|
|
Line 1: |
Line 1: |
| '''''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}} |