе. Толпу духов моих служебных Я приведу к твоим стопам; Прислужниц лёгких и воздушных Тебе, красавица, я дам; И для тебя с звезды восточной Сорву венец я золотой; Возьму с цветов росы полночной, Его усыплю той росой; Лучом румяного заката Твой стан, как лентой, обовью, Дыханьем чистым аромата Окрестный воздух напою; Всечасно дивною игрою Твой слух лелеять буду я; Чертоги пышные построю Из бирюзы и янтаря; Я опущусь на дно морское, Я полечу за облака, Я дам тебе всё, всё земное, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 78

Who can resist that tiresome, fatiguing Boredom and fickleness of the dream? No, not for you – my friend, my princess, Know, by a destiny is set To be a slave of the jealous coarseness, To fade away in an intimate circle Among indifference and in cowardice, Among pretended friends and foes, All fears and hopes, which are quite useless, And duties, all so onerous! To whither here – alone in sadness, Not knowing passions – you will not! In prayers, but at the same long distance As from the people, as from your God! In no way, never! Lovely creature, For other matters you are intend’d – For sufferings of another nature, To feelings of another depth! So leave, abandon previous wishes, Leave this society – wretched and wicked, An abyss of the proud cognition You will perceive instead of it. I will deliver my servant spirits To you – they will be at your feet, And also light maidservants, willing To serve your wishes, serve your needs. For you - from the eastern star with aureoles – I will tear off a golden crown, I’ll take the midnight dew from flowers And splash with it that sparkling one. With a pleasant rosy gleam of sunset I will entwine your slender waist, And with a breathing, light and fragrant, I’ll fill around you all the space. Your hearing will be pleased with constant And splendid tunes, sung in sweet voice, You’ll have miraculous and resplendent Chambers of fine amber and turquoise. I’ll reach the bottom of the sea and Ascend the boundless light sky-blue, You’ll get all from my earthly kingdom, Love me…

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 79

Люби меня!.. XI И он слегка Коснулся жаркими устами Её трепещущим губам; Соблазна полными речами Он отвечал её мольбам. Могучий взор смотрел ей в очи! Он жёг её. Во мраке ночи Над нею прямо он сверкал, Неотразтмый, как кинжал. Увы! злой дух торжествовал! Смертельный яд его лобзанья Мгновенно в грудь её проник. Мучительный, ужасный крик Ночное возмутил молчанье. В нём было всё: любовь, страданье, Упрёк с последнею мольбой И безнадёжное прощанье – Прощанье с жизнью молодой. XII В то время сторож полуночный Один вокруг стены крутой Свершая тихо путь урочный, Бродил с чугунною доской. И возле кельи девы юной Он шаг свой мерный укротил И руку над доской чугунной, Смутясь душой, остановил. И сквозь окрестное молчанье, Ему казалось, слышал он Двух уст согласное лобзанье, Минутный крик и слабый стон. И нечестивое сомненье Проникло в сердце старика… Но пронеслось ешё мгновенье, И стихло всё; издалека Лишь дуновенье ветерка Роптанье листьев приносило, Да с тёмным берегом уныло Шепталась горная река. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 80

XI And he with a gentle move Touched with his lips, expressing ardor, Shocked Tamar’s trembling innocent lips, And the poor maid’s entreaties were answered By his seductive, tempting speeches. His powerful gaze her eyes was piercing, It sparkled on her and was irresistible, It shone o’er her - ‘twas hot and bright And merciless was it, as a knife. That was the wicked spirit’s triumph! The deadly venom of his kissing Did penetrate into her breast Disturbing the surrounding rest By poignant scream, that was heartpiercing. There were both love and suffering in it, Entreaties with reproach combined, And also a hopeless leave-taking, A farewell to her youthful life! XII A watchman, in that dark night guarding, Fulfilled his usual nightlong work; Paced slowly through the dark surrounding With his rattle and cast iron board. But by a cell of the young virgin The man slowed down his measured steps, And dropped his hand just raised for beating Confused in mind he caught his breath. It seemed to him in the night darkness, That from a gloomy cell he heard A sound of kiss, that broke a silence, Then a faint moan and a short yell. And an alarming wicked doubt entered At once the old man’s shacken soul, But swiftly then evaporated – Still there around him was no sound. Only a breeze blew down the mount And brought with him a leaves’ faint rustling, A river also, born in mountains, Talked to the bank, down in the mouth. The holy server’s sacred canon Came to his mind and he did pray, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 81

