10. По мотивам стихотворения Роберта Браунинга Воз

10. По мотивам стихотворения Роберта Браунинга "Возлюбленной Порфирии"



Возлюбленной Порфирии



Был вечер... Шел постылый дождь,
и ветер выл, и ветви гнулись...
И волны пенные проснулись -
их пробивала ветра дрожь...
Я упивался непогодой...
Она вошла и... Правый Боже,
затихла буря... ветер стих...
Она... Она в единый миг
зажгла камин... Платок,
перчатки и плащ летели в уголок...
Сев на скамью... ко мне поближе...
рукой бестрепетной она
меня тихонько обняла...
Я слышал шепот торопливый -
люблю! Поверить? Не поверить ей -
нам неподвластен мир страстей...
Нас любят, но увлекшись... страстно...
к иным спешат... А мы напрасно
ждем трепета и слов любви...
Любим ли я? Живу ль в любви?
Сейчас она со мной... моя...
Волос покорная змея
обвила шею ей... три раза...
Что сотворил я понял сразу -
глаза её глядели ввысь...
Но... если чуть ослабить нить -
румянец яркий разольется...
Головка на плечо кладется,
легко покоится на нем...
Все то, к чему стремился тайно
свершилось - вот она... со мной...
Недвижных скроет мрак ночной...
Огонь потух... померк в камине...
И Бог молчал... тогда и... ныне...



РИНА ФЕЛИКС



Porphyria's Lover

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me-she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily opened her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
(Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning)