WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616)
Целями спецсеминара по истории английской поэзии XVI–XIX веков являются: 1) ознакомление студентов с основными линиями развития и важнейшими направлениями в истории английской классической поэзии от эпохи Возрождения до неоромантизма включительно и их наиболее крупными представителями; 2) усвоение основных положений общей теории стиха, а также особенностей английской версификации; 3) приобретение навыков правильного декламационного чтения английского стиха с учетом специфических черт грамматики и интонации стихотворной речи, а также умения понимать текст, весьма отличный во многих отношениях от привычного прозаического. На вступительном занятии преподавателем излагается общая концепция курса и распределяются темы сообщений. Каждое последующее занятие спецсеминара состоит из двух частей: сообщения студента по избранной им теме (при этом основное внимание должно уделяться не биографии авторов, а стилистическим и языковым особенностям их произведений) и чтения и перевода текстов, полученных заранее, поэтому занятие предполагает домашнюю подготовку. Кроме того, студенты должны отмечать встретившиеся им фонетические, ритмические и стилистические особенности (аллитерации, ритмические инверсии, элизии, сбои ритма, метафоры и т. д.). На зачете каждый студент получает короткое стихотворение (12–16 строк) без указания имени автора, но подобранное так, чтобы в нем были отражены индивидуальные особенности стиля поэта или общие стилевые черты эпохи или направления. Кроме перевода (подстрочного), определения размера и приведения примеров языковых особенностей стихотворной речи, студент должен попытаться атрибутировать свой текст, хотя это и не является определяющим при получении зачета. В качестве общих пособий по курсу могут быть рекомендованы следующие издания, имеющиеся в библиотеке им. Белинского: Hopkins K. English Poetry. A Short History. L., 1962. Grierson H., Smith J.C. A Critical History of English Poetry. Harmondsworth, 1962. Тема 1. ПОЭЗИЯ АНГЛИЙСКОГО ВОЗРОЖДЕНИЯ Горбунов А. Н. Джон Донн и английская поэзия XVI–XVII веков. М., 1993. С. 21–67. История английской литературы: В 3 т. М.; Л., 1943. Т.1, вып.1. Шайтанов И. О. История зарубежной литературы. Эпоха Возрождения. М., 2001. Т. 2. С. 83–94. Донская Е. Л. О генезисе и развитии английского сонета XVI века // Филолог. науки. 1988. №2. Соколов Д. А. Текст. Эпоха. Интерпретация. «Песни и сонеты» Ричарда Тоттела и английская поэзия Возрождения. СПб., 2006. Кружков Г. Сокол по кличке Удача: Сэр Томас Уайетт - набросок к портрету // Комментарии. М.; СПб., 1999. №16. С. 23–37. Кружков Г. Праща и песня: Судьба графа Сарри // Комментарии. М.; СПб., 1999. №16. С. 48-57. Володарская Л. И. [Вступительная статья] // Сидни Ф. Астрофил и Стелла. Защита поэзии. М., 1982.
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Thomas Wyatt (1503–1542)
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* * *
They flee from me, that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them, gentle, tame and meek,
That now are wild, and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise,
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
It was no dream, I lay broad waking.
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go, of her goodness,
And she also to use newfangleness[1].
But since that I so kindely am served,
I fain would know what she hath deserved.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517–1547)
* * *
Set me wheras the sonne dothe perche the grene,
Or whear his beames may not dissolve the ise;
In temprat heat wheare he is felt and sene;
With prowde people, in presence sad and wyse;
Set me in base, or yet in high degree,
In the long night, or in the shortyst day,
In clere weather, or whear mysts thikest be,
In loste yowthe, or when my heares be grey;
Set me in earthe, in heaven, or in hell,
In hill, in dale, or in the fowming floode;
Thrawle, or at large, alive whersoo I dwell,
Sike, or in healthe, in yll fame or in good:
Yours will I be, and with that onely thought
Comfort my self when that my hape is nowght.
The Happy Life
Martial, the things that do attain
The happy life, be these, I find,
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The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, no governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
The wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress.
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.
Philip Sidney (1554–1586)
Astrophel and Stella
31
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face,
What, may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languisht grace
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then ev’n of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call Vertue there – ungratefulness?
84
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feet
More oft than to a chamber melody, –
Now blessed you, bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you on duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;
By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot;
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know, I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss.
