Кэролин Уэллс

«Очерк юмора: Хроника от доисторических времен до двадцатого века»

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On Negroes, and the Press;

When there is any fear of Rome,

Or any hope of Spain;

When Ireland is a happy home,

I may be yours again!

When you can cancel what has been,

Or alter what must be,

Or bring once more that vanished scene,

Those withered joys to me;

When you can tune the broken lute,

Or deck the blighted wreath,

Or rear the garden’s richest fruit,

Upon a blasted heath;

When you can lure the wolf at bay

Back to his shattered chain,

To-day may then be yesterday—

I may be yours again!

Уильям Мейкпис Теккерей, сочетая в своем творчестве все высочайшие умственные и моральные качества, добавляет к ним тонкий и едва уловимый юмор, никогда не грубый, но всегда убедительный и оригинальный.

Это пронизывает все его романы, которые, конечно, не могут быть процитированы здесь, даже в отрывках.

Но Теккерей был одинаково удачлив в стихах, и его вклад в лондонский «Панч» является одним из сокровищ истории этого журнала.

МАЛЕНЬКИЙ БИЛЛИ

There were three sailors of Bristol City

Who took a boat and went to sea,

But first with beef and captain’s biscuits,

And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,

And the youngest he was little Billee.

Now when they’d got as far as the Equator

They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“I am extremely hungaree.”

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,

“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“With one another we shouldn’t agree!

There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,

We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”

“O Billy! we’re going to kill and eat you,

So undo the button of your chemie.”

When Bill received this information,

He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism,

Which my poor mother taught to me.”

“Make haste! make haste!” says guzzling Jimmy,

While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,

And down he fell on his bended knee,

He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment

When up he jumps—“There’s land I see!”

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee,

There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,

With Sir Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s,

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,

But as for little Bill, he made him

The captain of a Seventy-three.

НОВАЯ БАЛЛАДА ВУЛФА О ДЖЕЙН РОНИ И МЭРИ БРАУН

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—

I stood in the Court of A’Beckett the Beak,

Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,

Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin’ of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once,

And she came to Mrs. Roney it’s more than twelve monce

She adn’t got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,

And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks

(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),

She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,

Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

“Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;

Will you jest step to the doctor’s for to fetch me a pill?”

“That I will, my pore Mary,” Mrs. Roney says she:

And she goes off to the doctor’s as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,

Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;

She hopens all the trunks without never a key—

She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney’s best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,

Her children’s little coats and things, her boots and her hose,

She packed them, and she stole ’em, and avay vith them did flee

Mrs. Roney’s situation—you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,

Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,

Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?

But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;

They were going to be married, and were walkin’ hand in hand;

And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,

And the parson was ready, and a waitin’ for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,

Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.

She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;

I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,

I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,

But the marriage bell is ringin’ and the ring you may see,

And this young man is a waitin’ says Mary, says she.

I don’t care three fardens for the parson and clark,

And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.

Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.

And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary’s cheek,

I took that young gurl to A’Beckett the Beak;

That exlent justice demanded her plea—

But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile,

That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,

And if she’s transpawted beyond the salt sea,

It’s a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,

From pickin’ and stealin’ your ’ands you must keep,

Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek

To pull you all hup to A’Beckett the Beak.

КОГДА ЛУНОПОДОБНО НАД ЛАЗУРНЫМИ МОРЯМИ

When moonlike ore the hazure seas

In soft effulgence swells,

When silver jews and balmy breaze

Bend down the Lily’s bells;

When calm and deap, the rosy sleap

Has lapt your soal in dreems,

R Hangeline! R lady mine!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble ’all,

Where England’s loveliest shine—

I say the fairest of them hall

Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems—

And then I hask, with weeping lips,

Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall

This soughring heart endures—

There is a lonely sperrit-call

That Sorrow never cures;

There is a little, little Star,

That still above me beams;

It is the Star of Hope—but ar!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

СТРАДАНИЯ ВЕРТЕРА

Werther had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter.

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther,

And, for all the wealth of Indies,

Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,

And his passion boiled and bubbled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person

Went on cutting bread and butter.

Чарльз Диккенс, в некотором смысле величайший юморист мира, слишком нарицательное имя, чтобы нуждаться в представлении или цитировании.

Также нелегко цитировать его книги, которые должны быть прочитаны целиком или длинными частями, чтобы понять их послание.

Приведен один короткий отрывок из «Мартина Чезлвита».

