Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)

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What happens here cannot be undone or replayed. But what is dream-life, what is real? Making a dream the axis of the drama, and allowing this dream to slide into reality when the lyrical subject requires it, was of absolute value to Krzhizhanovsky as playwright. Dreamscapes also organize the logic of his best prose works. Key for him is where in the plot a dream occurs, to whom, and how its borders are marked.

It stands in for the fate of all poets. Death albeit in softened, elegaic tones is present from the beginning. It was the sole but we felt, the single indispensable moment of politics in the play. He was costumed to resemble Krzhizhanovsky circa , at a shabby unheated desk, hungry, haggard, cold, whacking out his play. Snow is falling over everything. Later this unemployed poet moves to the margins of the stage, reading out loud the occasional stage direction, like a stage manager. Or perhaps he only dreams that his play has gone into rehearsal?

Our tiny, relatively empty performance space had many corners, and each might have contained a private world. Tairov, fearing the wrath of the orthodox Pushkinists, had always been more flexible on this point. In our production, however, this panoptic directorial presence was more a manager of spaces, images, and movements than he was of words. He was a theatrical equivalent of the lyric poet who had created the novel-in-verse.

The acting characters spoke with one another in the cadences of the stanza, because only poetry gives birth to three-dimensional life. In his retrospective testimonial, he had this to say about his hovering presence in this cold-and-hot play: I played the Poet, the one character who serves as a signpost for the continued existence of a world beyond the fabulous dream of Tatyana and Onegin. It is an odd position for the artist-figure; the romantic poet is, so the story usually goes, buried alive in his dreams. Every time it is said, the word dream threatens to turn into metaphor, meaning beauty, longing, an ideal, an often cheap hope.

There is no sense of historical causality, just a sense of historical juxtaposition. And this distinction seems to me extremely impor- tant for all of the artistic visions involved: this was not meant to be a work of meta-theater, with an author-figure directing his characters. The play is a temporal mix of bits and pieces, of strands of gossip, of innuendo and analogy. The poet and creature, when they meet, announce a certain model for history, which is not the customary linear thread, or the lavish tapestry, or the pages of a turning book.

It is a disordered, sometimes glitter- ing, collage. To this glittering end, Cindy Thom, costume designer, and Anya Klepikov, scene designer, configured the acting space into three zones. The studio is a tiny black box rimmed round with a high catwalk.. The Dream was narrated above to the Nurse while being played out below. The most astute review we received of the production, by Vera Zubareva, made much of this architectural logic. You leave the theater. The snow begins.

Is it falling from the sky or is it coming from the play? Woven into this musical score were excerpts of the play read live in Russian and a danced staging both ballroom and modern of major Onegin epi— sodes, choreographed by Sydney Schiff, who danced Tatyana. This essay discusses only the second production.

Further page references in text. To create a dramatic role requires a maximal degree of belief in the animating powers of art. This change need not wait on nature; it can be creatively willed. The very exercise of this will enables all parti- cipants in the theatrical contract, spectators and actors alike, to resist spiritual inertia and decay. Such is the economy of disciplined live performance.

The huge eyelid of the curtain rises, the audience is obliged to confront to see , the actor by being watched is authenticated in the role, and a parallel life begins to take root. If epic is a genre of the past in the tight grip of fate, and lyric a genre of the transitorily present, then theater—for all its apparent present-tenseness—permits us to experiment with tomorrow 80— The first is the mystery play, too unified, paradigmatic, and static for effective theater.

The second is drama, overall a comfortable mode that satisfies our fetish for touching and seeing; wedded to the interaction of artifacts and real-life people, it jealously hugs the flat stage floor. Only the third type of theater, at which the Kamerny excelled, encourages poten- tials to be realized in human consciousness that can strengthen and edu- cate us actively.

But to project these potentials they need a secure home, separated from the audience by a firm row of footlights. Here as almost everywhere, he echoes Tairov—or Tairov him: the two appear to have collaborated on their theater aesthetic. What we get in this realm is more likely to be what we must learn to work with.

