ревность- -зависть

слова У. нашего Шекспира, музыка народная.
http://rvb.ru/pushkin/01text/05theatre/01theatre/0839.htm

it's said: there is no truth on earth.
but neither it's on heaven. for me,
this is as clear as a simple gamut.
while born with rave to art,
in childhood, listening to high
sound of the old church organ,
I heard with delight - and tears
like the sweetest rain would run.
all empty leisure I denied;
all sciences not tied to music
were hated; stiffly I refused them
and devoted my heart and soul
to music only. early steps
were hard and boring. I overpassed
the starting burdens. craft and skill
were put as foot for art:
I laboured hard; my fingers
got the fluency, aloof and tame,
my ears got precise. devitalising sounds,
I prepared the music like a corpse. I checked
the harmony with knife. just then,
while seeing myself sophisticated,
I durst to fall in bliss of inspiration,
I created; but secretly, in silence,
yet I didn't ventured to think of fame.
not uncommon, I could sit for days
in my reclusion, forgetting sleep and food,
I relished elated tears of sacred fire,
and I burned my work and coldly watched the flame,
while my begotten thoughts and sounds vanished.
what do I talk about? when the great Gluck
has come and opened for us new secret message
(enchanting whole truth in depth),
would not I have unlooked my recent knowledge,
forsaken all I've been in love with faith,
would not I've zealously followed him
like an astray lamb, who has been
shown new and right direction?
by constancy, intensive and incentive,
I've finally achieved a high level
in a fineless art. the glory
smiled to me; I saw my creatures'
concord in the human hearts.
and blessed I was; I peacefully enjoyed
my work, my success and my honour. also
I respected my companions' work and success,
my brethren-followers this awesome art.
no! never did I know the feel of envy,
оh,  never! - neither then Piccinni
could beglamore the Parisians' savage sense,
nor then I heard the "Iphigenia"'s entry
sounds for the very first time.
who can quoth, Salieri, proud-hearted, 
ever was the iago,  trodden down
snake, which knapples dirt
and gnaws sand, bedridden, yet alive?
not even one!.. and now, I myself
would tell, now I am envious
hater. deep I envy, sorely
painful is my jealousy. oh, holy heavens!
where is a justice, when the deathless spirit
and the sacred giving are not the fruit
of burning love and dedication,
nor the reward for sedulous
labour and devotion prayers, - but
the genius is sent to blithesome fool,
to gadder bacchant.. oh, Mozart, Mozart!

#А_С_П_ASCII_ANSI   #a_ex