Russian Poetry
POEMS IN PROSE
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Russian Literature – Russian Poetry – Children’s books – Ivan Turgenev – Poems – Obsolete Russian Words and their meaning
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In Memory Of J. P. Vrévsky > > >
“How Fair, How Fresh Were The Roses”
Somewhere, some time, long, long ago, I read a poem. I speedily forgot it … but its first line lingered in my memory:
“How fair, how fresh were the roses….”
It is winter now; the window-panes are coated with ice; in the warm chamber a single candle is burning. I am sitting curled up in one corner; and in my brain there rings and rings:
“How fair, how fresh were the roses….”
And I behold myself in front of the low window of a Russian house in the suburbs. The summer evening is melting and merging into night, there is a scent of mignonette and linden-blossoms abroad in the warm air;—and in the window, propped on a stiffened arm, and with her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, gazing mutely and intently at the sky, as though watching for the appearance of the first stars. How ingenuously inspired are the thoughtful eyes; how touchingly innocent are the parted, questioning lips; how evenly breathes her bosom, not yet fully developed and still unagitated by anything; how pure and tender are the lines of the young face! I do not dare to address her, but how dear she is to me, how violently my heart beats!
“How fair, how fresh were the roses….”
And in the room everything grows darker and darker…. The candle which has burned low begins to flicker; white shadows waver across the low ceiling; the frost creaks and snarls beyond the wall—and I seem to hear a tedious, senile whisper:
“How fair, how fresh were the roses….”
Other images rise up before me…. I hear the merry murmur of family, of country life. Two red-gold little heads, leaning against each other, gaze bravely at me with their bright eyes; the red cheeks quiver with suppressed laughter; their hands are affectionately intertwined; their young, kind voices ring out, vying with each other; and a little further away, in the depths of a snug room, other hands, also young, are flying about, with fingers entangled, over the keys of a poor little old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the grumbling of the patriarchal samovár….
“How fair, how fresh were the roses….”
The candle flares up and dies out…. Who is that coughing yonder so hoarsely and dully? Curled up in a ring, my aged dog, my sole companion, is nestling and quivering at my feet…. I feel cold…. I am shivering … and they are all dead … all dead….
“How fair, how fresh were the roses.”
Septembers 1879.
Translated from the Russian by Isabel F. Hapgood
< < < “Hang Him!”
In Memory Of J. P. Vrévsky > > >
Russian Literature – Russian Poetry – Children’s books – Ivan Turgenev – Poems – Obsolete Russian Words and their meaning
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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