Lyrics Набоков, Владимир - Весна в Фиальте
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Весна в Фиальте облачна и скучна. Все мокро: пегие стволы
платанов, можжевельник, ограды, гравий. Далеко, в бледном
просвете, в неровной раме синеватых домов, с трудом поднявшихся
с колен и ощупью ищущих опоры (кладбищенский кипарис тянется за
ними), расплывчато очерченная гора св. Георгия менее чем
когда-либо похожа на цветные снимки с нее, которые тут же
туриста ожидают (с тысяча девятьсот десятого года, примерно,
судя по шляпам дам и молодости извозчиков), теснясь в застывшей
карусели своей стойки между оскалом камня в аметистовых
кристаллах и морским рококо раковин. Ветра нет, воздух тепл,
отдает гарью. Море, опоенное и опресненное дождем, тускло
оливково; никак не могут вспениться неповоротливые волны.
Именно в один из таких дней раскрываюсь, как глаз, посреди
города на крутой улице, сразу вбирая все: и прилавок с
открытками, и витрину с распятиями, и объявление заезжего
цирка, с углом, слизанным со стены, и совсем еще желтую
апельсинную корку на старой, сизой панели, сохранившей там и
сям, как сквозь сон, старинные следы мозаики. Я этот городок
люблю; потому ли, что во впадине его названия мне слышится
сахаристо-сырой запах мелкого, темного, самого мятого из
цветов, и не в тон, хотя внятное, звучание Ялты; потому ли, что
его сонная весна особенно умащивает душу, не знаю; но как я был
рад очнуться в нем, и вот шлепать вверх, навстречу ручьям, без
шапки, с мокрой головой, в макинтоше, надетом прямо на рубашку!
Spring in the phial cloudy and boring. All wet: Pour trunks
Platanov, juniper, fences, gravel. Far in pale
Suitable, in an uneven frame of bluish houses, with difficulty rising
from the knees and the touch looking for supports (Cemetery cypress stretches for
with them), blurry outlined Mount St. George less than
ever looks like colored pictures from her that immediately
Tourists expect (from a thousand nine hundred to the tenth year, approximately
Judging by the hats of the ladies and youth of the cabrs), kneading in the frozen
Carousels of their rack between grinding stone in amethyst
Crystals and sea rococo shells. Wind no, heat heat,
Gives Gare. Sea, flared and crushed rain, dim
Olive; Non-free waves can foam.
It is in one of these days I reveal, as an eye, in the middle
Cities on a cool street, immediately absorbing everything: and the counter with
postcards, and showcase with crucifixes, and announcement of coupling
Circus, with an angle linked from the wall, and completely yellow
Orange peel on the old, Sizai panel, preserved there and
Syah, how through sleep, vintage marks mosaic. I am this town
I love; Because whether in the depression of his name I heard
Sakharist-raw smell of small, dark, the most mint
colors, and not in tone, although intelligible, the sound of Yalta; Because that
His sleepy spring is particularly silent, I do not know; But how I was
I am glad to wake up in it, and here to span up, towards the streams, without
Caps, with wet head, in Makint, wearing right on the shirt!
Platanov, juniper, fences, gravel. Far in pale
Suitable, in an uneven frame of bluish houses, with difficulty rising
from the knees and the touch looking for supports (Cemetery cypress stretches for
with them), blurry outlined Mount St. George less than
ever looks like colored pictures from her that immediately
Tourists expect (from a thousand nine hundred to the tenth year, approximately
Judging by the hats of the ladies and youth of the cabrs), kneading in the frozen
Carousels of their rack between grinding stone in amethyst
Crystals and sea rococo shells. Wind no, heat heat,
Gives Gare. Sea, flared and crushed rain, dim
Olive; Non-free waves can foam.
It is in one of these days I reveal, as an eye, in the middle
Cities on a cool street, immediately absorbing everything: and the counter with
postcards, and showcase with crucifixes, and announcement of coupling
Circus, with an angle linked from the wall, and completely yellow
Orange peel on the old, Sizai panel, preserved there and
Syah, how through sleep, vintage marks mosaic. I am this town
I love; Because whether in the depression of his name I heard
Sakharist-raw smell of small, dark, the most mint
colors, and not in tone, although intelligible, the sound of Yalta; Because that
His sleepy spring is particularly silent, I do not know; But how I was
I am glad to wake up in it, and here to span up, towards the streams, without
Caps, with wet head, in Makint, wearing right on the shirt!