The Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence
Page 32
The silence tonight
Disheartens me.
Not a howl
And not a bark;
All around
It’s still and dark.
The desolate streets
Are mute and dead;
Not a whisper,
Not a step.
Anxiously I sniff the ground
In distress.
In the street I faintly catch
A stranger’s scent.
Footsteps waken no one,
Yet I expect
A wanderer will come—
Foe or friend?
Beneath the cold moon
I am alone.
I cannot bear it, and I howl
At the moon.
High is God’s moon,
So high.
Sadness, yearning overwhelm me
Tonight.
Break the silence,
Sisters, soon!
Howl and bark, I beg you,
At the moon!
Fyodor Sologub, 1905
With crimson foliage the fading forests,
As a weeping mother would adorn
With flowers and brocades her dead daughter.
I contemplate the pale azure vault
Of the lifeless heavens, and I sense in their repose
The harmony of dying nature
And the mysterious, exhausted soul.
Dmitry Merezhkovsky, 1887
In Fog’s Embrace
Alexander Kondratiev
A Myth
I, Epigenes of the island of Samos, will now relate to you, O people, what your fathers knew not: how Aphrodite, jealous of the sea goddess and spying on Leto’s flowing-haired son, found herself in the embraces of Aerius, god of night fog.
The goddess’s eyes flashed ominously as she flew low over the darkened waves to the place where the god Apollo had stolen away to be with cold-bodied, lithe Ostis. Dismal envy tormented the Cyprian goddess’s heart, and as she silently descended she could hear her goddess-rival’s sighs, full of sweet languor. The deep-blue eyes of the foam-born goddess of Paphos keenly penetrated into the evening twilight.
The golden-haired god was nowhere to be seen; he was ensconced beneath a cool canopy of underwater caverns and there, forgetting heavens and earth, he yielded to the capricious sea nymph’s caresses.
It was quiet all around. A grey haze drew across the pale sky. The waves hissed and beat incessantly against the cliffs.
“I’m all alone,” whispered the daughter of blood and foam. “I, who give an abundance of all-consuming passion to gods, animals and men! … The entire world is filled with my blissful breath, while I, who give love to the world, have none myself!”
And the goddess stood mournfully above the sea on the crags of the desolate Troad, which was wrapped in joyless slumber.
“Once gentle Dardanian Anchises loved me here. I gave him a son, who then founded a mighty kingdom in place of ruined Troy! … Yes, that city is no more, and no more are the peoples who honoured my all-victorious name! No more do they burn incense for me among the colourful columns of my once-glorious temples. Neither do the youths spill for me the warm, wine-dark blood of white golden-horned heifers, and the joyous, resonant hymns in my honour no longer sound. The people who inhabit this country have forgotten the ancient, bright gods, and there is no one left for me to give the joy of mutual love!”
It was at that time that Aerius, the son of Darkness and Amphitrite, who had once deceived the sea god, crawled out of his seaside cavern in a pall of night fog and dived into his native element.
From his father he had inherited his sinuous legs, and from his divine mother his dark body’s deep blue tint.
Full of dim longings, he swam to a seaside cliff, clambered up its sharp incline and sat down there in the darkness, his legs wound serpent-like around the slippery outcroppings of rock.
Then he caught sight of the goddess once honoured on the shores of Cyprus and at Paphos. With a flick of his long, dark, forked tongue, he licked his bloodless lips, and the naiads dozing in the hollow caves by the sea heard his thin, song-like whistle.
There were no words, only longing, only desire to wind his body about the whole earth and remain there unmoving…
Night was coming on. The goddess of dark and sleep spread her black, star-covered wings over the shores and sea.
In the distance sirens sang.
“Which god will give peace and oblivion to the world? Who will grant forgiveness to the fallen titans? Who, laying his hand upon the breast of Oceanus, will say to him,‘Enough, Old Man, you have wearied yourself with your endless sighs; leave off! …’? Who, O Mighty One, seeing Mother Gaia shrouded in melancholy, will gently whisper to her that blissful word, ‘Sleep!’?”
From her place on the black crag at the edge of the sea, Aphrodite hearkened to the sirens as green and white foam caressed her shapely legs.
Those legs captivated Aerius.
The Son of Darkness, swimming like a snake among the crags, silently approached the goddess of Paphos.
Gathering up all his strength, he wrapped himself in an instant about the rock where the foam-born goddess sat, firmly gripping the goddess’s white legs in his mighty coils.
Aphrodite was captured.
Dark and powerful, never loosening his tight embrace, the son of Darkness sat down beside his captive, the wrathful Cyprian goddess.
“Who are you, who dares to wrap his vile, wet tail about my splendid legs?” asked the queen of Paphos.
“He who in just a little while will wrap his arms around you as well, goddess,” Aerius responded, suppressing his rising excitement.
The feel of her immortal body aroused a powerful trembling in his limbs.