Канон угодника святого Спешит он в страхе прочитать, Чтоб наважденье духа злого От грешной мысли отогнать; Крестит дрожащими перстами Мечтой взволнованную грудь И молча скорыми шагами Обычный продолжает путь. XIII Как пери спящая мила Она в гробу своём лежала, Белей и чище покрывала Был томный цвет её чела. Навек опущены ресницы… Но кто б, о небо! Не сказал, Что взор под ними лишь дремал И, чудный, только ожидал Иль поцелуя, иль денницы? Но бесполезно луч дневной Скользил по ним струёй златой, Напрасно их в немой печали Уста родные целовали… Нет! смерти вечную печать Ничто не в силах уж сорвать! XIV Ни разу не был в дни веселья Так разноцветен и богат Тамары праздничный наряд. Цветы родимого ущелья (Так древний требует обряд) Над нею льют свой аромат И, сжаты мёртвою рукою, Как бы прощаются с землёю! И ничего в её лице Не намекало о конце В пылу страстей и упоенья; И были все её черты Исполнены той красоты, Как мрамор, чуждой выраженья, Лишённой чувства и ума, Таинственной, как смерть сама. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 82

In order with a devil obsession To do away without delay. He crosses with his trembling fingers His agitated breast and prays, Then tacitly, after having lingered, He goes on with his usual way. XIII She like a fairy, nice and kind Lay in her coffin, as if sleeping; Her brow was languid, features - pretty, She, as a sheet, was pale and white. Eyelashes lowered were forever, But who wouldn’t say, heaven, wouldn’t think That they did hide her look’s soft gleam, Who would not say she did not dream Of ardent kisses of the lover? But no! The beam in vain did glide Upon her face, on her closed eyes, In vain they were caressed and kissed By her own people in deep mute grief... No! The eternal stamp of death Can’t be torn off, there isn’t such strength! XIV A holiday attire of Tamar Wasn’t ever in her past good days So multi-colored and so gay. Her native ravine’s bunch of flowers (As it’s by a belief approved) Pour over her their gentle perfume. They were in Tamar’s dead hand squeezed, Of the earthly life so taking leave, And nothing in her hinted at Her sudden unexpected deathThe end, related to the passion; The stiffened features of her face Of such a beauty showed the trace, That, as the marble, has no expression And is devoid of mind and sense, As the mysterious death itself. There was a smile – the strange one, fleeting That frozen was on her beautiful lips, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 83

Канон угодника святого Улыбка странная застыла, Мелькнувши по её устам, О многом грустном говорила Она внимательным глазам: В ней было хладное презренье Души, готовой отцвести, Последней мысли выраженье, Земле беззвучное прости. Напрасный отблеск жизни прежней, Она была ещё мертвей, Ещё для сердца безнадежней Навек угаснувших очей. Так в час торжественный заката, Когда, растаяв в море злата, Уж скрылась колесница дня, Снега Кавказа, на мгновенье Отлив румяный сохраня, Сияют в тёмном отдаленье. Но этот луч полуживой В пустыне отблеска не встретит, И путь ничей он не осветит С своей вершины ледяной!.. XV Толпой соседи и родные Уж собрались в последний путь. Терзая локоны седые, Безмолвно поражая грудь, В последний раз Гудал садится На белогривого коня, И поезд тронулся. Три дня, Три ночи путь их будет длиться: Меж старых дедовских костей Приют покойный вырыт ей. Один из праотцев Гудала, Грабитель странников и сёл, Когда болезнь его сковала И час раскаянья пришёл, Грехов минувших в искупленье Построить церковь обещал На вышине гранитных скал, Где только вьюги слышно пенье, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 84

