Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ,

His wife he cabin’d with him and his boy,

And seem’d that life laborious to enjoy:

To town came quiet Peter with his fish,

And had of all a civil word and wish.

He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day,

And took young Peter in his hand to pray:

But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,

At first refused, then added his abuse:

His father’s love he scorn’d, his power defied,

But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.

Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came

Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, —

How he had oft the good old man reviled,

And never paid the duty of a child;

How, when the father in his Bible read,

He in contempt and anger left the shed:

“It is the word of life”, the parent cried;

– “This is the life itself”, the boy replied.

And while old Peter in amazement stood,

Gave the hot spirits to his boiling blood: —

How he, with oath and furious speech, began

To prove his freedom and assert the man;

And when the parent check’d his impious rage,

How he had cursed the tyranny of age, —

Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow

On his bare head, and laid his parent low;

The father groan’d — “If thou art old”, said he,

“And hast a son — thou wilt remember me:

Thy mother left me in a happy time,

Thou kill’dst not her — heav’n spares the double crime”.

On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief,

This he resolved, and drank for his relief.

Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr’d

From constant pleasures, and he thought it hard;

Hard that he could not every wish obey,

But must awhile relinquish ale and play;

Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,

But must acquire the money he would spend.

With greedy eye he look’d on all he saw,

He knew not justice, and he laugh’d at law;

On all he mark’d, he stretch’d his ready hand;

He fish’d by water and he filch’d by land:

Oft in the night has Peter dropp’d his oar,

Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on shore;

Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back

Bearing the orchard’s produce in a sack,

Or farm-yard load, tugg’d fiercely from the stack;

And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,

The more he look’d on all men as his foes.

He built a mud-wall’d hovel, where he kept

His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept;

But no success could please his cruel soul,

He wish’d for one to trouble and control;

He wanted some obedient boy to stand

And bear the blow of his outrageous hand;

And hoped to find in some propitious hour

A feeling creature subject to his power.

Peter had heard there were in London then, —

Still have they being! — workhouse-clearing men,

Who, undisturb’d by feelings just or kind,

Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind:

They in their want a trifling sum would take,

And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.

Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found,

The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.

Some few in town observed in Peter’s trap

A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap;

But none inquired how Peter used the rope,

Or what the bruise that made the stripling stoop;

None could the ridges on his back behold,

None sought him shiv’ring in the winter’s cold;

None put the question, — “Peter, dost thou give

The boy his food? — What, man! the lad must live:

Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,

He’ll serve the better if he’s stroked and fed”.

None reason’d thus — and some, on hearing cries,

Said calmly, “Grimes is at his exercise”.

Pinn’d, beaten, cold, pinch’d, threaten’d, and abused —

His efforts punish’d and his food refused, —

Awake tormented, — soon aroused from sleep, —

Struck if he wept, and yet compell’d to weep,

The trembling boy dropp’d down and strove to pray,

Received a blow, and trembling turn’d away,

Or sobb’d and hid his piteous face; — while he,

The savage master, grinn’d in horrid glee:

He’d now the power he ever loved to show,

A feeling being subject to his blow.

Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,

His tears despised, his supplications vain:

Compe’lld by fear to lie, by need to steal,

His bed uneasy and unbless’d his meal,

For three sad years the boy his tortures bore,

And then his pains and trials were no more.

“How died he, Peter?” when the people said,

He growl’d — “I found him lifeless in his bed;”

Then tried for softer tone, and sigh’d, “Poor Sam is dead”.

Yet murmurs were there, and some questions ask’d —

How he was fed, how punish’d, and how task’d?

Much they suspected, but they little proved,

And Peter pass’d untroubled and unmoved.

Another boy with equal ease was found,

The money granted, and the victim bound;

And what his fate? — One night it chanced he fell

From the boat’s mast and perish’d in her well,

Where fish were living kept, and where the boy

(So reason’d men) could not himself destroy: —

“Yes! so it was” said Peter, “in his play,

(For he was idle both by night and day,)

He climb’d the main-mast and then fell below;” —

Then show’d his corpse, and pointed to the blow.

“What said the jury?” — they were long in doubt,

But sturdy Peter faced the matter out:

So they dismissed him, saying at the time,

“Keep fast your hatchway when you’ve boys who climb”.

This hit the conscience, and he colour’d more

Than for the closest questions put before.

Thus all his fears the verdict set aside,

And at the slave-shop Peter still applied.

Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild, —

Our seamen’s wives with grief beheld the child;

All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one

Of gentle blood, some noble sinner’s son,

Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid,

Whom he had first seduced and then betray’d: —

However this, he seem’d a gracious lad,

In grief submissive, and with patience sad.

Passive he labour’d, till his slender frame

Bent with his loads, and he at length was lame:

Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long

The grossest insult and the foulest wrong;

But there were causes — in the town they gave

Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave;

And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand,

And knotted rope, enforced the rude command,

Yet he consider’d what he’d lately felt,

And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt.

One day such draughts the cruel fisher made,

He could not vend them in his borough-trade,

But sail’d for London-mart: the boy was ill,

But ever humbled to his master’s will;

And on the river, where they smoothly sail’d,

He strove with terror and awhile prevail’d;

But new to danger on the angry sea,

He clung affrighten’d to his master’s knee:

The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong,

Rough was the passage and the time was long;

His liquor fail’d, and Peter’s wrath arose, —

No more is known — the rest we must suppose,

Or learn of Peter: — Peter says, he “spied

The stripling’s danger and for harbour tried;

Meantime the fish, and then th’ apprentice died”.

The pitying women raised a clamour round,

And weeping said, “Thou hast thy ’prentice drown’d”.

Now the stern man was summon’d to the hall,

To tell his tale before the burghers all:

He gave th’ account; profess’d the lad he loved,

And kept his brazen features all unmoved.

The mayor himself with tone severe replied, —

“Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide;

Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat,

But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat:

Free thou art now! — again shouldst thou appear,

Thou’lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe”.

Alas! for Peter not a helping hand,

So was he hated, could he now command;

Alone he row’d his boat, alone he cast

His nets beside, or made his anchor fast:

To hold a rope or hear a curse was none, —

He toil’d and rail’d; he groan’d and swore alone.

Thus by himself compell’d to live each day,

To wait for certain hours the tide’s delay;

At the same time the same dull views to see,

The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;

The water only, when the tides were high,

When low, the mud half cover’d and half-dry;

The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,

And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks;

Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,

As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.

When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,

Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way,

Which on each side rose swelling, and below

The dark warm flood ran silently and slow;

There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,

There hang his head, and view the lazy tide

In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;

Where the small eels that left the deeper way

For the warm shore, within the shallows play;

Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud,

Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood; —

Here dull and hopeless he’d lie down and trace

How sidelong crabs had scrawi’d their crooked race,

Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry

Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;

What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come.

And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,

Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom:

He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,

And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;

Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,

Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd’ning sound;

Where all, presented to the eye or ear,

Oppresss’d the soul with misery, grief, and fear.

Besides these objects, there were places three,

Which Peter seem’d with certain dread to see;

When he drew near them he would turn from each,

And loudly whistle till he pass’d the reach.

A change of scene to him brought no relief,

In town, ’twas plain, men took him for a thief:

The sailor’s wives would stop him in the street,

And say, “Now, Peter, thou’st no boy to beat;”

Infants at play when they perceived him, ran,

Warning each other — “That’s the wicked man;”

He growl’d an oath, and in an angry tone

Cursed the whole place and wish’d to be alone.

Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,

And still more gloomy in his sight they grew:

Though man he hated, yet employ’d alone

At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,

Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,

And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.

Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,

And strange disease — he couldn’t say the name;

Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,

Waked by his view of horrors in the night, —

Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,

Horrors that demons might be proud to raise:

And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,

To think he lived from all mankind apart;

Yet, if a man approach’d, in terrors he would start.

A winter pass’d since Peter saw the town,

And summer lodgers were again come down;

These, idly curious, with their glasses spied

The ships in bay as anchor’d for the tide, —

The river’s craft, — the bustle of the quay, —

And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.

One, up the river, had a man and boat

Seen day by day, now anchor’d, now afloat;

Fisher he seem’d, yet used no net nor hook;

Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,

But on the gliding waves still fix’d his lazy look:

At certain stations he would view the stream,

As if he stood bewilder’d in a dream,

Or that some power had chain’d him for a time,

To feel a curse or meditate on crime.

This known, some curious, some in pity went,

And others question’d — “Wretch, dost thou repent?”

He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign’d

His boat: new terror fill’d his restless mind;

Furious he grew, and up the country ran,

And there they seized him — a distemper’d man: —

Him we received, and to a parish-bed,

Follow’d and cursed, the groaning man was led.

Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun,

A lost, lone man, so harass’d and undone;

Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,

Perceived compassion on their anger steal;

His crimes they could not from their memories blot,

But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.

A priest too came, to whom his words are told;

And all the signs they shudder’d to behold.

“Look! look!” they cried; “His limbs with horror shake

And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!

How glare his angry eyes, and yet he’s not awake:

See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,

And how he clenches that broad bony hand”.

The Priest attending, found he spoke at times

As one alluding to his fears and crimes;

“It was the fall”, he mutter’d, “I can show

The manner how, — I never struck a blow:” —

And then aloud, — “Unhand me, free my chain;

On oath he fell — it struck him to the brain: —

Why ask my father? — that old man will swear

Against my life; besides, he wasn’t there:

What, all agreed? — Am I to die to-day? —

My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray”.

Then as they watch’d him, calmer he became,

And grew so weak he couldn’t move his frame,

But murmuring spake — while they could see and hear

The start of terror and the groan of fear;

See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,

And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes:

Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force

Seem’d with some fancied being to discourse:

He knew not us, or with accustom’d art

He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart;

’Twas part confession and the rest defence,

A madman’s tale, with gleams of waking sense.

“I’ll tell you all”, he said, “The very day

When the old man first placed them in my way:

My father’s spirit — he who always tried

To give me trouble, when he lived and died —

When he was gone he could not be content

To see my days in painful labour spent,

But would appoint his meetings, and he made

Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade.

“’Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene,

No living being had I lately seen;

I paddled up and down and dipp’d my net,

But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get, —

A father’s pleasure, when his toil was done,

To plague and torture thus an only son!

And so I sat and look’d upon the stream,

How it ran on and felt as in a dream:

But dream it was not: No! — I fix’d my eyes

On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise:

I saw my father on the water stand,

And hold a thin pale boy in either hand;

And there they glided ghastly on the top

Of the salt flood, and never touch’d a drop:

I would have struck them, but they knew th’ intent,

And smiled upon the oar, and down they went.

“Now, from that day, whenever I began

To dip my net, there stood the hard old man —

He and those boys: I humbled me and pray’d

They would be gone; they heeded not, but stay’d:

Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,

But, gazing on the spirits, there was I:

They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die:

And every day, as sure as day arose,

Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;

To hear and mark them daily was my doom,

And ‘Come,’ they said, with weak, sad voices, ‘Come’.

To row away, with all my strength I tried,

But there were they hard by me in the tide,

The three unbodied forms — and ‘Come, still come,’ they cried.

Fathers should pity — but this old man shook

His hoary locks, and froze me by a look:

Thrice when I struck them, through the water came

A hollow groan, that weaken’d all my frame:

‘Father!’ said I, ‘Have mercy:’ he replied,

I know not what — the angry spirit lied, —

‘Didst thou not draw thy knife?’ said he: — ’Twas true,

But I had pity and my arm withdrew:

He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave,

But he has no compassion in his grave.

“There were three places, where they ever rose, —

The whole long river has not such as those —

Places accursed, where, if a man remain,

He’ll see the things which strike him to the brain;

And there they made me on my paddle lean,

And look at them for hours; — accursed scene!

When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space,

Then bid me leap and join them in the place;

And at my groans each little villain sprite

Enjoy’d my pains and vanish’d in delight.

“In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain

Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain,

Then came this father-foe, and there he stood

With his two boys again upon the flood:

There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee

In their pale faces, when they glared at me:

Still they did force me on the oar to rest,

And when they saw me fainting and oppress’d,

He with his hand, the old man, scoop’d the flood,

And there came flame about him mix’d with blood;

He bade me stoop and look upon the place,

Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;

Burning it blazed, and then I roar’d for pain,

I thought the demons would have turn’d my brain.

“Still there they stood, and forced me to behold

A place of horrors — they can not be told —

Where the flood open’d, there I heard the shriek

Of tortured guilt — no earthly tongue can speak:

‘All days alike! for ever!’ did they say,

‘And unremitted torments every day’ —

Yes, so they said” — But here he ceased and gazed

On all around, affrighten’d and amazed;

And still he tried to speak, and look’d in dread

Of frighten’d females gathering round his bed;

Then dropp’d exhausted, and appear’d at rest,

Till the strong foe the vital powers possess’d;

Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,

“Again they come!” and mutter’d as he died.