“Who is the lamia or other daughter of sordid Tartarus, to whom the goddess of fate sent such a magnificent son?”
“My mother’s name is Amphitrite, goddess…”
“Go away then, vile creature, back to your ocean deep and there fondle freely some walrus cow, but do not dare to cross the will of immortal goddesses!”
“What is the will of the goddesses to me! … And anyway, there is no time to argue! Ananke and Fate have granted me your luscious body for this day! Yield to me now, for I am sent by destiny!”
The son of Darkness wrapped his strong coils around the divine waist, firm white bosom and heavenly arms of the Cyprian goddess. She tried to resist, but to no avail. Lithe Aerius had already managed to press his cold, moist mouth to her hot lips.
She lay stretched out on the cliff top, helpless, trying not to see the snake-like visage of the god of fog … Suddenly a gleam of hope flashed in the goddess’s eyes … Sparkling with gentle silver light, the chariot of Apollo’s sister drifted lightly across the dark sky.
Artemis reined in her horses and glanced scornfully at the shame of the goddess she little loved.
The divine virgin’s gaze was fixed on the dark tip of the fog god’s tail as it beat playfully against the thighs of the powerless Cyprian goddess.
“Help me, daughter of gentle Latona,” moaned the goddess of love. “The monster desires to gain my kisses by force!”
Without a word Artemis took her brightly shining spear and cast it at Aerius’s body … The sharp bronze pierced the coils, and dark liquid sprayed the weary white limbs of the captive goddess. The fog god’s embrace immediately loosened.
With a hiss of pain, the son of Darkness flung himself from the crag into the salty waves and vanished without a trace among the rocks and caves lining the shore.
The daughter of blood and foam, her shapely limbs unsteady, stood up and blew the daughter of Leto a kiss.
“I thank you, dark-haired daughter of the Thunder God. Your aim is as sure as in the days when we smote the giants. Tell me, how can I repay you for your service?”
But without uttering a word, merely nodding her head in answer, Artemis, proud in her new glory, urged her fleet-footed black steeds onwards. Her chariot shone brightly. The fine spokes of
the bright silver wheels spun easily, and soon a fluffy white cloud hid the goddess from view.
Aphrodite was alone once again. Around her the waves hissed hollowly and beat loudly against the rocks. To stay any longer by these sombre, empty shores would be unsafe, and dreary.
With a sigh, the Cyprian goddess vanished without a trace from the dark sky. The pure white walls of her airy temple and the lonely couch in her pink bedchamber were waiting.
* * *
The next morning she never left her palace, and with anxious hearts men gazed longingly at the foggy, grey veil that spread over the entire sky, seeking there the radiant dawn of her visage.
And it was only towards evening that she once again appeared over the shores of the Troad. The waves sounded the same as ever as they broke with white, angry foam against the dark cliffs. The hills, covered with sleepy oak forests, were as desolate as ever, and the mute stretches of shoreline remained deserted.
As sorrowfully as ever, the virgin sirens sang their harmonious song.
Her bright gaze alighting on the cliff upon which she had so recently been violently threatened, the mother of Cupid paused and fell into mournful thought.
Downcast, the Cyprian goddess whispered to herself, “In the entire world, only one answered my call of immortal yearning, and he was a loathsome monster!”
Rain
O joyful autumn rain,
Ever falling—tomorrow and yesterday!
Always more carefree, always more perfect,
Monotonously playing.
Stout, dirty, and tearful
The heavens sink.
The voices of the rain
Are joyful, whispering.
Never tiring, they speak endlessly
Of decay and decomposition,
They sing of dying
And universal destruction.
Of shame and grief,
Of sickness in solitude,
Of our dark-eyed life,
Where Fear alone rules.
And, harkening to the prophecies,
Slowly, dully I live,
Indifferently waiting
For them to be fulfilled.
I remember, there was a word: wings…
Or am I raving? It’s all the same!
Now I’m sinking to the bottom
Without a struggle, and without complaint.
Zinaida Gippius, 1904
The Unknown Woman
In the evenings above the restaurants
The hot air is wild and thick,
And a vernal and putrid spirit
Reigns over a drunken din.
Far off above the narrow, dusty streets,
Above the boredom of country houses,
A pretzel glints gold on a baker’s sign,
And a child’s crying resounds.
And every evening, beyond the railway
Barrier, experienced wits,
Cocking bowler hats, with ladies,
Stroll among the ditches.
Above the lake the rowlocks squeak,
And a woman’s squeal resounds,
And in the sky, inured to all,
A disc senselessly frowns.
And every evening my only friend
Is reflected in my glass,
Like me, subdued and stupefied
By a tart and mysterious draught.
And near us, at adjacent tables,
Sleepy lackeys hang out,
And “In vino veritas!”
Drunks with eyes like rabbits’ shout.
And every evening at the appointed hour
(Or do I just imagine it?)
Behind the misty windowpane
Moves a maiden figure swathed in silks.