It forces us to try out a variety of self-other relations, both with a collective and with our own individual selves. But other aspects of this dramatic Onegin might not have fared so well in the Kamerny. The fact that Tairov pleaded unsuccessfully with Krzhizhanovsky, throughout the summer of , to adjust his text can only suggest that director and adaptor did not always see eye to eye. In addition to lyrical and folklore inserts, the playscript contains chastushki and a juvenile drinking song both by Pushkin , the latter delivered by a wobbly crew of students on the Neva waterfront at dawn.

Subsequent page references in text. Olga and her mother are irrepressible, volatile, open-hearted souls, like Midwestern girls from a healthy American musical. Except for Vyazemsky, the guests in full court uniform that fill the St. In this boisterous company, our two romantic leads stood somewhat apart.

By an accident of casting, both were exotic in a European, Old-School way. Tim Vasen, the director, relies on such accidents: even for the leading roles he does not recruit, but works with whomever turns up to audition. The pool that turned up in for Eugene Onegin was different, although still varied. Tatyana Elena Garadja , a major in Philosophy, was quatra-lingual and a native speaker of Russian. It was simply impossible to place her accent or intonation on stage English through German and French from a Russian base.

He became a master at establishing the beat of the play—in the stanza, in his rocking chair, even, as he confessed, in his heart. The music for Tatiana showed her as much more passionate than I had originally thought her to be. And Krzhizhanovsky too brings out the impulsive and passion- ate in her. Coy or concise? The words had their own beating heart, also essential. He produced historic restora- tions at his Antique Theater Starinnyi teatr in —08 and —12, miniature satires and buffonnades in the Crooked Mirror Krivoe zerkalo between and , and in he managed the first Bolshevik mass spectacle, the Storming of the Winter Palace, with a cast of thousands and the real Petrograd Palace Square as set.

The vigor of our dream life is proof of our biological need to play out a scene, interrogate it, and act in it, all while watching it. Having reflected on that feeling of spontaneous manipulation, I felt more comfortable ex- ploring other, elastic, beats for the play. The first is the genre of monodrama, familiar to the Symbolist period through the dream-plays of Strindberg and Maeterlinck. Evreinov first experimented with the form in , writing his own ex— emplary play in the genre, Predstavlenie liubvi A Representation, or Performance, of Love and prefacing it with a polemical essay.

It refers not to voiced utterance but to visual perspective or focus, and appears to have something in common with the lyric impulse. Alexander I. Nazaroff, introduction by Oliver M. Peters- burg: Letnii sad, Reference in text to Evreinoff English and Evreinov Rus- sian editions. It is included, with illustrations and preface pp. Our production in had a looser, more improvisatory feel to many of its parts.

This can be explained partially by American twenty-first-century pace and style, athletic in a far less studied manner. Partially it was because our actors, Elena and Gabriel especially, who owned most of the lines, worked hard to avoid any overly self-conscious declamation—inappropriate, we felt, for this private, almost whispered work of art. The aims and internal perspectives of monodrama helped us resolve the pre- sentation, and preservation, of a fragile lyrical subject. But in our Onegin, we adjusted the concept to the purity of the heroine. In the play, the Poet-Playwright cares mostly about Onegin, with whom he both identifies and competes, and lets the heroine make her own way at her own risk, in her own body.

Tatyana proves equal to this trust. But she is still the same shy, inward self. Since Evreinov argues our perceptual abilities and attention spans are limited, any aesthetically significant effect must be focused and unified. Then every detail on the theatrical set would have to be manipulated in order to appear to spectators in the hall exactly as the actor, at that moment, was supposedly perceiving it. The technical difficulty of staging monodrama was a matter of some concern. Both cinema projection and bold lighting sequences offer promising solutions to such split-second transfor- mations.

And as mere illusion, no audience would co-experience it. Krzhizhanovsky who, to my knowledge, nowhere discusses Evreinov would surely concur. He was a careful student of psychology and believed that uttered words could take on the force of palpable things. Onegin and Tatyana dream at different tempos.

In the play text, her dream Fragment 8 has pride of place on two levels, full of rapid and dizzying events, emotions, risk, which not only do not rupture her relation with real outside life but positively instruct her in it. But something is soldered in her after she confronts her Dream. Not until the very end does she—or for that matter, we—know for sure whether this iron resolve is a weakness or a strength. But he has no images to work with, no stage reality.