КВАРТИРА МИССИС ГЭМП

Квартира миссис Гэмп на Кингсгейт-стрит, Хай-Хоберн, носила, метафорически выражаясь, парадное облачение. Она была подметена и прибрана для приема посетителя. Этим посетителем была Бетси Приг; миссис Приг из Бартлеми; или, как говорили некоторые, Барклеми; или, как говорили некоторые, Бардлеми; ибо всеми этими милыми и знакомыми именами больница Святого Варфоломея стала нарицательным в сестринстве, которое украшала Бетси Приг.

Квартира миссис Гэмп не была просторной, но для довольного ума и чулан — дворец; и комната на втором этаже у мистера Свидлпайпа могла быть, в воображении миссис Гэмп, величественным зданием. Если это было не совсем так для беспокойных умов, то, по крайней мере, она включала столько удобств, сколько любой человек, не склонный к безумию, мог ожидать от комнаты таких размеров. Ибо просто держите кровать всегда в уме, и вы в безопасности. Это был великий секрет. Помня о кровати, вы могли даже наклониться, чтобы заглянуть под маленький круглый стол в поисках чего-то, что вы уронили, не причинив себе особого вреда о комод или не квалифицировавшись как пациент Святого Варфоломея, упав в огонь. Посетителям очень помогали в их осторожных усилиях сохранить неугасимое воспоминание об этом предмете мебели его размеры, которые были велики. Это была не откидная кровать, не французская кровать и не кровать с четырьмя стойками, а то, что поэтично называют тентовой; мешковина которой была низкой и выпуклой, настолько, что ящик мистера Гэмпа не проходил под нее, а останавливался на полпути, что, будучи насилием над разумом, также подвергало опасности ноги незнакомца. Каркас, который поддерживал бы балдахин и занавески, если бы они были, был украшен разнообразными яблочками, вырезанными из дерева, которые при малейшем раздражении, а часто и вовсе без него, с грохотом падали вниз, изводя мирного гостя необъяснимыми ужасами. Сама кровать была украшена лоскутным одеялом великой древности; а в изголовье, со стороны, ближайшей к двери, висела скудная занавеска из синей клетки, которая мешала зефирам, гулявшим по Кингсгейт-стрит, слишком грубо посещать голову миссис Гэмп.

Стулья в квартире миссис Гэмп были чрезвычайно большими и с широкими спинками, что было более чем достаточной причиной для того, чтобы их было всего два. Оба они были креслами из старого красного дерева и были ценны главным образом скользким характером своих сидений, которые изначально были из конского волоса, но теперь были покрыты блестящим веществом голубоватого оттенка, с которого посетитель начинал соскальзывать с испуганным лицом сразу после того, как садился. То, чего миссис Гэмп не хватало в стульях, она восполняла шляпными картонками, которых у нее была большая коллекция, предназначенная для приема различных мелких ценностей, которые, однако, не были так хорошо защищены, как добрая женщина, по приятному вымыслу, казалось, думала; ибо хотя каждая картонка имела тщательно закрытую крышку, ни одна из них не имела дна, по какой причине имущество внутри было просто, так сказать, погашено. Комод, изначально сделанный так, чтобы стоять на вершине другого комода, имел карликовый, эльфийский вид в одиночестве; но в отношении безопасности он имел большое преимущество перед картонками, ибо, поскольку все ручки были давно оторваны, добраться до его содержимого было очень трудно. Это, действительно, можно было сделать только одним из двух способов: либо наклонив всю конструкцию вперед, пока все ящики не выпадали вместе, либо открывая их по отдельности ножами, как устрицы.

Миссис Гэмп хранила все свои домашние дела в маленьком шкафчике у камина; начиная под поверхностью (как в природе) с угля и постепенно поднимаясь вверх к спиртному, которое из соображений деликатности она держала в чайнике. Каминная полка была украшена альманахом; она также была украшена тремя профилями; один, в цвете, самой миссис Гэмп в молодости; один, в бронзе, дамы в перьях, предположительно миссис Харрис, в том виде, в каком она появилась, когда была одета для бала; и один, в черном, покойного мистера Гэмпа. Последний был в полный рост, чтобы сходство можно было сделать более очевидным и убедительным путем введения деревянной ноги. Пара мехов, пара калош, вилка для тостов, чайник, ложка для приема лекарств непокорными и, наконец, зонтик миссис Гэмп, который, как нечто большой ценности и редкости, был выставлен с особой помпой, завершали украшения каминной полки и прилегающей стены.

Уильям Эдмонстоун Эйтон и Теодор Мартин, два молодых человека с блестящим умом, создали вместе сборник бурлеска и пародий, известный как «Баллады Бона Готье».

В то время, в середине восемнадцатого века, пародия была очень в моде. Баллады были причудливыми и в целом добрыми. Они были чрезвычайно популярны, настолько же, насколько «Отвергнутые адреса», но сегодня они кажутся скучными и довольно тщетными.