It stirred a lot of sorrowful feelings In those, who cast at her their glimpse. Cold scorn was printed in it clearly Of her so early faded soul, Expression of the last hard thinking, A mute farewell to all around. The vain reflection of her old days, It was more deathlike, that strange smile, For loving hearts it was more hopeless, Than her forever went out eyes. So, at the solemn hour of sunset, When in the sparkling gold sea melted, Is hidden the chariot of the day, Snows of the Caucasus, for an instant, Retaining rosy colors’ play, Glow faintly in the darkening distance. But that weak beam, so faint, half-dead, Won’t meet reflection in the desert, And no one’s way will be illumined From its majestic icy head! XV A weeping crowd – kinsfolk and neighbors, Have gathered. Now it’s time to leave, His gray hair tearing, Tamar’s father His breast is striking in mute grief. For one last time Gudal is mounting His fine and faithful white-maned steed, They’re faced with a long ride, these people, Three days and nights their trip’ll be lasting. Among her great-grandfathers bones They’ve dug for her a comfortable home; One of the Gudal’s ancient forbears The robber of the people and farms When he got bedridden by an illness, And time of his repentence come, In order to redeem his misdeeds, Did promise there a church to build Aloft of the granitic cliff, Where only singing’s heard of storm-winds, Where only a black kite flew in. And in the Kazbeck’s snow-drifts shortly A solitary pretty temple was raised, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 85

Куда лишь коршун залетал. И скоро меж снегов Казбека Поднялся одинокий храм, И кости злого человека Вновь успокоилися там; И превратилася в кладбище Скала, родная облакам: Как будто ближе к небесам Теплей посмертное жилище?.. Как будто дальше от людей Последний сон не возмутится… Напрасно! Мёртвым не приснится Ни грусть, ни радость прежних дней. XVI В пространстве синего эфира Один из ангелов святых Летел на крыльях золотых, И душу грешную от мира Он нёс в объятиях своих. И сладкой речью упованья Её сомненья разгонял, И след проступка и страданья С неё слезами он смывал. Издалека уж звуки рая К ним доносилися – как вдруг, Свободный путь пересекая, Взвился из бездны адский дух. Он был могущ, как вихорь шумный, Блистал, как молнии струя, И гордо в дерзости безумной Он говорит: «Она моя!» К груди хранительной прижалась, Молитвой ужас заглуша, Тамары грешная душа – Судьба грядущего решалась, Пред нею снова он стоял, Но, боже! – кто б его узнал? Каким смотрел он злобным взглядом, Как полон был смертельным ядом Вражды, не знающей конца, И веяло могильным хладом От неподвижного лица. M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 86

And the wicked man’s bones found there lastly A shelter and eternal rest. ‘Twas into cemetery converted To mist and cloud related cliff, In closeness to the skies – as if There’s warmer the posthumous dwelling… As if far off from those alive, The final sleep is cool and safer… In vain! The dead will not dream ever Of grief and joy in their past lives. XVI Through dark-blue space of boundless ether One of the holy angels did Glide on his golden precious wings, One sinful soul, freed from world matters, Was resting in his arms in peace. And with his sweet and hopeful speeches He did dispell her fears and doubts, And washed the trace of all past misdeeds From that poore soul with his tears down. The tunes from Eden, sounding clearly, Were heard so sweet for ear. Just then, Their way o’er crossing – the wicked spirit Out of the hell soared up to them. He was as noisy, as a whirlwind And sparkled like lightning’s powerful light, And full of arrogant pride, he greedily Declared with passion - “She is mine!” Poor Tamar’s sinful soul pressed tightly To her defender’s guarding breast – Trying fear with her pray to suppress. Her future fate still wasn’t decided – Again in front of her he stood, But who could know him? God, who could! He was so full of anger, malice, Dark murderous venom filled his glances, He was wrapped up in wrath’s hot blaze, And there the terrible icy coldness Was blowing from his motionless face! The messenger of Heaven then answered:

