Рабле (Андерсон/Василой)

Рабле автор Александр Андерсон (1860—1918), пер. Адела Василой

Язык оригинала: английский. Название в оригинале: Rabelais. — Дата создания: 1893 (перевод), опубл.: 1893 (перевод). Источник: http://www.stihi.ru

© Адела Василой: Рабле Люблю мусью Francois Rabelais - Француз-остряк и алкоголик, Кто прихвостней, навеселе, Смешил без устали до колик. С достоинством нёс толстый зад, Разя словцом - знал в шутке смак - Домой смывался невпопад... Фальстаф средь земляков-писак. В среде грацильной Фенелон, Легко скользя, искал гармоний, Расин, монархом отчуждён, Скончался вдруг, без антимоний. Мольер собратьям угодил, Тем, что кривлялся для потехи, И как Аристофан, твердил - Сплин душат смехом, без помехи. Насмешник тех времён Вольтер, Что ставил всё под подозренье, Сарказма пикой, например, Колол богов и провиденье, Но даже этот острослов Не вымолил у них секрета Lustspiele , без экивок, Моя задача — поиск сути Весёлой жизни выпивох Пантагрюэлей... А кто судьи? Ведь, inter nos, Rabelais не прост, И в шутке, будто недалёкой, За смехом зрим идей подрост С другой — серьёзной подоплекой. Иначе мыслил Пьер Дюпон, Он видел в той soif безбрежной, Всех мудрецов былых времён Лишь отголосок жажды прежней. И восхваления вину, И пыл Вакхических воззваний, Минерве ставил он в «вину», Которой надо возлияний. Тогда Francois мне ясен стал С его учительской ухваткой - Урок великий преподал, Не в лоб, не по лбу, а украдкой, Я понял, что его мораль С "Le Grand Peut—еtre", не мистична... Смеясь, поднимем свой "грааль" Пантагрюэлево-этично. Ну чтож, buveurs — налей! Le bon Dieu Monsieur Francois Rabelais, that    Rough, shoulder-shrugging, laughing Frenchman, Who struts about, broad, red, and fat,    With humour for his constant henchman; Who shoots his wit like arrows out,    Which goes straight home, like shoulder-smiters, Then shrugs himself and wheels about —    The Falstaff of his country's writers. 9Your Fènèlon can smoothly glide,    Harmoniously in polish'd setting; And Racine, who for sorrow died    Because his monarch took to petting; And Molière — witty dog — who caught    The lighter nature of his brothers, And, like Greek Aristophanes, taught    How much of spleen broad laughter smothers. 17Then keen Voltaire, who sniff'd and tried    All things by the test of suspicion, Who, holding a free lance, could ride    At aught without an intermission; And yet for all his witty ways    Could not by any form of pleading, Write a lust-spiel, so Richter says    In Hesperus, which is toughish reading. 25But, corps de Dieu, this Rabelais stands    With broad and rubicon complexion, And tickles you as if with hands,    Until you catch his own infection. He cares not for your priests or kings,    That strut upon this stage so fickle, But holds them both as legal things    To poke his fingers at and tickle. 33Of course, the faults that mark'd his age    Are found in this bluff, jolly toper, Who says things very far from sage,    Which to translate would be improper. Yet innocent enough they lie    Behind their old French style of cover, That costs you many a weary sigh    Before you can get rightly over. 41But still you like him in your mind,    And hang upon each wordy duel; And laugh with him, and slip behind    Grandgousier and Pantagruel. Frère Jean, too, has a spell to cast    About you, very deep and daring— Frère Jean, that rough iconoclast,    Who fells opponents with his swearing. 49Comment, frère Jean, vous jurez? sighs    A friend, who thought that habit shocking; C'est pour orner mon langage, cries    This testy Jean, so fond of joking. Poor Hood, from Deutchland writing back,    Said Luther's statue, to his liking, Was counterpart of Friar Jack —    A compliment not wise or striking. 57A nos moutons it were for me    A task to ferret out the meaning That lies behind la joyeuse vie,    De Pantagruel and its screening. Yet, inter nos, it might be said,    Apart from all his classic chaffing, That Rabelais sometimes shakes his head,    As if our duty were — not laughing. 65But yet, as Pierre Dupont holds,    The mighty soif with which he rages Is but that high thirst which enfolds    Itself around the lore of sages. That all his praise of golden wine,    And reeling Bacchic invitations, But symbolise Minerva's shrine,    By which we ought to pour libations. 73Then setting François in the light    Of teacher in his way, and putting His grand peut-être out of sight,    As not our present purpose suiting; But thinking that his moral's pith    Is broad, and very far from mystic, I laugh myself, and finish with    A stanza Pantagruelistic. 81Come, buveurs, jolly topers, drink    From golden wisdom's flowing sources, Until like her own owl we blink,    And reel with all her heavenward forces. Ha, parlons de boire and sup,    Le bon Dieu is the boundless giver; Ventre de Saint Quenet, drink up,    And let the world grow wise for ever. <1912>

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