Еще одной модой того дня был батос, примером которого является следующее.

ПЕТИЦИЯ МУЖА

Come hither, my heart’s darling,

Come, sit upon my knee,

And listen, while I whisper

A boon I ask of thee.

You need not pull my whiskers

So amorously, my dove;

’T is something quite apart from

The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving—

A dark and deep desire,

That glows beneath my bosom

Like coals of kindled fire.

The passion of the nightingale,

When singing to the rose,

Is feebler than the agony

That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,

Though madly thus I speak—

I feel thy arms about me,

Thy tresses on my cheek:

I know the sweet devotion

That links thy heart with mine,—

I know my soul’s emotion

Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow

Hath fallen across my love:

No, sweet, my love is shadowless,

As yonder heaven above.

These little taper fingers—

Ah, Jane! how white they be!—

Can well supply the cruel want

That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me

My first and fond request;

I pray thee, by the memory

Of all we cherish best—

By all the dear remembrance

Of those delicious days,

When, hand in hand, we wandered

Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,

When ’neath the early moon,

We sat beside the rivulet,

In the leafy month of June;

And by the broken whisper

That fell upon my ear,

More sweet than angel-music,

When first I woo’d thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee

For ever to my side,

And by the ring that made thee

My darling and my bride!

Thou wilt not fail nor falter,

But bend thee to the task—

A boiled sheep’s-head on Sunday

Is all the boon I ask!

Этот отрывок из длинной поэмы под названием:

ПЕСНЬ О ЛЮБОВНОМ СТРАДАЛЬЦЕ. ПАРОДИЯ НА «ЛОКСЛИ-ХОЛЛ» ТЕННИСОНА

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,

I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air

Whether ’t was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!

When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I’m to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock,

Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes—

Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,

Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

O, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!

I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat I’ve bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy,—frailer than a shilling glove,

Puppet to a father’s anger,—minion to a nabob’s love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever

Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,

Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old;

And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then

Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no,—

Bless your soul, it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies,

He will understand thee, won’t he?—pay thee with a lover’s glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,

Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge

Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood

Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better, thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead,

With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!

Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!

Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!

Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!

Чарльз Кингсли, священник с достижениями, обладал тем же типом причудливого юмора, что и более поздний и великий Льюис Кэрролл.

Его «Водяные дети», из которых приведен короткий отрывок, являются классикой детской литературы.

БОЛЕЗНЬ ПРОФЕССОРА

Говорят, что никто еще не видел водяного ребенка. Что касается меня, я верю, что натуралисты получают их десятками, когда они занимаются дноуглубительными работами, но они ничего о них не говорят и выбрасывают их обратно за борт, из страха испортить свои теории. Но вы видите, профессор был разоблачен, как и каждый в свое время. Очень страшная старая фея разоблачила профессора. Она прощупала его шишки, составила его натальную карту и тщательно измерила его лунные циклы внутри и снаружи; и поэтому она знала, что он сделает, так же хорошо, как если бы она видела это в печатной книге, как говорят в дорогом старом западном крае. И он сделал это. И поэтому он был разоблачен заранее, как и все всегда; и старая фея когда-нибудь разоблачит натуралистов и поместит их в «Таймс»; и тогда на чьей стороне будет смех?

Поэтому всех врачей в стране вызвали, чтобы составить отчет о его случае; и, конечно, каждый из них прямо противоречил другому: иначе какая польза быть людьми науки? Но в конце концов большинство согласилось на отчете, на истинном медицинском языке, наполовину плохой латыни, наполовину худшем греческом, а остальное — то, что могло бы быть английским, если бы они только научились его писать. И вот начало его:

«Субангипапосупернальные анастомозы перитомического диацеллюрита в энцефало-цифровой области выдающегося индивидуума, о симптоматических явлениях которого мы имели печальную честь (после предварительного диагностического осмотра) сделать инспекционный диагноз, представляя интерэксклюзивно четырехугольный и антиномический диатез, известный как синие фолликулы Бампстерхаузена, мы приступили——»

Но к чему они приступили, моя леди никогда не знала, ибо она была так напугана длинными словами, что побежала спасаться и заперлась в своей спальне, из страха быть раздавленной словами и задушенной предложением. Удав, сказала она, был достаточно плохой компанией; но что такое удав, сделанный из булыжников?

«Это было просто шокирующе! Что, по их мнению, с ним не так?» — сказала она старой няне.

«Что его ум просто сгнил; может быть, от неверия и язычества», — сказала она.

«Тогда почему они не могут так сказать?»

И небо, и море, и скалы, и долины вторили: «Почему, действительно?» Но врачи их никогда не слышали.