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 87

«Исчезни, мрачный дух сомненья! – Посланник неба отвечал: Довольно ты торжествовал; Но час суда теперь настал – И благо божие решенье! Дни испытания прошли; С одеждой бренною земли Оковы зла с неё ниспали. Узнай! давно её мы ждали! Её душа была из тех, Которых жизнь – одно мгновенье Невыносимого мученья, Недосягаемых утех: Творец из лучшего эфира Соткал живые струны их, Они не созданы для мира, И мир был создан не для них! Ценой жестокой искупила Она сомнения свои… Она страдала и любила – И рай открылся для любви!» И ангел строгими очами На искусителя взглянул И, радостно взмахнув крылами, В сиянье неба потонул. И проклял Демон побеждённый Мечты безумные свои, И вновь остался он, надменный, Один, как прежде, во вселенной, Без упованья и любви!.. На склоне каменной горы, Над Койшаурскою долиной Ещё стоят до сей поры Зубцы развалины старинной. Рассказов, страшных для детей, О них ещё преданья полны… Как призрак, памятник безмолвный, Свидетель тех волшебных дней, Между деревьями чернеет. Внизу рассыпался аул, Земля цветёт и зеленеет; M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 88

“Be off, dark spirit of the doubt! Now disappear – enough you triumphed! But justice has its right way found And it is blessed, how God’s decided: The days of trouble are in the past, With earthly clothes and perishable dust She loosened herself from evil bad chains, and For a long time we’d for her awaited! Her soul was one of those, whose life Is just an instant, just a moment Of suffering and intolerable torment, Of unattainable, high delights: God from the nicest ether created Their lively strings, they sing fine songs, They are not for this world intended, Nor is this world their veritable home. She had atoned too hardly, cruelly For all her mistakes, for her doubts, Her life of suffering love was mystery, And Eden’s waiting for her now!” And, glaring at the tempter strictly With his sharp penetrating eye, He flapped his wings and speeded swiftly Into the blue and boundless sky. And the defeated Demon cursed his All crazy fancies and mad thoughts, And still remained, filled with his haughtiness, Alone as earlier in the universe, Deprived of love, deprived of hopes. There on the slope of the stone mount, Above the lovely Koyshour valley, The remnants of the castle, once stout, Till now are seen, till now are standing. And in the children’s frightening tales About them told – rich are the legends… This monument, as a mute witness, The silent phantom of past days Shows black and sad amongst the trees. A village there below is spread Among the flowers and green leaves. A humming noise from there is heard, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 89

И голосов нестройных гул Теряется, и караваны Идут, звеня, издалека, И, низвергаясь сквозь туманы, Блестит и пенится река. И жизнью, вечно молодою, Прохладой, солнцем и весною Природа тешится шутя, Как беззаботное дитя. Но грустен замок, отслуживший Года во очередь свою, Как бедный старец, переживший Друзей и милую семью. И только ждут луны восхода Его незримые жильцы: Тогда им праздник и свобода! Жужжат, бегут во все концы. Седой паук, отшельник новый, Прядёт сетей своих основы; Зелёных ящериц семья На кровле весело играет; И осторожная змея Из темной щели выползает На плиту старого крыльца; То вдруг совьется в три кольца, То ляжет длинной полосою И блещет как булатный меч, Забытый в поле давних сечь, Ненужный падшему герою! Всё дико; нет нигде следов Минувших лет: рука веков Прилежно, долго их сметала, И не напомнит ничего О славном имени Гудала, О милой дочери его! Но церковь на крутой вершине, Где взяты кости их землёй, Хранима властию святой, Видна меж туч ещё поныне. И у ворот её стоят На страже чёрные граниты, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 90