Тема 2. Лирический и драматический стих
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Шекспира
Морозов М. Язык и стиль Шекспира // Морозов М. Избранные статьи и переводы. М., 1954.
Аникст А. А. Эволюция стиля поэзии Шекспира // Шекспировские чтения. 1993. М., 1994. С. 94–124.
Аникст А. А. Шекспир. Ремесло драматурга. М., 1974. (Гл. “Речь”.)
Гаспаров М . Л . [Рецензия на кн.: Tarlinskaya M. Shakespeare’s Verse: Iambic pentameter and the poet’s idiosincrasies. N.Y., 1987] // Изв. АН СССР. Сер. лит. и яз. М., 1990. Т. 49, вып.1. С. 80–83.
Степанов С. Шекспировы сонеты, или Игра в игре. СПб., 2003.
Донская Е. Некоторые особенности языка и стиля сонетов Шекспира // Шекспировские чтения. 1984. М., 1986.
Vendler H. The Art of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Harvard, 1997.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616)
Sonnets
66
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Romeo and Juliet
ACT III, SCENE V. Capulet's orchard.
[Enter ROMEO and JULIET above, at the window]
J u l i e t Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
R o m e o It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
J u l i e t Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.
R o m e o Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.
J u l i e t It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day,
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
R o m e o More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
Enter Nurse.N u r s e. Madam!J u l i e t Nurse?N u r s e. Your lady mother’s coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about.Exit.J u l i e t Then, window, let day in, and let life out.R o m e o Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.He goeth down.J u l i e t Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo!R o m e o Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.J u l i e t O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?R o m e o I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.J u l i e t O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.R o m e o And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!Exit.J u l i e t O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. MacbethACT V SCENE VII. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums.<…>Enter Macduff.M a c d u f f That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face!If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine,My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose armsAre hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth,Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge,I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;By this great clatter, one of greatest noteSeems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums. Enter Malcolm and old Siward.S i w a r d This way, my lord; the castle’s gently render'd.The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight,The noble Thanes do bravely in the war,The day almost itself professes yours,And little is to do.M a l c o l m We have met with foes That strike beside us.S i w a r d Enter, sir, the castle.Exeunt. Alarum. SCENE VIII. Another part of the field.Enter Macbeth.M a c b e t h Why should I play the Roman fool and dieOn mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashesDo better upon them.Enter Macduff.M a c d u f f Turn, hell hound, turn!M a c b e t h Of all men else I have avoided thee.But get thee back, my soul is too much chargedWith blood of thine already.M a c d u f f I have no words.My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villainThan terms can give thee out! They fight.M a c b e t h Thou losest labor.As easy may’st thou the intrenchant airWith thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;I bear a charmed life, which must not yieldTo one of woman born.M a c d u f f Despair thy charm,And let the angel whom thou still hast servedTell thee, Macduff was from his mother's wombUntimely ripp’d.M a c b e t h Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,For it hath cow’d my better part of man!And be these juggling fiends no more believedThat patter with us in a double sense,That keep the word of promise to our earAnd break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee.M a c d u f f Then yield thee, coward,And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time.We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,“Here may you see the tyrant.”M a c b e t h I will not yield,To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,And thou opposed, being of no woman born,Yet I will try the last. Before my bodyI throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff,And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!” Exeunt fighting.
Тема 3. Поэзия Джона Донна И БЕНА ДЖОНСОНА
Горбунов А. Н. Джон Донн и английская поэзия XVI–XVII веков. М., 1993. С. 86–137.
Березкина В. И. Язык концептов: «Экстаз» Донна // Языковая норма и вариативность. Днепропетровск, 1981. С. 32–38.
Захаров В. В. О некоторых особенностях «трудного» стиля Джона Донна // Анализ стилей зарубежной художественной и научной литературы. Вып. 3. Л., 1982. С. 107–115.
Материалы в журнале «Литературное обозрение» (1997. №5).
Рогов Б. Поэт Бен Джонсон // Театр. 1973. №7. С.143–145.
JOHN DONNE (1572–1631)
The Ecstasy
Where, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swelled up to rest
The violet’s reclining head,
Sat we two, one another’s best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
With a fast balm which thence did spring,
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string;
So to intergraft our hands, as yet
Was all our means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As ‘twixt two equal armies Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls (which to advance their state
Were gone out) hung ‘twixt her and me;
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day the same our postures were,
And we said nothing all the day.