Поэтому она заставила сэра Джона написать в «Таймс», чтобы приказать канцлеру казначейства того времени ввести налог на длинные слова:

Легкий налог на слова более трех слогов, которые являются необходимым злом, как крысы, но, как и они, должны сдерживаться разумно.

Тяжелый налог на слова более четырех слогов, такие как гетеродоксия, спонтанность, спиритуализм, ложность и т. д.

А на слова более пяти слогов (примеров которых, надеюсь, никто не захочет видеть) — полностью запретительный налог.

И аналогичный запретительный налог на слова, производные от трех или более языков сразу, слова, производные от двух языков, стали настолько обычными, что не было больше надежды искоренить их, чем искоренить сорняки.

Канцлер казначейства, будучи ученым и здравомыслящим человеком, ухватился за эту идею, ибо увидел в ней единственный план отмены Списка D. Но когда он внес свой законопроект, большинство ирландских членов, и (мне жаль это говорить) некоторые шотландские тоже, выступили против него самым решительным образом на том основании, что в свободной стране никто не обязан ни понимать себя, ни позволять другим понимать его. Так что законопроект провалился при первом чтении, и канцлер, будучи философом, утешил себя мыслью, что это не первый раз, когда женщина придумала великую идею, а мужчины воротили от нее свои глупые носы.

Альфреду, лорду Теннисону, некоторыми приписывается дар юмора, но его другие качества настолько затмевают его, что его забавные кусочки трудно найти. Умеренно смешная поэма:

ГУСЬ

I knew an old wife lean and poor,

Her rags scarce held together;

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,

He utter’d rhyme and reason,

“Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,

It is a stormy season.”

She caught the white goose by the leg,

A goose—’twas no great matter.

The goose let fall a golden egg

With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,

And ran to tell her neighbours;

And bless’d herself, and cursed herself,

And rested from her labours.

And feeding high and living soft,

Grew plump and able-bodied;

Until the grave churchwarden doff’d,

The parson smirk’d and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,

She felt her heart grow prouder:

But, ah! the more the white goose laid

It clack’d and cackled louder.

It clutter’d here, it chuckled there;

It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle;

She shifted in her elbow-chair,

And hurl’d the pan and kettle.

“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!”

Then wax’d her anger stronger.

“Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,

I will not bear it longer.”

Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat;

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.

The goose flew this way and flew that,

And fill’d the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor

They flounder’d all together,

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter’d words of scorning;

“So keep you cold, or keep you warm,

It is a stormy morning.”

The wild wind rang from park and plain,

And round the attics rumbled,

Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,

The blast was hard and harder.

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,

And a whirlwind cleared the larder.

And while on all sides breaking loose,

Her household fled the danger,

Quoth she, “The devil take the goose,

And God forget the stranger!”

Роберт Браунинг, хотя его вряд ли можно назвать юмористическим поэтом, обладал тонким остроумием и быстрым и гибким чувством причудливости.

Его «Гамельнский крысолов», написанный, чтобы развлечь больного ребенка Макриди, является шедевром тихого юмора. Его сатирическая жилка проявлена в:

ПАПА И СЕТЬ

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,

Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:

His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head;

Each wings at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead

Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs:

“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince—it is indeed a rise:

So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set

Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met

His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:

“The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “’Tis my advice.”

So Pope he was: and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on—

To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone—

That guarantee of lowlihead,—eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!

I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.

Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”

Фредерик Локер-Лэмпсон, хотя и следовал по стопам Прада, был более известным автором стихотворений, известных как светская поэзия.

В английском языке нет эквивалента французскому термину, и попытки придумать его обычно заканчиваются неудачей. «Светские стихи», «фамильярные стихи», «окказиональные стихи» — каждому из них не хватает некоторой доли истинного значения.

Локер-Лэмпсон, сам проницательный и строгий критик, наставляет нас, что такие стихи должны быть короткими, изящными, утонченными и причудливыми, нередко отличаться возвышенным чувством и часто быть игривыми.

Но, по правде говоря, игривость и легкий, яркий юмор являются более характерными качествами светской поэзии, чем это постулируется в данном определении.

Остроумие — это ключевая нота, а веселье — подтекст лучшего материала, так часто собираемого под этим названием; и Локер-Лэмпсон составил первый и, пожалуй, лучший сборник под названием «Lyra Elegantiarum».

Типичным для всего того, что составляет лучшую форму светской поэзии, является его стихотворение,

БОТИНКИ МОЕЙ ДАМЫ

They nearly strike me dumb,

And I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat;

This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine’s—

Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win

So delectable a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perished, so you did,

For my sweet!