He has only his remembered and regretted words. With them he curls up on his cold bench, in a position that recalls the Playwright of the opening few moments of the play. They talk about him but not with him. The ottoman in that final Fragment is the site for some sort of denouement. Creator and creature take leave of each other. Prokofiev wrote no music for the final scene. Falen, has an instructive and at times excruciating prehistory.

The Russian archival typescript had been known to theater directors since the s, but its circulation was limited. So the play appeared first in English, as part of a Prokofiev volume published in Simon Morrison, ed. It was a good- faith attempt to communicate the play to an American ear and to accom- modate—or so I thought at the time—the comfort zone of American actors. I thought it was free verse; he insisted flat-out that no matter how I had formatted the lines, it was prose. And what about the comfort zone of the American actor? That became clear only later. Our director, Tim Vasen, had been skeptical from the start about my free verse.

Our Boris Godunov was still fresh in his memory. For the past two years, Vasen had been taking Russian classes at Princeton. Then he insisted that each member of the cast, whether or not they knew any Russian, learn a stanza by heart in the original. The actors themselves were of one mind. The limp residual defense of a free-verse solution fell away. Other moments were formal.

Krzhizhanovsky embeds a folktale by Pushkin in the play- script, and assigns it to the Nurse to recite: what should its relation be to the Onegin stanza? In several instances Falen felt strongly that a couplet or a rhyme should be completed, even though Krzhizhanovsky had stopped short of providing it. A theatrical production that never came together has no canonized parts. We, too, are adapters and we ought to have at least some slight opportu- nity to put our mark if we can justify it on what we do. Below are some excerpts from our e-mail exchanges over this joint project, taken from the first two months: 1.

July 25, James Falen to CE before he saw the Russian text : Whatever the merits of the play script, its realization in a production for an American audience presents special problems, as you well know. Americans, on the other hand, ignorant of both Pushkin and EO, will have a much harder time responding to the drama. Although acting, sets, costumes, music, dance, and staging will all con- tribute to the effectiveness of the production bringing it alive , the prob- lem of the kind of English language in which to embody the play remains tricky and difficult to resolve.

I know your own thoughts on this question continue to evolve and that you go back and forth in trying to decide whether to use verse or prose—and which kinds of verse or prose. I can well understand a reluctance to have the dialogue retain all the features of the Onegin stanza, including the alternating feminine and masculine rhymes.

This would probably be uncongenial to a modern American audi- ence completely unfamiliar with the work. Furthermore, a dialogue that is completely in rhymed verse would require very accomplished vocal actors to carry it off. For under- standable reasons you opted for prose rather than verse. I do not find it a particularly rhythmic prose and this is a shortcoming in my view.

They say he was a poet. Fleshing this out a bit more, per- haps Onegin might speak in an unobtrusively iambic meter with an occa- sional acerbic rhyme, Lensky in a more obviously patterned and rhymed style. Ah, had EO been written in iambic pentameter it might have been somewhat less difficult to realize on stage. The Following Day, July 26, People know it through the opera, and the key is to peel back Tchaikovsky.

Consider the live person on stage. Does Onegin grow into poetic wisdom, or out of poetic foolishness? The Same Day, July 26, Your translation, for me at least, sits un- happily in some undefined limbo of its own. One must not think Tolstoy. And an unmetrical line bumbles and bumps, reminding me of a rider not quite in sync with his horse. If, in addition as you well know you abandon the meter and ex- cise all of the rhymes as well! But I know you want to make this production as good as it can be. The Next Day, July 27, My more urgent concern is character.

The Onegin stanza is the voice of a Narrator, the play does not have a nar- rator, how do individual personalities emerge and differentiate, once on their own? CE informed Tim Vasen, who would be directing Eugene Onegin and co- teaching a seminar for its actors, of this correspondence and the possi- bility of pulling Falen into the project. From Tim Vasen, August 2, hi caryl—back down and out of the sublime adirondacks, just had a quick look at this exchange and I am thrilled with what you and Falen are work- ing on.

