Alexander Blok - The Violet of Night

The Violet of Night*
   (A Dream)

The listless days
and nights have passed.
But I will recollect
The dream -
The one I’d love
To resurrect.


The evening city
Was retreating,
The rain began to sizzle,
And the sky,
Was tired of hiding
People’s lies, and sank
Into a swamp, -
And twilight glowed.

I left the city
And descended
the slope of some unknown street
attended by a friend.
He did not speak a word,
I did not speak,
Myself.

As though I asked him
To keep silence,
Or either he was sad,
But we were alien to one another,
And we saw things diverse.
He envied fancy cars
Where cats
Embraced the daubed girls,
And sneaked a look
Towards the chicks,
That hid behind the doors.
But all went mirky,
and my friend was gone,
(Apparently, was lured into some
slut).
So I remained alone
and did enjoy him gone
(For what could be more pleasant
Than the loss
of your best friend?)

Pedestrians were scarce,
Not counting for the dogs,
Those skinny ghosts
met on my way,
and drunken hags
cursed far away;
And cabbage-stocks,
and sickly trees,
and stink of swamp,
a soggy plain.

And while my mind
Was getting cleared,
The voices ceased
Their buzz
About the subtleties of creeds,
and mind released
the burdens of my
debts –
I recognized the place,
I could have seen
in waking.

The road descended,
no more homes were seen,
O’er stagnant and the rusty
swamp
the tussocks ran,
a little path was winding;
In the purple-greenish dusk,
The very air did hush
O’er waters and the dawn,
as if it waited for the Daughter
of the Streams
to blossom forth.

The air was still
and grave in expectations:
For no-one ever heard,
Or learned
From parents, or from teachers,
Or from books,
That near the bustling city,
Swept with sirens and at-homes,
Where people brag in ceaseless
Conversations,
Where women sell their bodies
Without shame,
Where ministers debate
On poor digestion,
That in such cursed hour,
The apparitions
Manifest to all,
And me, a vagabond,
Or you,
Who love or hate these lines,
Could apprehend this purple-green,
This carefree
Violet of Night.


Such were my sentiments,
When I traversed the swamp,
And through the rain
I saw a low-bent hut.
Distracted,
lost in my direction,
I opened the door
And saw
The rows of awkward benches
Run along the walls.
And in those empty rows,
A plain-faced girl,
Who weaved,
And parting of her hair
Bent o’er the stretched table;
Silently she sat,
And I can hardly tell
If she was young, or old,
Or what the countenance she had,
Or what the colour of her eyes,
I only knew she gently weaved,
And sat indifferent and free.
I also knew
That sometime in the past,
I saw that girl, but she
Was prettier and
Many bearded kings were
Asking for her love.


And I remember
As in this low hut,
A sweet narcotic
Crept behind my back.
The very air was impregnated
With the odour
Of a blooming
Violet of Night.
I was a tramp in this
Nocturnal feast,
A vagabond, a drunkard
From the past.
But somehow knew that kings
Were frequenting this hut
And I was one of them,
And once I touched their cup -
Somewhere in rocks,
In fiords,
Where earth and sea departed,
And the golden crowns
Sparked lightly
In the dusk.
       
A heavy task
I had to face:
To worship things
That had to be revived.
And my soul laughed
With joy,
When I saw things
Which waited for so long.

I strolled the hut
And shook the hands with
All my ancient friends,
But they did not recall me.
Finally, I saw
A royal couple,
They were old and
Seated in the dark,
The crowns on their heads
Shone bleakly in the air;
They seemed to welcome
Worshippers for long,
And nodded gently.
So I nodded back, and shadows
Ran across their wrinkles deep,
And gravely gesturing
They bid me stay,
And then I saw
The darkest corner
Of this place.

There, on a shaky bench,
A man was sitting
Like a stone,
He buried head in hands,
As if lost in his thoughts
And sat unmoved for ages
Over beer.
And, when approached,
He did not raise his head, nor answered
To my nodding,
Nor waved a hand;
Then to my horror,
I was bound to sit
And drink, and think, and hold
My head like him, and listlessly
Observe the distant corner,
Where in the twinkling light,
Beside the drowsing King,
Sat Queen of the forgotten land,
The Violet of Night.

So I sat in the dark,
Next to the owner
Of the mug, and saw his
Face descend
And touch
His knees, and arms
Turn into bones, and
Fall and break.
That wreck, like me,
Was once a noble
Brave and slender youth,
A singer of the Nordic songs,
An idol of the maids.
Now, his gown’s torn,
The multi-colored strips,
Once red-and-gold,
Now loosely hung.

I saw a drowsy squad,
The sword and helmet
On the floor,
And sickly grass that never sees
The Spring and ancient skies;
Still farther,
Crowns were blinking
In the rays of setting sun,
And the green curls
Were framing
Wrinkles deep,
And half-closed eyes
Beneath the bushy brows.

And Queen,
She weaved, and weaved, and weaved,
And parting of her hair
Bent o’er the table,
And the sweet narcotics
Of the swamp,
The nightly fairy-tale,
Enwraped my soul.
The breath of Violet,
The blooming of the swamp,
The silent whirl
Of spinning wheel
Went on.

I froze,
And dreamed, and grieved, and thought
My long, long thoughts,
And gazed on streaks of dawn,
And ages passed, or, maybe,
Just a fleeting instant passed.

In dream I heard
The rolls of thunder,
Splashes of the waves,
As if a voice was calling me
From my new homeland,
As if the seagulls cried,
Or moaned the lonely sirens,
Or playful winds did chase
The ships from cheerful country,
and the Unexpected Joy
Arrived,
And distant ocean raged,
And distant flowers flamed.

My neighbor
Was asleep,
His sword fell on the floor
And scared a mouse.
I saw no crowns
On the royal heads.

So I remained,
There, on the swamp,
Where never changing,
Never getting old,
The flower blooms,
My purple dream,
My Violet of Night.

Behind the swamp
I left behind,
The city, and a friend,
(who curse me
when he’s drunk)
I left them now
For good.

The ages passed,
I had a thousand thoughts,
And now,
I stand alone and cunning
As a child,
The silent twilight
Burns the same,
The same distressing world,
But Violet -
Never fades.

She blooms,
She radiates the light
Into the purple dusk,
I hear the rustling
Of the waves,
And coming of the ships,
As if they prophesy new land.
The sacred spinning wheel
Still weaves
The fleeting dream
of Unexpected Joy,
The Violet of Night -


1905 – 1906
vip/2008


* Translation of this poem I dedicate to Scotland (and one lass I met there) . - VP

*  *  *
Ночная фиалка