And slowly, passing through the drunks,
Breathing perfumes and faraway mists,
Without an escort, always alone,
Close to the window she sits.
And her feathered mourning hat,
And her resilient silks,
And her delicate hand in rings
Respire ancient myths.
Entranced by her strange proximity,
I peer beyond her veil,
And see enchanted distances,
And enchanted lands.
Obscure secrets are entrusted to me,
Someone’s sun to me alone is bestowed,
And the tart wine has penetrated
The deepest furrows of my soul.
And the bowed ostrich feathers
Sway gently in my brain,
And fathomless blue eyes
Blossom on a distant plain.
In my soul lies a treasure,
And the key is mine alone!
You are right, you drunken monster!
In wine is truth, I know.
Alexander Blok, 1906
Starting Anew
We want to create—and to destroy.
We will start everything anew, from the beginning.
Is the stubborn soul really tired
Of dying and resurrecting?
We will start everything anew. Stop,
Cheerlessly humming distaff,
Long decayed thread, break!
I will miss nothing from the past.
And if you do not break, we will cut you.
Pure is my wrathful blow.
We will divide our being with a sword:
The glimmering blade has been honed.
Zinaida Gippius, 1907
The White Goat
Alexander Kondratiev
Artemis lay in the shade of a branching elm tree and longed with all her heart for sleep. The hunt, two days long without a break, had tired the virgin goddess. The big, white-legged moose had raced tirelessly through the wooded ravines, struggling furiously to free himself from the pack of dogs that clung to him. The bloodthirsty dogs kept after him, barking incessantly.
Twice he shook free of them, leaving a few whimpering where they lay, and ran off with the rest in pursuit. But as he was about to throw them off a third time, Artemis herself approached, far ahead of her retinue.
The spear that never misses its mark whistled through the air, and the beast fell to its knees. The hounds brought him down, and the crimson blood flowing from his wounds stained their savage muzzles.
The drawn-out modulations of the goddess’s hunting horn carried merrily through the green forest and shady ravines. But her companions didn’t respond, as they usually did, with their own merry signals. Exhausted from their labours, the huntresses had fallen far behind and did not hear the summons. Scattered about the forest, they were resting in the undergrowth and in grottos.
The goddess blew the horn again, but, hearing no answer, guessed that her companions had lagged behind and would be some time in gathering again. Then Artemis concluded that she had better rest as well.
She lay down on the soft grass beneath the spreading elm; her faithful hounds, panting wearily, settled down around her. Placing her quiver beneath her head, the goddess closed her eyes.
The excitement still coursing through Artemis and the strong scent of the flowers made it difficult to fall asleep. Unease about the companions she had left behind roused troubled thoughts. More than a few shaggy satyrs were doubtlessly roaming the dense, untamed forest. Several times during the chase the goddesses had run close to frightening precipices, from the depths of which rose choking fumes. Monsters could be nesting there, or even worse, the terrible divinities that had ruled the earth before the Olympians…
Artemis sighed and worried, but little by little fatigue overcame her. The flowers’ aromas were dizzying; the leaves on the trees whispered; all around the grass rustled, and it seemed to the goddess that the flowers and trees were singing her a quiet lullaby:
Sleep, O beautiful goddess,
Worn out from the hunt, go to sleep.
Let your eyes as bright as stars
No longer watchful keep.
Fuzzy bees buzz lazily
Flowers spill sweet aroma,
Sleep, daughter of Latona!
Through the sedge wind whispers,
Maples murmur in chorus,
Zeus’s bright-eyed daughter
Wanders the deep oak forest.
In the densest forest’s glades,
Her arrow ready to loose,
The virgin of bold gaze
Tracks the mighty moose.
Whose lance flies unerring?
Who is swift as the wind?
Who is fearless and daring,
Most dazzling of her friends?
You, O daughter of Latona,
You, Zeus’s beloved daughter!
Flowers spill their aroma.
Sleep, your dreams untroubled!…
Before she knew it, the goddess was asleep.
She dreamt she was hunting at night that same indefatigable moose. He was running as fast as ever, leaping now and then from the crags, swimming across swift currents on which the white foam gleamed under the silvery full moon. The shouts of her friends, the sound of horns and the baying of hounds mingled with the sound of waterfalls. And the white-legged moose ran on and on until it finally leapt off a precipice. Artemis, having far outdistanced both dogs and companions once again, leaned down to see what had become of the beast, and she trembled with horror. At the bottom of the precipice a frightening hulk was stirring, like a mass of snakes, a bull and a man all in one. Now and then it raised its tentacle-like arms and let out nasty, panting breaths. Artemis seized her bow, but her quiver was empty—all the arrows had spilled out during the chase; instead of a heavy lance, she found Dionysus’s thyrsus in her hand…
The monster raised itself up on its coils, and its horrible, bull-like head panted out, “Mother Earth has heard my prayers and sent me a bride garbed in a short tunic. Come into my fond embrace!”