I think we can have structured language, at times nakedly poetic at times with a ghost of a rhythm, and it will fit in beautifully with the way i imagine the visual production will work. August 4 , I can imagine that at times you despair of the project. Years ago, to express how I often felt while translating EO, I came up with this: I write at night with inspiration And suffer an ecstatic fit. August 8, The speaking of rhythmic and rhymed verse requires considerable skill on the part of the actors.

This tends to over-empha- size the rhyme and it makes the dialog sound too artificial. Verse, how- ever, can be spoken in a way that approaches normal, flowing talk. But God knows and I do, too —it has a lot of flaws. Weirdly apt. September 14, We should be able fairly easily to find common ground on those questions. These remain paramount to me. James Falen to CE: Perhaps the broken back effect that you think would be effective and au- thentic can be achieved with your preferred short-worded lines alone, along with unusual pauses, but with the iambic tetrameter still intact.

September 15, She is, after all, a rather bookish young lady, a reader of roman- tic novels and epistolary novels at that , from which she can have picked up a certain tone and vocabulary as well as an attitude to life. You might be right. This is a mind-opener. In gasps, leaps, shudders, and being Krzh dreams. I rashly told him that the definitive text would be evolving for a long time in its details, but a basic re-versification of the line would be ready in two or three weeks.

Which means I get the final third back to you today by Saturday night. Which I will. Falen visited Princeton for a day to take in the seminar and coach the cast. Ever so slightly? And anyway, his script as we have it is more a work in progress and only one version of the several attempts he made! He no doubt would have continued to revise it himself. But what an incomparable apprenticeship.

Practiced Prokofiev scholars have no problem decoding these abbreviations. Morrison transcribed the slight but intriguing musical markings and alerted his colleague Caryl Emerson to the existence of this text. Simon Morrison. Although never published, the Russian play script was not unknown. Or rather, it was known through negative criticism of it. Passions have always run high on transpositions of Russian classics. Without a performance history, the verdict on this one is still out.

But with this publication, we hope to restore the complexity of the textual field. The typescript, however, resists replication. In several places letters and punctuation marks bled through one page to impose themselves on another; they would look like typo- graphical or grammatical errors in a facsimile. In other passages, faded typewritten lines would become close to illegible.

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The text now conforms to the general standards for American play scripts, so as to improve its readability and its usefulness to directors. Such mo- ments were retained in the transcription. In such in- stances, the word in question has been retained when possible. A smaller font was used for comments written in the margins. Handwritten comments in the typescript correspond as closely as possible with their proximity to given lines in the typescript. Italicized comments in the margins belong to Sergei Prokofiev. Krzhizhanovsky Translated by James E.

At the table, his back to the audience: the POET, bending over the scattered pages of a manuscript. The bard Derzhavin, passing, blessed us, As he descended to the grave. And to each mad and fevered rout She brought her gifts and danced about Bacchante-like, at all our revels. And over wine she sang for guests, And in those days when I was blest, Young men pursued my Muse like devils. How often, in the moonlit nights, She rode with me the mountain heights! But then our course abruptly veered And in my garden she appeared, With mournful air and brooding glance, And in her hands a French romance.

And we may press a modest claim To be the first to grace and honor A tender novel with this name. A wild creature, sad and pensive, Shy as a doe and apprehensive, Tatyana seemed, among her kin, A strangeling who had wandered in. From early youth she read romances And novels set her heart aglow, She loved the fictions and the fancies Of Richardson and of Rousseau. I was embittered; he, depressed. And all for what, I ask? POET For freedom. But heed my words And mark you well this useful truth: This iron age depends on commerce; And freedom, too, requires cash.

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You need some gold, my friend, good gold; So get it. Why wait? Impatient readers clamor And beg for more. Some crave satiric fare and fun, And others. And so I say, your hallowed lyre Will surely bring us good receipts. Here, take my manuscript. A gravestone. He dandled me upon his knee. In childhood days I loved to wear His medal from the Turkish war. Lowers himself down on the edge of the grave. Pulls a notebook out of his pocket. Pencil slides across paper. He continues I live alone, indifferent Gnaws the pencil, again crosses it out I live alone and sadly wait I wait, and sad With irritation flings down the pencil, then picks it up, writes I live alone and sadly wait To see when death will come at last.