The faëry stitching gleams

On the sides, and in the seams,

And it shows

The Pixies were the wags

Who tipt those funny tags

And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf!

Had Crusoe, sick of self,

Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

Oh, how hard he would have tried

For the two!

For Gerry’s debonair

And innocent, and fair

As a rose;

She’s an angel in a frock,

With a fascinating cock

To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze

Their extremities to please

Mandarins,

Would positively flinch

From venturing to pinch

Geraldine’s.

Cinderella’s lefts and rights,

To Geraldine’s were frights;

And I trow,

The damsel, deftly shod,

Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits

Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)

These to don;

Set this dainty hand awhile

On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll

Put them on.

О ЧУВСТВЕ ЮМОРА

He cannot be complete in aught

Who is not humorously prone;

A man without a merry thought

Can hardly have a funny-bone.

НЕКОТОРЫЕ ДАМЫ

Some ladies now make pretty songs,

And some make pretty nurses;

Some men are great at righting wrongs

And some at writing verses.

УЖАСНЫЙ РЕБЕНОК

I recollect a nurse call’d Ann,

Who carried me about the grass,

And one fine day a fine young man

Came up, and kiss’d the pretty lass.

She did not make the least objection!

Thinks I, “Aha!

When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma”

—And that’s my earliest recollection.

Чарльза Стюарта Кэлверли называют принцем пародистов, но его гений заслуживает гораздо большей похвалы.

Его серьезные работы высокого уровня, но именно за юмористические стихи его больше всего любят и ценят.

Его пародии, демонстрируя лучшие и тончайшие качества бурлеска, в то же время являются самостоятельными стихотворениями, обладающими изысканным остроумием и спонтанным юмором, которые редко кому удавалось превзойти.

Одна из лучших — баллада, в которой манера Россетти спародирована в самом духе.

БАЛЛАДА

ЧАСТЬ I

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

A thing she had frequently done before;

And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hilltop high,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose asked “Why?”

And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard—

The connection of which the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies.

As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

If you try to approach her, away she skips

Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,

Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

ЧАСТЬ II

She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks

There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She gave up mending her father’s breeks,

And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;

Then she follow’d him o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

Столь же удивительна по своей уверенной манере и полному отсутствию простого бурлескного преувеличения его пародия на Браунинга.

ПЕТУХ И БЫК

You see this pebble-stone? It’s a thing I bought

Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day.

I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech,

As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur—

(You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?)

Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days.

Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,

And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same

By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange—

“Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term—

One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm.

O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four

Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—

What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock,

One day (and what a roaring day it was

Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o’ rain!)

In February, eighteen, sixty-nine,

Alexandria Victoria, Fidei—

Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,

The basis or substratum—what you will—

Of the impending eighty thousand lines.

“Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge.

But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit.

Mark first the rationale of the thing:

Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.

That shilling—and for matter o’ that, the pence—

I had o’ course upo’ me—wi’ me say—

(Mecum’s the Latin, make a note o’ that)

When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout,

(Let everybody wipe his own himself)

Sniff’d—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, teheed,

Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing),

Then fumbled at and stumbled out of, door.

I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat;

And in vestibulo, i’ the lobby to wit

(Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir),

Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes,

And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,

One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand,

And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain,

I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes

(I do assure you there be ten of them),

And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale

To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy.

But case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought

This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy,

This pebble thing, o’ the boy-thing? Q. E. D.

That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope,

Sleek proporate or bloated Cardinal.

(Isn’t it, old Fatchaps? You’re in Euclid now.)

So, having the shilling—having i’ fact a lot—

And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them,

I purchased, as I think I said before,

The pebble (lapis, lapidis,-di,-dem,-de—

What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)

O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun,

For one and fourpence. Here we are again.

Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d;

Investigates and re-investigates.

Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head

Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.

But now (by virtue of the said exchange

And barter) vice versa all the coin,

Per juris operationem, vests

I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom;

(In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum;

I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)

To have and hold the same to him and them.

Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.

Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,

And all that appertaineth thereunto,

Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem

(I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat),

Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should

(Subaudi cætera—clap we to the close—

For what’s the good of Law in a case o’ the kind),

Is mine to all intents and purposes.

This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale.

Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality.

He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him

(This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand),

And paid for’t, like a gen’lman, on the nail.

“Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit.

Fiddlepin’s end! Get out, you blazing ass!

Gabble o’ the goose. Don’t bugaboo-baby me!

Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?”

There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,

With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes,

The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap—Faugh!

Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοι

(’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now),

And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill,

Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.

Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.