If any, so by love refined
That he soul’s language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,
He (though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take,
And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex,
We said, and tell us what we love;
We see by this it was not sex;
We see we saw not what did move;
But as all several souls contain
Mixture of things, they know not what,
Love these mixed souls doth mix again,
And makes both one, each this and that.
A single violet transplant,
The strength, the color, and the size
(All which before was poor and scant)
Redoubles still, and multiplies.
When love with one another so
Interinanimates two souls,
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,
Defects of loneliness controls.
We then, who are this new soul, know
Of what we are composed and made,
For, th’ atomies of which we grow
Are souls, whom no change can invade.
But O alas, so long, so far
Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours, though they are not we; we are
The intelligencies, they the sphere.
We owe them thanks because they thus
Did us to us at first convey,
Yielded their forces, sense, to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay.
On man heaven’s influence works not so
But that it first imprints the air:
So soul into the soul may flow,
Though it to body first repair.
As our blood labors to beget
Spirits as like souls as it can,
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot which makes us man,
So must pure lovers’ souls descend
T’ affection, and to faculties
Which sense may reach and apprehend;
Else a great Prince in prison lies.
To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love revealed may look;
Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us; he shall see
Small change when we are to bodies gone.
The Apparition
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.
BEN JONSON (1572–1637)
Vivamus (Song to Celia from “Volpone”)
Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours, for ever,
He at length, our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
‘Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumours are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier eyes beguile,
So removed by our wile?
‘Tis no sin, Love’s fruit to steal,
But the sweet theft to reveal:
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
An Elegy
Though beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing, be such,
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet ‘tis your virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay, so gone
Throughout your form; as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all men’s love,
This subjects you to love of one;
Wherein you triumph yet; because
‘Tis of yourself, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith, or honour’s laws.
But who should less expect from you,
In whom alone Love lives agen?
By whom he is restored to men;
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?
His falling temples you have rear’d,
The wither’d garlands ta’en away;
His altars kept from the decay
That Envy wished, and Nature feared:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty’s expense,
As Love t’ acquit such excellence,
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he: the deity
To whom all lovers are design’d,
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am I.
Who, as an offering at your shrine,
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine.
Which, if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t’ adore in you
What I, in her am grieved to want.
Тема 4. «метафизики» И «КАВАЛЕРЫ»
Горбунов А. Н. Джон Донн и английская поэзия XVI–XVII веков. М., 1993. С. 138–186.
Макуренкова С. Английская «метафизическая» поэзия XVII века: (К истории понятия) // Изв. АН СССР. Сер. лит. и яз. М., 1986. Т. 45, №2. С. 174–181.
Сидорченко Л.В. К теоретико-художественным исканиям в анг-лийской литературе XVII века: (Проблема остроумия) // Проб-лема метода и жанра в зарубежной литературе. М., 1985. С. 3–19.
Элиот Т.С. Поэты-метафизики // Лит. обозрение. 1997. №5.
Элиот Т.С. Эндрю Марвелл // Элиот Т. С. Избранное: Религия, культура, литература. М., 2004. С. 560–576.
Кружков Г. Истинная жизнь Эндрю Марвелла // Звезда. 2001. №11. С. 210–214.
GEORGE HERBERT (1593–1633)
Denial
When my devotions could not pierce
Thy silent ears,
Then was my heart broken, as was my verse:
My breast was full of fears
And disorder:
My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,
Did fly asunder:
Each took his way: some would to pleasures go,
Some to the wars and thunder
Of alarms.
As good go anywhere, they say,
As to benumb
Both knees and heart in crying night and day
Come, come, my God, O come!
But no hearing.
Therefore my soul lay out of sight,
Untuned, unstrung:
My feeble spirit, unable to look right,
Like a nipped blossom, hung
Discontented.
O cheer and tune my heartless breast;
Defer no time,
That so thy favors granting my request,
They and my mind may chime,
And mend my rhyme.
ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv’d virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
ROBERT HERRICK (1591–1674)
Night-Piece to Julia
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!
No Will-o’-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!
But on, on the way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there’s none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silv’ry feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee.
Counsel to Girls
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he’s a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
THOMAS CAREW (1594/5–1640)
A Song
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty’s orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars’ light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in the sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at length she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
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