Upon a naked branch, alone, nature The final leaf of summer shakes. A simple unpainted floor. In the middle, a round table. Two wineglasses. The two friends sit on either side of the table. Too willful, though, and insubstantial. Long live Bordeaux, our faithful friend. They clink glasses and drink. You know, I. Those springtime days in secret valleys, Where swans call out and beauty dallies, Near waters sparkling in the still The Muse appeared and made me thrill.

The theme My student cell turned incandescent And there the Muse spread out for me A feast of youthful fancies free. She sang of childhood effervescent, And. Impatiently he fastens the buttons of his gloves. Oh God, these poets!! I know the scene—well, more or less. The social ritual never changes, The hostess artfully arranges On little dishes her preserves And on her covered table serves Some sort of lingonberry brew, While neighbors crowd the samovar.

Present me, do. Claps his hands. The SERVANT grabs it up and, diving behind the door, immediately runs back into the room with high English boots, bright-colored trousers hanging perhaps at off either side of his neck, a grey top hat, a frock-coat with large first he matte buttons and a whole collection of various sorts of little hums, then the refrain, brushes, graters, boxes, scissors and combs. This is the upper story of an old wooden house of the rural gentry Larins. In the middle of the illuminated room, a table set in expectation of a guest.

In the depths, a window, to which is pressed a not overly slender, but also not too rounded figure of a young woman. Pressing her palms to the pane of glass, she gazes into the fading sunset. Buyanov wooed. Take heart. To Moscow and the marriage mart! A handsome fellow, in his prime, A poet.

With the help of the fading evening twilight, the projector makes visible the slender figure of a girl, sitting by the balcony railing. Finally the sunset, like an extinguishing lamp, definitively refuses to light up the pages. The approaching clatter of hooves. At first TATYANA listens to it, with difficulty tearing herself away from her book, then she moves away from the threshold of the door. Now her face and the contour of her profile are visible in the scarcely sufficient light. OLGA tears herself away from the window, joyfully claps her hands.

It is weakly lit up by the moon. Only the contours of things are visible. Voices from the outside. Sits down in the rocking chair. The chair is on the verge of rocking from somewhere deep inside itself, but ONEGIN restrains it and freezes in an immobile pose. These stupid woods and stupid streams! Oh, by the way, Dame Larin seems A simple, but a nice old lady.

The SERVANT, half asleep, stumbling up against the table and chairs, brings in a selection of bottles and glasses, measures out drops from a medicine dropper. She is leaning over the railing, her face turned toward the quiet gusting of nocturnal breezes that rock the treetops. Her eyes are fixed on the moon, which has paled significantly under her gaze.

The nightingale in darkest wood Sings out its mournful serenades. In its depths, a shabby bed-curtain. A window. Beyond the window, the dead of night. A table pushed up against the wall. On it, in a pitcher, a bouquet of wildflowers and ferns. An inkwell, pen and stack of paper. She is wearing a modest at-home dress. Takes up the pen again, thinks, puts it to one side. Put up the window, sit by me.

I used to know A lot of things. But nowadays. Nine long months of lonely pain, Gazing at the vacant plain. Then from God on Christmas Eve She a daughter fair received: On that very morning, too, All her dreams at last came true. He whom she had been awaiting Faithfully anticipating, Her beloved father-tsar Came back home from travels far. Filled with joy that he was nigh, She could only heave a sigh. But her rapture was too great. She fell back upon her bed And by matins, she was dead.

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As the years went slowly by, Our tsarevna, young and shy. You know, nurse. Tatyana is alone. She descends a spiral staircase into the garden. What else is there To add, what else is there to say? Nervously rearranges her knick-knacks on the table Why did you ever visit us? In this forsaken country place I never would have known you then, Or known this bitter, bitter ache. The heavens chose my destiny And made me yours forevermore!

You filled my dreams and sweetest trances; As yet unseen. This was no dream. Listens in intently to the thinning night. Now the sharply- etched contours of the trees become visible in the bluish-yellow without music approach of dawn. As sometimes happens before sunrise, a light burst of wind rocks the tops of the trees, the garden sighs, precisely as if half asleep; then again, soundlessness. The outlines of the landscape become clearer and clearer.