He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad

A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square,

And carry it off per saltum, jauntily,

Propria quae maribus, gentleman’s property now

(Agreeably to the law explain’d above),

In proprium usum, for his private ends,

The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit

I’ the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone

At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by

(And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door),

Then abiit—what’s the Ciceronian phrase?—

Excessit, evasit, erupit—off slogs boy;

Off like bird, avi similis—you observed

The dative? Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)—Anglice

Off in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far,

So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,—

Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag?

I did once hitch the syntax into verse:

Verbum personale, a verb personal,

Concordat—ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps—cum

Nominativo, with its nominative,

Genere, i’ point o’ gender, numero,

O’ number, et persona, and person. Ut,

Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and,

Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah!

Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad.

You see the trick on ’t though, and can yourself

Continue the discourse ad libitum.

It takes up about eighty thousand lines,

A thing imagination boggles at;

And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,

Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

В то время как стиль Джин Инджелоу таким образом добродушно высмеивается.

ВЛЮБЛЕННЫЕ И РАЗМЫШЛЕНИЕ

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter

(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;

Meaning, however, is no great matter)

Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Through God’s own heather we wonned together,

I and my Willie (O love my love):

I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,

And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing

(Boats in that climate are so polite),

And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,

And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Through the rare red heather we danced together,

(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:

I must mention again it was glorious weather,

Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:—

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,

Through becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen,

We walked or waded, we two young shavers,

Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,

In “fortunate parallels!” Butterflies,

Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly

Or marjoram, kept making peacock’s eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky

As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;

Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—

They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,

Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem;

They need no parasols, no galoshes;

And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst his heather)

That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;

And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—

Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie ’gan sing—(O, his notes were fluty;

Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—

Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,

Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry”:

Bowers of flowers encountered showers

In William’s carol (O love my Willie!)

When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe To-morrow

I quite forget what—say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,”

I think occurred next in his nimble strain;

And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden—

A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,

And all least furlable things got “furled”;

Not with any design to conceal their glories,

But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”

*****

O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,

And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,

Could be furled together this genial weather,

And carted, or carried on wafts away,

Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!

How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be!

ОДА ТАБАКУ

Thou who, when fears attack,

Bid’st them avaunt, and Black

Care, at the horseman’s back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet when the morn is gray;

Sweet, when they’ve cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old

For thee, though manifold

Stories, I know, are told,

Not to thy credit;

How one (or two at most)

Drops make a cat a ghost—

Useless, except to roast—

Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees

All grow by slow degrees

Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;

Go mad, and beat their wives;

Plunge (after shocking lives)

Razors and carving-knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six

Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbors;

Jones—(who, I’m glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose

Cooked by tobacco-juice;

Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?

We’re not as tabbies are:

Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here’s to thee, Bacon!

Чарльз Лютвидж Доджсон более известен как Льюис Кэрролл, хотя при жизни автор «Алисы» крайне тщательно соблюдал четкое различие между университетским преподавателем и автором нонсенса.

Льюис Кэрролл первым создал связный юмор в форме чистого нонсенса, и его работа, которой часто подражали, никогда не была превзойдена.

Помимо книг об «Алисе», он написал несколько томов, лишь немногим менее мудрых и остроумных в жанре нонсенса.

Но можно привести лишь немногие отрывки.

БАРМАГЛОТ (из книги «Алиса в Зазеркалье»)

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

ПУТИ И СРЕДСТВА

I’ll tell thee everything I can;

There’s little to relate.

I saw an aged aged man,

A-sitting on a gate.

“Who are you, aged man?” I said,

“And how is it you live?”

His answer trickled through my head

Like water through a sieve.

He said, “I look for butterflies

That sleep among the wheat:

I make them into mutton-pies,

And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men,” he said,

“Who sail on stormy seas;

And that’s the way I get my bread—

A trifle, if you please.”

But I was thinking of a plan

To dye one’s whiskers green,

And always use so large a fan

That they could not be seen.

So, having no reply to give

To what the old man said,

I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!”

And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale;

He said, “I go my ways

And when I find a mountain-rill

I set it in a blaze;

And thence they make a stuff they call

Rowland’s Macassar Oil—

Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

They give me for my toil.”

But I was thinking of a way

To feed oneself on batter,

And so go on from day to day

Getting a little fatter.

I shook him well from side to side,

Until his face was blue;

“Come, tell me how you live,” I cried,

“And what it is you do!”

He said, “I hunt for haddock’s eyes

Among the heather bright,

And work them into waistcoat-buttons

In the silent night.

And these I do not sell for gold

Or coin of silvery shine,

But for a copper halfpenny

And that will purchase nine.

“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,

Or set limed twigs for crabs;

I sometimes search the grassy knolls

For wheels of Hansom cabs.

