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Category: 2011 Xmas

Russian Winter in Arts: Boris Pasternak – Winter Night

Egon Schiele, Embrace (Lovers)
Marc Chagall, Green Lovers

Boris Pasternak – Winter Night

Sweeping, sweeping all earth’s corners
Came the snowstorm turning;
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

As in summer swarms of midges
Draw towards the flame,
From outside there flocked the snowflakes
To the window pane.

On the window circles, arrows,
Marked the snowstorm’s churning;
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

And across the brightened ceiling
Fell the shadows’ spate:
Arms cross-wise and legs cross-wise
In a cross-wise fate.

With a thud upon the floor
A pair of shoes fell down;
Waxen teardrops from the night-light
Dripped upon a gown.

All was lost in snowy darkness,
In the white hoar whirling.
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

Corner-draughts caught at the flame
As temptation’s fire
Raised a pair of angels’ wings
Like a cross afire.

All through February the snow swept:
Sometimes in its turning
On the table burned a candle,
Stood a candle burning.

Translated by Henry Kamen, 1962.

Original Russian text.

Мело, мело по всей земле 
Во все пределы. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
Как летом роем мошкора 
Летит на пламя, 
Слетались хлопья со двора 
К оконной раме. 

Simone Lipschitz, Lovers

Метель лепила на столе 
Кружки и стрелы. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
На озаренный потолок 
Ложились тени, 
Скрещенья рук, скркщенья ног, 
Судьбы скрещенья. 
И падали два башмачка 
Со стуком на пол, 
И воск слезами с ночника 
На платье капал. 
И все терялось в снежной мгле 
Седой и белой. 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела. 
На свечку дуло из угла, 
И жар соблазна 
Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла 
Крестообразно. 
Мело весь месяц в феврале, 
И то и дело 
Свеча горела на столе, 
Свеча горела.

Борис Пастернак, 1946. 

Russian Winter in Arts: Isaac Levitan – A Boulevard at Evening (1883)

Juxtaposing Isaac Levitan’s painting and Vladimir Gilyarovsky’s book, what can we learn about Moscow life in 1880s?

Isaac Levitan – A Boulevard at the Evening (1883)

Even today Moscow boulevards will look exactly the same at dusk: trees, benches, people gradually disappearing from the streets… However, the painting by Isaac Levitan was made at the same time when Vladimir Gilyarovsky, a famous intrepid journalist, was exploring the dark corners of Moscow. The stories from 1880s make the bulk of his well-known book, Moscow and Muscovites, and according to Gilyarovsky, this was the time like no other. For instance, we may assume that the evening depicted by Levitan was supposed to change into a moonless night, and so, according to the Duma calendar, the lights were lit on. If the Moon was expected, the lights remained turned off, despite other possible weather mishaps, like fog, heavy rain, or snow. Very similar to other big cities, Moscow had a very peculiar and unique “underground” life where criminals and prostitutes ruled the world. Many boulevards, therefore, were not the place to have a walk in the evening. Even Gilyarovsky, who was well-known among the outcasts, had to wear brass knuckles when he had to return home late.

As you read Moscow and Muscovites, you begin to wonder: how on Earth had the city endured the theft and murders, and why the criminals seemed to have been virtually untouchable? Surely, people who were often barely dressed and nearly always drunk could not be driven to seek safety by a mere impulse to self-preservation. The answer is entirely political. Following the assassination of Alexander II in March 1881, the new Emperor and Government brought in strict measures against all suspected “revolutionaries”. Strangely or not, prostitutes and those who rented out spaces in communal flats were considered the most “politically reliable” and were thus protected by the police. They were even notified of upcoming raids.

By the way, just like me, Vladimir Gilyarovsky is a Sagittarius, and quite a typical one: intrepid, on the lookout for truth, smart, open to people, with a keen interest in crime. My Grandma studied Criminal Law, and I very nearly followed into her footsteps. Thankfully, I realised there was a no less meaningful and adrenaline-filled way of enjoying mystery, people, truth, and travel, and that was the field of historical research and literature.

Russian Winter in Arts: Alexander Pushkin – Winter Evening

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they are like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child;

Now along the brittle thatches
They will scud with rustling sound,
Now against the window latches
Like belated wanderers pound. 

Our frail hut is glum and sullen,
Dim with twilight and with care.
Why, dear granny, have you fallen
Silent by the window there?

Has the gale’s insistent prodding
Made your drowsing senses numb,
Are you lulled to gentle nodding
By the whirling spindle’s hum?

Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.

Sing me of the tomtit hatching
Safe beyond the ocean blue,
Sing about the maiden fetching
Water at the morning dew.

Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they sound like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child.

Let us drink for grief, let’s drown it,
Comrade of my wretched youth,
Where’s the jar? Pour out and down it,
Wine will make us less uncouth.

Translated by Walter Arndt
Russian Legacy.com

Russian Winter in Arts: Alexander Pushkin – Winter Morning

Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder!
But you, my friend, are still in slumber –
Wake up, my beauty, time belies:
You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden
Toward the northerly Aurora,
As though a northern star arise!

Recall last night, the snow was whirling,
Across the sky, the haze was twirling,
The moon, as though a pale dye,
Emerged with yellow through faint clouds.
And there you sat, immersed in doubts,
And now, – just take a look outside:

The snow below the bluish skies,
Like a majestic carpet lies,
And in the light of day it shimmers.
The woods are dusky. Through the frost
The greenish fir-trees are exposed;
And under ice, a river glitters.

The room is lit with amber light.
And bursting, popping in delight
Hot stove still rattles in a fray.
While it is nice to hear its clatter,
Perhaps, we should command to saddle
A fervent mare into the sleight?

And sliding on the morning snow
Dear friend, we’ll let our worries go,
And with the zealous mare we’ll flee.
We’ll visit empty ranges, thence,
The woods, which used to be so dense
And then the shore, so dear to me.

Russian Legacy.com

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