And it was you I heard reply When I beseeched the quiet night, Or offered help to those in need, Or prayed to God that he might ease The anguish of my troubled soul. Sparrows have begun to chirp, somewhere in the distance the rim of a wheel creaks; a chorus of wooden rattles is heard, produced by the necks of cows being driven out to pasture. And even now, my precious vision, Did I not see your apparition Flit softly through the lucent night? Was it not you who seemed to hover Above my bed, an angel-lover To whisper hope and sweet delight?

Be kind. Returns to the house and climbs up the stairs to her room. Goes up to the table, dips pen in ink and quickly writes. During this time it has grown light outside the window. This may be raving — nothing more, Just words a foolish girl would say, While fate has something else in store. So be it then. I wait for you and your decision: Revive my hopes with just a sign Or halt this heavy dream of mine — Alas, with well-deserved derision. She puts the pen away, extinguishes the candles, re-reads.

How awful to re-read. I shrink with shame and fear. And I submit to it securely. She carries a tray with tea. Same table, same rocker. ONEGIN sits in front of the mirror, immersed in procedures for hair-cutting and the cleaning and polishing of nails. Jars — little jars — little powder- cases — scissors — tweezers — rough nail files — little suede pillows — little brushes etc. Having half opened one, he throws it out; does the same with another. Under the pile of foreign Reviews and Spectateurs, the letter with a pink paper seal, already familiar to the audience.

Is there. I know that now. All night and day. They say. And we. Why did you. Makes a sign for him to leave. ONEGIN takes hold of the letter with both hands, turns the No, to no page and reads it silently, raising his eyebrows. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a little chest. I now give my heart. The delicate sound of a key. For love offends these lovely ladies; They much prefer instilling fear. And what did I, amazed, discover? Tatyana And credulous, as blind as ever, between the The youthful lover, with his yen, lines Would chase deluded hope again.

Because she fails to see deception? Because her sweet and simple heart Believes that love is not a game? But the final page of the letter restrains his hand; 1 b. The letter remains on the table. Somehow he has to react to this letter. But how. He has no doubt about the essence of his answer. The whole question is the form he should choose for his explanation. He addresses himself to an invisible object: If I had wished to limit life To hearth and home and family ways, If I had. Gnaws his nails. Not right. With a sudden impulse Hear, if you will, my true confession no music And judge me then as you see fit.

He tones it down. With a touch a foppishness. But surely there is nothing worse Than families where the wretched wife, Attached to an unworthy spouse, Is left alone both day and night; Her husband, knowing well her virtues, Is still annoyed and curses fate, Is always sullen, angry, mute, A coldly jealous, selfish brute.

Well, such am I. And was it this For which your ardent spirit pined, When with such innocence of soul, Such strength of mind, you wrote. A sudden knock. LENSKY enters, shaking the powdery-thin coating of the first dusting of snow from the shoulders of his knee-length winter coat.

He is very animated and in cheerful spirits.

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  • And your sprightly Olga? Just half a glass. And her breast! And what a soul! Come visit, do! In fact — Good Lord, how dense I am! They just intend To have the family. Be a friend, Do me the favor. A robust and lengthy handshake. Beyond the door a brightly illuminated hall, only a part of which is visible to the spectator. In front of the door, a half-dark, small room, three walls of which come together at oblique angles. Beyond the threshold, the parquet floor has been cleared of objects but is filled with flickering figures, who are whirling around in a polka.

    To this side of the Polka threshold there are no people, but the space is full of all sorts of harpsichord offstage things. In the corner, a series of pot-bellied jugs, woven together with straw and twigs, empty and full, water bottles and other domestic utensils. In his haste his foot stumbles into a dish of cold aspic. Hissing some incomprehensible word through his teeth, he alternately wipes sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and the cold jelly from the braid of his pant leg — and again dives back into the polka.

