Lilies of the Valley and Letter 282: Difference between pages

Tchaikovsky Research
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'''''Lilies of the Valley''''' (Ландыши), is a poem written by Tchaikovsky in December 1878 while he was in [[Florence]].
{{letterhead
 
|Date=1872 <ref name="note1"/>  
"I am terribly proud of this poem", he wrote when enclosing a copy to his brother [[Modest]]. "For the first time in my life I have managed to write a fairly good poem, which moreover is ''deeply heartfelt''. I assure you that although it was very difficult, still I worked on it with the same pleasure as I do on music" <ref name="note1"/>.
|To=[[Pyotr Jurgenson]]
 
|Place=[[Moscow]]
==English translation==
|Language=Russian
Reproduced from Alexander Poznansky, {{bib|1991/72|Tchaikovsky. The quest for the inner man}} (1993), p. 336-337.
|Autograph=[[Klin]] (Russia): {{RUS-KLč}} (a{{sup|3}}, No. 2151)
{{quote|<poem>
|Publication={{bib|1959/50|П. И. Чайковский. Полное собрание сочинений ; том V}} (1959), p. 294
When at the end of spring I pick for the last time
}}
My favourite flowers— a yearning fills my breast,
==Text and Translation==
And to the future I urgently appeal:
{{Lettertext
Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley.
|Language=Russian
Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by,
|Translator=Brett Langston
The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still,
|Original text={{centre|Душа моя!}}
The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light,
Убедительно прошу тебя дать мне 50, а если не можешь, то хоть 25 р[ублей] сер[ебром] в счёт остальных ста. Прости за приставанье, но, ей-Богу, погибаю.
And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet.
{{right|П. Чайковский}}
Then when harsh winter comes
And the forests don their snowy cover,
Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning
For the skies to shine with the sun of spring.
I find no pleasure in books, or conversation,
Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball's noisy glitter,
Or [[Patti]], or the theatre, or delicate cuisine,
Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire
I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears,
The wood has cast off its shroud
And prepares for us shade,
And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound,
And at last the long-looked-for day is here!
Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path.
Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?—
There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand
I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.
O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye?
Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand,
With brighter colours and livelier patterns,
Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.
Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul?
With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart?
Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures,
Or is it future bliss that you promise us?
I know not. But your balmy fragrance,
Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me,
Like music, it takes my breath away,
And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks.
And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley,
The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace,
And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart in languid comfort
Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe.
Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession
The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before
Will I be tormented by importunate yearning,
By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May.
 
And then someday spring again will call
And raise the living world out of its fetters.
But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living,
I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn.
And then what?—Where, at the winged hour of death,
Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar?
No answer! Be silent, my restless mind,
You cannot guess what eternity holds for us.
But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live,
We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring!
The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar—
The yawning maw of the grave so dark!
</poem>}}
 
==Autograph==
The autograph of Tchaikovsky's poem is now preserved in {{RUS-KLč}} (a{{sup|2}}, No. 29).


|Translated text={{centre|My dear chap!}}
Can I press you to give me 50, or if that's not possible, then at least 25 silver rubles on account against the outstanding hundred. I apologise for pestering, but my God I'm desperate.
{{right|P. Tchaikovsky}}
}}
==Notes and References==
==Notes and References==
<references>
<references>
<ref name="note1">[[Letter 1023]] to [[Modest Tchaikovsky]], 15/27 December 1878.</ref>
<ref name="note1">Dated to the year 1872 by the notepaper.</ref>
</references>
</references>
[[Category:Poetry]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Letter 0282}}

Latest revision as of 13:25, 12 July 2022

Date 1872 [1]
Addressed to Pyotr Jurgenson
Where written Moscow
Language Russian
Autograph Location Klin (Russia): Tchaikovsky State Memorial Musical Museum-Reserve (a3, No. 2151)
Publication П. И. Чайковский. Полное собрание сочинений, том V (1959), p. 294

Text and Translation

Russian text
(original)
English translation
By Brett Langston
Душа моя!

Убедительно прошу тебя дать мне 50, а если не можешь, то хоть 25 р[ублей] сер[ебром] в счёт остальных ста. Прости за приставанье, но, ей-Богу, погибаю.

П. Чайковский

My dear chap!

Can I press you to give me 50, or if that's not possible, then at least 25 silver rubles on account against the outstanding hundred. I apologise for pestering, but my God I'm desperate.

P. Tchaikovsky

Notes and References

  1. Dated to the year 1872 by the notepaper.