It vanishes then. The caravans clanking From distant countries come and come, A river through the fog’s down dashing Then glittering gaily in the sun. And with a life, that is young always, With spring, with sunlight and with coolness, All nature glitters, always bright, Just as a happy carefree child. But having served its time, now sadly The wistful castle stands there and stares, Like an old man – like a poor elder, Outliving all of his relatives, friends. The lodgers of that castle are waiting For a moonrise, the close of day; Then they are free, then they are happy, And hum and run, being carefree, gay. A gray old spider, the new hermit, Fast weaves some bedding for its netting. Here on the roof green creatures play So merry ones – a group of lizards, And there a cautious, wary snake Crawles out of the dark and narrow fissure Onto the old porch’s mossy slab: Now suddenly rolls itself thrice up, Now lies down like a stripe, long-narrow, And glitters like a Damask sword That’s been in by-gone years battles lost – And useless now for a fallen hero!.. All’s wild around; there is no trace Of the past years – they’re cleansed away The hand of ages was so zealous, And nothing will remind again Of Gudal’s name, once loud and famous, And of his lovely daughter’s name! The church on the steep mountain summit Where bones of theirs were taken by earth, From heaven’s been kept by holy strength, And there amidst the clouds you see it. And next to it, there at its gates, As if on watch – the cliffs of granite Stand. Snowy cloaks, like armor rigid, M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 91

Плащами снежными покрыты; И на груди их вместо лат Льды вековечные горят. Обвалов сонные громады С уступов, будто водопады, Морозом схваченные вдруг, Висят, нахмурившись, вокруг. И там метель дозором ходит, Сметая пыль со стен седых, То песню долгую заводит, То окликает часовых; Услыша вести в отдаленье О чудном храме, в той стране, С востока облака одне Спешат толпой на поклоненье; Но над семьёй могильных плит Давно никто уж не грустит, Скала угрюмого Казбека Добычу жадно сторжит, И вечный ропот человека Их вечный сон не возмутит.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 92

Defend them and on their strong breast The aged ice-blocks glaring rest… The drowsy bulks of the huge snow-slips, Like streams fallen off the mighty high cliffs, Gripped momentarily by cruel cold, Hang frowning there round them, frost-bound. There all around the snow-storm’s watching And sweeps the dust from that church’s walls, Now sings the songs with tunes’ prolonging, Now to the sentinels loudly calls. The news was heard in distant countries About this temple amidst the rocks, And clouds from far away in flocks For worship to this place do hurry. But over those ancient family stones Now no one either cries or mourns; The rock of Kazbeck, looking gloomily, Contains its pray and eagerly guards, And by continuous human murmuring Their perfect peace won’t be disturbed.

M.Y. Lermontov, Translated by Teimuraz Chanturishvili: Demon, the Oriental Tale | 93

Petra Gabriele Dannehl • • • •

a a a a

mench painter poet graphic philosopher

"Sheep Passing/Schafe ziehen vorbei" Öl auf Leinwand | 120 x 160 cm

Petra Gabriele Dannehl | 94

Name No Name White Black Out Back In Grey

Durch den Wald III テ僕 auf Leinwand | 70 x 70 cm

"Directions" テ僕 auf Holz | 30 x 30 cm

"Move on IV" テ僕 auf Holz | 40 x 40 cm

"Incontro" テ僕mischtechnik auf Leinwand | 100 x 90 cm

"Zwテカlf" テ僕mischtechnik auf Leinwand | 100 x 90 cm

One Sunday morning It was cloudy And I walked away I walked away One Sunday morning And it was cloudy It was cloudy And I walked away One Sunday morning

Petra Gabriele Dannehl | 100

"View-Point Mountain" テ僕 auf Leinwand | 100 x 80 cm

"Land in Sicht" テ僕 auf Leinwand | 100 x 120 cm

"Neuland" テ僕 auf Leinwand | 150 x 170 cm

Epilogue In a transatlantic phone interview with Petra Gabriele Dannehl: SofusKirkebakke concluded that Dannehl was simply too good and precise to write about. Her work is her writing; her writing is her thoughts; her thought is her philosophy; her philosophy is her language; and her language is form, and hue, and line. She is a master of now you see-now you feel – now you don’t – but you do – now you see. She throws kisses to Beckett, Buber, Bacon and a wink to unknown greats. To write about her brilliance is to miss being illuminated by it. - Laurits Haaning December 2011

It crossed my mind While I was thinking it Over I crossed While I was Thinking My mind was Wandering And while I was walking I happened to have an uncertain feeling As if I was searching for something Searching for something Uncertain I followed a feeling I walked and While I was searching I felt something Uncertain

for more about Petra Gabriele Dannehl, visit her website:

Petra Gabriele Dannehl | 104

the contributors

M. Lermontov - Teimaruz Chanturishvili, translator M. Lermontov, the Great Russian poet, was born on October 12, 1814. He was killed in a duel in the Caucasus in1841, where he served as a military officer. His Caucasian experiences served as a basis for many of his works. One of the best of these is his poem “Demon”, the brilliant poetic work and the philosophical comprehension of evil, incompatible with good. According to one theory Lermontov’s paternal family was believed to have descended from the Scottish Learmonths. The legendary Scottish poet Thomas the Rhymer is claimed to be a relative of M. Lermontov. This work is printed after “New English Translation of M. Lermontov’s “Demon” – in “Gruzinskaya Rusistika”, Izdat. “Universal” 2006 Tbilisi, ISBN 999-40-61-12-7, pp 328-367 (in Rus.)

Tom Rowley-Conwy is a third year Creative Writing Student at John Moores University, Liverpool. He describes himself as "...a young, driven and energetic individual with a passion for writing quite satirical themed poetry and often give a voice to those who would otherwise not be heard. I get my inspiration from many places such as day-to-day situations, the news and the incredible array of culture available to me in Liverpool. I like to keep my writing contemporary by constantly reading and attending local poetry nights and this pushes my creativity even further."

Madeleine Swann has had several articles published by various magazines including Bizarre, ranging in subject from church restorations to toe wrestling championships. She writes and performs as part of comedy group Braintree Ways, is published in ‘The Big Book of Bizarro’ anthology and is currently co-writing a novel for Burning Bulb Publishing House. The author lives in Essex.

Gretchen Meixner has been writing poetry for many years. She has four poems being published in the Winter 2011 issue of Atlantic Pacific Press and one in the winter 2012 edition of The Stray Branch Review. Gretchen graduated from Emmanuel College in 2007 with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature and have been pursuing various writing projects ever since. Gretchen lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

Kate Zaliznock Bio: Kate Zaliznock is Kate Zaliznock. Mark Goad is currently living and working in the Boston area. Recent publications include Assisi, BAP, Bird’s Eye Review. "My work is reflective, vivid and typically, concise. What can be said in one hundred words I’d prefer to say in ten. I am struck – as are, I think, most poets – by the mystery of the moment, the perception thereof, its possibilities, the memories raised and the emotions evoked. Favorite poets include Milosz, Franz Wright, Levertov, Kenyon." Edward Harsen works in New England and the Mid Atlantic, where he manages commercial properties.

Edward spent fifteen years in the printing trade, during which time he worked for Street Magazine and Street Press. He moved to Portland OR in 1991, and began work in Facilities and Property Management. Since 2001, he has been researching business relationship methods, supply chain management and absolute competitiveness. Edward’s poetry has been published by Long Island Press, Oak City, Wood Coin and Street Press. He has also written several white papers on contract management. He lives in Valatie, NY, with his wife Jeanine and two children, Johnathan and Sebastian.

Jeremy Mayer works and lives in his East Bay studio, Oakland, California.

He still gripes occasionally about the gallery representation business model in practice by many galleries and being associated with the SP movement. His work has been collected by private collectors worldwide. He will gladly accept any typewriter that can be disassembled and reassembled into art for the purpose of honoring the engineering and design of the era.

Petra Gabriele Dannehl: Geboren in Leipzig, aufgewachsen in Hamburg und Davos. Studium der Gebrauchsgrafi kund Malerei in Hamburg an der Kunstschule Alsterdamm und an der Hochschule für bildende Künste. Seit 1986 als frei schaffende Künstlerin tätig. Private Studienaufenthalte in Skandinavien, Frankreich, USA, Italien. Mitglied im Berufsverband bildender Künstler Hamburg e.V. und der GEDOK Hamburg. Lebt und arbeitet in Hamburg und im Tessin.

in this issue: edward harsen, jeremy mayer, madeleine swann, gretchen meixner, petra gabriele dannehl

' - a literary journal' | volume 2 fall 2011