    So judge yourself, what roses. And was it this polka For which your ardent spirit pined, When with such innocence of soul, Such strength of mind, you wrote to me? A black abyss Has opened up, it looms before me, But death from him is sweet release. He cannot give me happiness. Both are a little drunk. I call for strict. The pie was greasy. Notices some bottles in the corner Look here! A bottle sealed with pitch. From some quite gentlemanly distance. Twirls around to the sounds of the music, which are shifting from waltz to quadrille. Snapping his fingers I love their feet.

    Now sad and cold, I still lament those feet of old. Distracted by the movement of the dancers and the flashing of polka feet, he disappears into the dance hall. How he loved To goad two friends to start a fight, Then lead them to the dueling site. OLGA is insulted.

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    Scarce out of diapers waltz And turned coquette! A fickle child! Her face is full of touching compassion. Both stop and gaze at each other without speaking. Now something new will begin. The sound of instruments being tuned up suddenly breaks off. An auditory and visual pause. But then, from the depth of the hall, cheerful guffaws, followed by singing, whistling, barking and stamping. The stage rotates 60 degrees. The wall, dividing the half-volumed room from the hall, is now aligned sul perpendicularly to the spectator, who thus can see both the room ponticello and the hall.

    He wants some porridge, But the porridge was made yesterday, And yesterday it was eaten all up. The goblet, slipping from her hands, falls. The ball is already over. It is no longer night. The second roosters are crowing. In the pre- Tatyana, morning light, her figure can be clearly seen. She lies face-down with an on her hot pillow, still dressed in her white ballroom gown.

    Only admixture of tragizm one light slipper, having slid off her foot, lies near the couch on the floor. She is carrying a night- cape and slippers. Suddenly she jumps up. At that instant the dream visions, in a rage, disappear under the wallpaper and behind the pane of the window. I dreamt as if. Just tell me, dear one, what you need. Then suddenly a snow bank shuddered.

    I almost screamed! He growled and reared, Then offered me his sharp-clawed paw — I took it with a trembling hand And made my way across the torrent. I somehow reached the other side, And then I fled. There is no path. The woods, the hills, The dark ravines — all lie asleep, By snowy blizzards buried deep. I sink in snow. And then the bear Just scoops me up and rushes on. Along a forest road he surges, And then, mid trees, a hut emerges; Dense brush abounds; on every hand Forlorn and drifting snow banks stand.

    A tiny window glitters brightly, And from the hut come cries and din. The bear proclaims:. He pushes straightway through the door, Then lays me down upon the floor. The clink of glasses, shouts — confound me, As if it were a funeral feast. Around a table, in a ring, A horde of monsters shout and sing. More wondrous still and still more fearful: A crab upon a spider sat; Atop a goose a skull looked cheerful While spinning round in crimson hat.

    A windmill danced a rowdy jig! And cracked and waved its sails about. Guffawing, barking, whistles, claps, And human speech and hoofbeat taps! But, nanny, how would you react If, mid the guests, you recognized The one you feared and idolized, The very one who. He glances slyly at the door. He gives a sign — the others hustle; He drinks — and all the others swill; He laughs — they all guffaw and bustle; He frowns — and all of them go still. A sudden gust of wind surprises The band of goblins, blowing out The nighttime lanterns all about. His eyes ablaze, Onegin rises And strikes his chair against the floor.

    All rise; he marches to the door. He opens wide the door, revealing To monstrous leers and hellish squealing Where I was crouched. Fierce cackles sound In savage glee; all eyes turn round, All hooves and trunks — grotesque and curving, All whiskers, tusks and tufted tails. Her reserve of images dries up. While I was left there, barely standing, Alone with him in freezing gloom. A quarrel starts, think about this The heated words grow louder, quicken; Onegin snatches up a knife; Poor Lensky falls.

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    The shadows thicken; A rending cry amid the strife Rang out. The cabin shook. I screamed And woke in terror. Through a thin spread of leafless trees, a dam is visible near a frozen river that skirts the edge of the forest; the wings of a windmill are lifted to the sky, plastered with snow and frozen icicles. The wind whips around clods of snow and sways the tops of the trees. Evidently a blizzard is starting up.

    The opponents are already at their places. The wind rips at the edges of the frock-coats and fur overcoats thrown down on the barrier — the sort of weather when one wants either to kill, or be killed, as soon as possible. No time to put it right. The opponents each take four steps toward each other. He holds it there until the fifth step.

