[Lika_k]

W. H. Auden
A Voyage
I. Whither?
Where does this journey look which the watcher
upon the quay,
Standing under his evil star, so bitterly envies,
As the mountains swim away with slow calm strokes
And the gulls abandon their vow? Does it promise a
juster life?
Alone with his heart at last, does the fortunate
traveler find
In the vague touch of a breeze, the fickle flash of a wave,
Proofs that somewhere exists, really, the Good Place,
Convincing as those that children find in stones and
holes?

No, he discovers nothing: he does not want to arrive.
His journey is false, his unreal excitement really an illness
On a false island where the heart cannot act and
will not suffer:
He condones his fever; he is weaker than he thought;
his weakness is real.

But at moments, as when real dolphins with leap and panache
Cajole for recognition or, far away, a real island
Gets up to catch his eye, his trance is broken: he
remembers
Times and places where he was well; he believes in joy,
That, maybe, his fever shall find a cure, the true journey an end
Where hearts meet and are really true, and crossed
this ocean, that parts
Hearts which alter but is the same always, that goes
Everywhere, as truth and falsehood go, but cannot suffer.

II. The Ship
All streets are brightly lit; our city is kept clean;
Her Third-Class deal from greasy packs, her First bid high;
Her beggars banished to the bows have never seen
What can be done in state-rooms: no one asks why.
Lovers are writing letters, athletes playing ball,
One doubts the virtue, one the beauty of his wife,
A boy's ambitious: perhaps the Captain hates us all;
Someone perhaps is leading a civilised life.

Slowly our Western culture in full pomp progresses
Over the barren plains of a sea; somewhere ahead
A septic East, odd fowl and flowers, odder dresses:
Somewhere a strange and shrewd To-morrow goes to bed,
Planning a test for men from Europe; no one guesses
Who will be most ashamed, who richer, and who dead.

III. The Sphinx
Did it once issue from the carver's hand
Healthy? Even the earliest conqueror saw
The face of a sick ape, a bandaged paw,
An ailing lion crouched on dirty sand.

We gape, then go uneasily away:
It does not like the young nor love nor learning.
Time hurt it like a person: it lies turning
A vast behind on shrill America,
And witnesses. The huge hurt face accuses
And pardons nothing, least of all success:
What counsel it might offer it refuses
To those who face akimbo its distress.

"Do people like me?" No. The slave amuses
The lion. "AM I to suffer always?" Yes.

IV. Hong Kong
Its leading characters are wise and witty,
Their suits well-tailored, and they wear them well,
Have many a polished parable to tell
About the mores of a trading city.

Only the servants enter unexpected,
Their silent movements make dramatic news;
Here in the East our bankers have erected
A worthy temple to the Comic Muse.
Ten thousand miles from home and What's-Her-Name
A bugle on this Late Victorian hill
Puts out the soldier's light; off-stage, a war

Thuds like the slamming of a distant door:
Each has his comic role in life to fill,
Though Life be neither comic nor a game.

V. Macao
A weed from Catholic Europe, it took root
Between some yellow mountains and a sea,
Its gay stone houses an exotic fruit,
A Portugal-cum-China oddity.

Rococo images of Saint and Saviour
Promise its gamblers fortunes when they die,
Churches alongside brothels testify
That faith can pardon natural behavior.

A town of such indulgence need not fear
Those mortal sins by which the strong are killed
And limbs and governments are torn to pieces:
Religious clocks will strike, the childish vices
Will safeguard the low virtues of the child,
And nothing serious can happen here.

VI. A Major Port
No guidance can be found in ancient lore:
Banks jostle in the sun for domination,
Behind them stretch like sorry vegetation
The low recessive houses of the poor.

We have no destiny assigned us,
No data but our bodies: we plan
To better ourselves; bleak hospitals alone remind us
of the equality of man.
Children are really loved here, even by police:
They speak of years before the big were lonely.
Here will be no recurrence.
Only
The brass-bands throbbing in the parks foretell
Some future reign of happiness and piece.
We learn to pity and rebel.
from "Journey to a War" by W.H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood, 1939

У. Х. Оден
Куда?
Что путешествие скажет тому, кто стоит у борта
под несчастливой звездой и глядит
на залив, где горы,
плавно качаясь на волнах,
уходят все дальше, дальше
в море, где даже чайки не держат слова?

Нынче, оставшись один на один
с собою, странник
в этих касаниях ветра, во всплесках моря
ищет приметы того, что отыщется
наконец то место,
где хорошо. Вспоминает из детства
пещеры, овраги, камни.

Но ничего не находит, не открывает.
Возвращаться не с чем.
Путешествие в мертвую точку
было смертельной ошибкой.
Здесь, на мертвом острове, ждал,
что боль в сердце утихнет.
Подхватил лихорадку. Оказался слабее,
чем раньше думал.

Но временами, наблюдая, как в море
мелькают дельфины,
в прятки играя, или растет
на горизонте незнакомый остров
точкой опоры зрачку, он с надеждой верит
в те времена и места, где был счастлив.
В то, что

боль и тревога проходят и ведут дороги
на перекресток сердец, рассекая море, ибо
сердце изменчиво, но остается
в конечном счете
прежним повсюду. Как правда и ложь,
что друг с другом схожи.

пер. Гл. Шульпяков

@темы: a, 20, auden, w.h., english: anglo-american, о (rus)