And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)

“By which I get my wealth—

And very gladly will I drink

Your Honor’s noble health.”

I heard him then, for I had just

Completed my design

To keep the Menai Bridge from rust

By boiling it in wine.

I thanked him much for telling me

The way he got his wealth,

But chiefly for his wish that he

Might drink my noble health.

And now if e’er by chance I put

My fingers into glue,

Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot

Into a left-hand shoe,

Or if I drop upon my toe

A very heavy weight,

I weep, for it reminds me so

Of that old man I used to know—

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,

Whose hair was whiter than the snow,

Whose face was very like a crow,

With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,

Who seemed distracted with his woe,

Who rocked his body to and fro,

And muttered mumblingly, and low,

As if his mouth were full of dough,

Who snorted like a buffalo—

That summer evening, long ago,

A-sitting on a gate.

НЕКОТОРЫЕ ГАЛЛЮЦИНАЦИИ

He thought he saw an Elephant,

That practised on a fife:

He looked again, and found it was

A letter from his wife.

“At length I realize,” he said,

“The bitterness of Life!”

He thought he saw a Buffalo

Upon the chimney-piece:

He looked again, and found it was

His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.

“Unless you leave this house,” he said,

“I’ll send for the Police!”

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

That questioned him in Greek:

He looked again, and found it was

The Middle of Next Week.

“The one thing I regret,” he said,

“Is that it cannot speak!”

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk

Descending from the ’bus:

He looked again, and found it was

A Hippopotamus:

“If this should stay to dine,” he said,

“There won’t be much for us!”

Эдвард Лир, современник Льюиса Кэрролла, является единственным равным этому великому автору нонсенса.

Нонсенс Лира иного толка, но его стихи столь же легки и удачны, а проза столь же восхитительно экстравагантна.

Если воображение Кэрролла было более изысканно-фантастическим, то у Лира оно имело более широкий охват, и оба писателя являются мастерами того особого сочетания парадокса и рассуждения, которое приводит к восхитительному удивлению.

Лир первым популяризировал стиль строфы, который с тех пор называют лимериком, хотя происхождение этого названия так и не было удовлетворительно определено.

There was an old man of Thermopylæ,

Who never did anything properly;

But they said: “If you choose

To boil eggs in your shoes,

You cannot remain in Thermopylæ.”

There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!

I perceive a young bird in this bush!”

When they said, “Is it small?”

He replied, “Not at all;

It is four times as big as the bush!”

There was an Old Man who supposed

That the street door was partially closed;

But some very large Rats

Ate his coats and his hats,

While that futile Old Gentleman dozed.

There was an Old Man of Leghorn,

The smallest that ever was born;

But quickly snapt up he

Was once by a Puppy,

Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

There was an Old Man of Kamschatka

Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur;

His gait and his waddle

Were held as a model

To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.

ДВА СТАРЫХ ХОЛОСТЯКА

Two old Bachelors were living in one house

One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.

Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,

“This happens just in time, for we’ve nothing in the house,

Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey,

And what to do for dinner,—since we haven’t any money?

And what can we expect if we haven’t any dinner

But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?”

Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,

“We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin’!

If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well,

But how to get that Stuffin’ it is difficult to tell!”

And then these two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town

And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down;

They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found

In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.

But some one said, “A hill there is, a little to the north,

And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;

And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,—

An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page.

Climb up and seize him by the toes,—all studious as he sits,—

And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits!

Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps),

And your Stuffin’ will be ready, and very good—perhaps.”

And then these two old Bachelors, without loss of time,

The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb;

And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook,

They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book.

“You earnest Sage!” aloud they cried, “your book you’ve read enough in!

We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin’!”

But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book

At those two Bachelors’ bald heads a certain aim he took;

And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,—

At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town;

And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin’)

The Mouse had fled—and previously had eaten up the Muffin.

They left their home in silence by the once convivial door;

And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.

Алджернон Чарльз Суинберн, чье удивительное мастерство в лирике хорошо известно, не столь знаменит как юморист.

И все же его пародии — одни из лучших в языке. Его время было золотым веком пародии, и писатели, которые преуспели в ней, были истинными поэтами и истинными остроумцами.

Эта пародия на Теннисона является одновременно идеальной имитацией звука и смысла.

ВЫСШИЙ ПАНТЕИЗМ В ОРЕХОВОЙ СКОРЛУПКЕ

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is;

Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under;

If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt;

We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;

Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight;

Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels;

God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which;

The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two;

Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks;

Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew.

You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock;

Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see;

Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.

Пародия Суинберна на собственное творчество прекрасно выполнена в

НЕФЕЛИДИИ

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine,

Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,

Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,

These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?

Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s appalled agitation,

Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;

Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,

Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?

Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,

Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death;

Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,

Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude’s breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses

Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;

Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,—

“Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.”

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,

While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod;

Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,

As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.

Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:

Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things:

Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,

Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

Генри Остин Добсон, более известный без своего первого имени, был искусным автором прекрасной светской поэзии.

Он также много писал в «французских формах» и, казалось, они его нисколько не стесняли.

НА ВЕЕРЕ, ПРИНАДЛЕЖАВШЕМ МАРКИЗЕ ДЕ ПОМПАДУР

(Баллада)

Chicken-skin, delicate, white,

Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou

Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,—

This was the Pompadour’s fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through,

Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragonard drew,

Talon-rouge, falaba, queue,

Cardinal, duke,—to a man,

Eager to sigh or to sue,—

This was the Pompadour’s fan!

Ah, but things more than polite

Hung on this toy, voyez-vous

Matters of state and of might,

Things that great ministers do;

Things that, maybe, overthrew

Those in whose brains they began;—

Here was the sign and the cue,—

This was the Pompadour’s fan!

Посылка

Where are the secrets it knew?

Weavings of plot and of plan?

—But where is the Pompadour, too?

This was the Pompadour’s fan!

РОНДО

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write

A Rondeau. What! forthwith?—tonight?

Reflect? Some skill I have, ’tis true;

But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!—

“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!

Still there are five lines—ranged aright.

These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright

My easy Muse. They did, till you—

You bid me try!

That makes them eight.—The port’s in sight;

’Tis all because your eyes are bright!

Now just a pair to end in “oo,”—

When maids command, what can’t we do?

Behold! The Rondeau—tasteful, light—

You bid me try!

Эндрю Лэнг был, пожалуй, самым разносторонним писателем среди английских литераторов своего времени. Стихи или проза, религиозные исследования или переводы — всему он придает свой индивидуальный оттенок: легкий, воздушный, юмористический.

Феи, сны и призраки — его излюбленная сфера, и он был одним из первых, кто экспериментировал со старыми французскими формами, в которых давал полную свободу своей восхитительной фантазии, строго придерживаясь при этом негибких правил.

БАЛЛАДА О ПРИМИТИВНОЙ ШУТКЕ

I am an ancient Jest!

Paleolithic man

In his arboreal nest

The sparks of fun would fan;

My outline did he plan,

And laughed like one possessed,

’Twas thus my course began,

I am a Merry Jest.

I am an early Jest!

Man delved and built and span;

Then wandered South and West

The peoples Aryan,

I journeyed in their van;

The Semites, too, confessed,—

From Beersheba to Dan,—

I am a Merry Jest.

I am an ancient Jest,

Through all the human clan,

Red, black, white, free, oppressed,

Hilarious I ran!

I’m found in Lucian,

In Poggio, and the rest,

I’m dear to Moll and Nan!

I am a Merry Jest!

Prince, you may storm and ban—

Joe Millers are a pest,

Suppress me if you can!

I am a Merry Jest!

БАЛЛАДА О ЛИТЕРАТУРНОЙ СЛАВЕ

Oh, where are the endless Romances

Our grandmothers used to adore?

The knights with their helms and their lances,

Their shields and the favours they wore?

And the monks with their magical lore?

They have passed to Oblivion and Nox,

They have fled to the shadowy shore,—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies

Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?

The lyric’s melodious expanses,

The epics in cantos a score,

They have been and are not: no more

Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,

Nor the ladies their languors deplore,—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances?

The tunes that time may not restore?

And the tomes where Divinity prances?

And the pamphlets where heretics roar?

They have ceased to be even a bore,—

The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,—

They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Посылка

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,

On the chest without cover or locks,

Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Уильям Швенк Гилберт начал еще юношей свои юмористические вклады в журналы, которые включали бессмертные «Бэб-баллады».

Десять лет спустя он объединил усилия с композитором Артуром Салливаном, и результатом этого сотрудничества стала известная серия опер, первой из которых была «Суд присяжных».

Гилберт не уступает никому в юмористическом парадоксальном мышлении и бойкой и умной версификации. Его темы, тонкие и фантастические, проработаны с серьезной абсурдностью, столь же истинно остроумной, сколь и очаровательной.

МОГУЧЕЕ ДОЛЖНО

Come mighty Must!

Inevitable Shall!

In thee I trust.

Time weaves my coronal!

Go mocking Is!

Go disappointing Was!

That I am this

Ye are the cursed cause!

Yet humble second shall be first,

I ween;

And dead and buried be the curst

Has Been!

Of weak Might Be!

Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!

How powerless ye

For evil or for good!

In every sense

Your moods I cheerless call,

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