    With his help, they carry away the corpse. But now, as in a house deserted, Within it — all lies hushed and dark, Gone silent and forever stark. The window boards have been inserted, The panes chalked white. No trace is left. The wind sways the trunks of the trees ever more strongly. Both in the [stage] space and in the music, the symphony of the snowstorm grows. But it faces the spectator from another angle, so that the door, which earlier was deep in the interior and led to the outside, is now shown from the side, and this door, opened to the neighboring room, shows the room in perspective.

    The house is abandoned. The owner is gone. This is apparent from the already frozen state of disorder and from the dust that covers things with a gray shroud. In the middle of the stage the rocking chair, already no music? It is motionless. Behind the door leading to the neighboring room, the end of a billiard cue juts out, blocking the way. On the table, among overturned jars and empty flasks, there are two or three books; one of them is open and lies spine- upward.

    At first the house is silent. Even the wall clock, which has lost its ticking mechanism, has fallen silent and its pendulum hangs down motionless. The sound of opening doors — first one, then others. She is wearing a fur cape; on her hands, mittens. Meeting her gaze are the blind windows, piled up with snow.

    She runs her fingers over the spine of the book. Moves aside the billiard cue obstructing the path. For several seconds she disappears behind the door. Once more she does the rounds of the place. On the wall, under a net protecting it from flies, is a portrait of Byron. She examines it carefully.

    On the table, alongside an inkwell, a waist-high bust of Napoleon, his cast-iron arms crossed. Falls into thought. In the distance, the weak and trembling ringing of a church bell. Probably somebody is being buried. Goes up to the window and outlines on its frosty patterns: E and O. Now and then the dried-out floor crackles.

    Fingers the books and leafs through them. Gets up.

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    Goes up to the fireplace. Stirs the grey coals with the tongs. The cast-off fireplace tongs ring maybe sharply against the grate. Goes up to the bust of Napoleon. Slowly and clearly articulated. Or something else? An imitation? On the verge of starting off toward the door, she remembers something, walks with quick steps to the window. A thinned-out patch of light appears, through which the winter sun breaks through. The peasant, festive, but in any Creates a passage with his sleigh; case without Sensing the snow, his horse is restive, music And canters briskly down the way. A bold kibitka skips and burrows And plows a trail of fluffy furrows; The coachman sits behind the dash In sheepskin coat and scarlet sash.

    A peasant lad is outside sleighing, His dog is seated on the sled, While he plays horse and runs ahead.


    The rascal froze his fingers playing And laughs out loud between his howls, While at the window mother scowls. Farewell, fond nature. I leave your world of quiet joys For empty glitter, fuss and noise. Farewell, my freedom, deeply cherished! Oh, where and why do I now flee? End with And what does Fate prepare for me? From the deepest bass the bells start of [the Belltower of] Ivan the Great to the fragile descants of the bells mounted on the tiny gate-tower churches. A carriage, an invisible carriage, is racing through the night, coming closer and closer.

    Day begins. Showing Rating details. All Languages. More filters. Sort order. Vlada rated it really liked it Nov 01, SavAnna rated it it was amazing Aug 14, Masha rated it it was amazing Aug 07, Olga Ravina rated it it was amazing Nov 30, Cristina Bracho Carrillo rated it it was amazing Jan 22, Inessa rated it it was ok Jan 17, Anastasia I. Nadezhda Nemirova marked it as to-read Nov 30, Marlena marked it as to-read Apr 11, Alexey Shishkin added it Sep 09, Ekaterina marked it as to-read Dec 31, There are no discussion topics on this book yet. About Jacob Grimm. Jacob Grimm.

    He is best known as the discoverer of Grimm's Law, the author of the monumental German Dictionary , his Deutsche Mythologie and more popularly, with his brother Wilhelm , as one of the Brothers Grimm, as the editor of Grimm's Fairy Tales. From Wikipedia. Books by Jacob Grimm. No trivia or quizzes yet.

    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)
    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)
    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)
    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)
    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)
    Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition) Сладкая каша (перевод П.Н. Полевого) (Russian Edition)

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