How many of us are still alive and. Online reading of the book Little Tragedies A Feast in Time of Plague (from Wilson's Tragedy: The City of The Plague)

(FROM THE WILSON'S TRAGEDY: THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE)

Street. Laid table. Several feasting men and women.

Young man

Honorable Chairman! I remember

About a person very familiar to us,

About whose jokes, stories are funny,

Sharp answers and remarks,

So caustic in their amusing importance,

The table conversation was enlivened

And they dispersed the darkness that is now

The infection, our guest, sends

The brightest minds.

That two days our common laughter praised

His stories; impossible to be

So that we are in our merry feast

Forgot Jackson! His armchairs here

Stand empty as if waiting

Merry man - but he's gone already

Into cold underground dwellings ...

Although the most eloquent language

He did not fall silent yet in the ashes of the coffin;

But many of us are still alive, and we

There is no reason to be sad. So,

I suggest a drink in his memory

With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation,

As if he were alive.

Chairperson

He was eliminated first

From our circle. Let in silence

We'll drink in honor of him.

Young man

May it be so!

(Everyone drinks in silence.)

Chairperson

Sweetheart songs with wild perfection;

Sing, Mary, we are sad and drawn out,

So that we then turn to fun

Crazier as the one who is from the earth

Was excommunicated by some vision.

Mary

(sings)

There was a time that flourished
In the world our side:
I've been on Sunday
The Church of God is full;
Our kids in a noisy school
Voices rang out
And sparkled in a bright field
Sickle and quick scythe.

Now the church is empty;
The school is deafly locked;
The cornfield is idly overripe;
The dark grove is empty;
And the village is like a dwelling
Burnt, worth it, -
Quiet everything - one cemetery
Not empty, not silent.

Every minute they carry the dead,
And the groans of the living
Fearfully asking God
Rest their souls!
You need a place every minute,
And the graves among themselves,
Like a frightened flock
They are huddled together in a tight row!

If an early grave
Destined for my spring -
You who I loved so much
Whose love delights me
I pray: don't get close
You are yours to Jenny's body,
Do not touch the lips of the dead,
Follow her from afar.

And then leave the village!
Go somewhere
Where could you torment the soul
Delight and relax.
And when the infection blows
Visit my poor ashes;
And Edmond will not leave
Jenny is even in heaven!

Chairperson

Thank you, pensive Mary,

Thank you for the mournful song!

In the days of the past, the plague is so evident,

I have visited your hills and valleys,

And pitiful groans were heard

On the banks of streams and streams,

Those who run now happily and peacefully

Through the wild paradise of your native land;

And the dark year in which so many have fallen

Brave, kind and wonderful victims,

Barely left a memory of myself

In some simple shepherd's song

Dull and pleasant ... No, nothing

So it does not grieve us in the midst of joy,

As a languid, heart-repeated sound!

Mary

Oh, if I never sang

Outside my parents' hut!

They loved to listen to Mary;

I seem to listen to myself

Louise

Out of fashion

Now such songs! But there is still

Still simple souls: glad to melt

From women's tears and blindly believe them.

She is sure that her eyes are tearful

Its irresistible - and if the same

I thought about my laughter, then, surely,

Everybody used to smile. Walsingham praised

Noisy northern beauties: here

She parted. Hate

The hair of these Scottish is yellow.

Chairperson

Listen: I hear the sound of wheels!

There is a cart filled with dead bodies. The Negro controls her.

Aha! Louise is ill; in it, I thought

Judging by the language, a man's heart.

But so-and-so - tender weaker cruel,

And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions!

Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better.

Mary

Sister of my sorrow and shame,

Lay down on my chest.

Louise

(coming to my senses)

Terrible demon

I dreamed: all black, white-eyed ...

He called me into his cart. In it

The dead lay and babbled

A terrible, unknown speech ...

Tell me: was it in a dream?

Has the cart gone?

Young man

Well Louise

Cheer up - even though the street is all ours

A silent haven from death

A haven of unperturbed feasts

But you know, this black cart

Has the right to travel everywhere.

We must let her pass! Listen,

Thou Walsingham: for the suppression of disputes

And sing the consequences of women's fainting

A song for us, a free, live song,

I'm not inspired by Scottish sadness,

And a violent, bacchic song,

Born for a boiling cup.

Chairperson

I don’t know such, but I’ll sing you a hymn

I am in honor of the plague - I wrote it

Last night, how we parted.

A strange one found me a hunt for rhymes

For the first time in my life! Listen to me:

Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich

Feast in Time of Plague

Street. Laid table. Several feasting men and women.

Young man

Honorable Chairman! I remember

About a person very familiar to us,

About whose jokes, stories are funny,

Sharp answers and remarks,

So caustic in their amusing importance,

The table conversation was enlivened

And they dispersed the darkness that is now

The infection, our guest, sends

The brightest minds.

That two days our common laughter praised

His stories; impossible to be

So that we are in our merry feast

Forgot Jackson! His armchairs here

Stand empty as if waiting

Merry man - but he's gone already

Into cold underground dwellings ...

Although the most eloquent language

He did not fall silent yet in the ashes of the coffin;

But many of us are still alive, and we

There is no reason to be sad. So,

I suggest a drink in his memory

With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation,

As if he were alive.

Chairperson

He was eliminated first

From our circle. Let in silence

We'll drink in honor of him.

Young man

May it be so!

(Everyone drinks in silence.)

Sweetheart songs with wild perfection;

Sing, Mary, we are sad and drawn out,

So that we then turn to fun

Crazier as the one who is from the earth

Was excommunicated by some vision.

(sings)

There was a time that flourished
In the world our side:
I've been on Sunday
The Church of God is full;
Our kids in a noisy school
Voices rang out
And sparkled in a bright field
Sickle and quick scythe.

Now the church is empty;
The school is deafly locked;
The cornfield is idly overripe;
The dark grove is empty;
And the village is like a dwelling
Burned, worth it, -
Quiet everything - one cemetery
Not empty, not silent.

Every minute they carry the dead,
And the groans of the living
Fearfully asking God
Rest their souls!
You need a place every minute,
And the graves among themselves,
Like a frightened flock
They are huddled together in a tight row!

If an early grave
Destined for my spring -
You who I loved so much
Whose love delights me
I pray: don't get close
You are yours to Jenny's body,
Do not touch the lips of the dead,
Follow her from afar.

And then leave the village!
Go somewhere
Where could you torment the soul
Delight and relax.
And when the infection blows
Visit my poor ashes;
And Edmond will not leave
Jenny is even in heaven!

Chairperson

Thank you, pensive Mary,

Thank you for the mournful song!

In the days of the past, the plague is so evident,

I have visited your hills and valleys,

And pitiful groans were heard

On the banks of streams and streams,

Those who run now happily and peacefully

Through the wild paradise of your native land;

And the dark year in which so many have fallen

Brave, kind and wonderful victims,

Barely left a memory of myself

In some simple shepherd's song

Dull and pleasant ... No, nothing

So it does not grieve us in the midst of joy,

As a languid, heart-repeated sound!

Oh, if I never sang

Outside my parents' hut!

They loved to listen to Mary;

I seem to listen to myself

Louise

Out of fashion

Now such songs! But there is still

Still simple souls: glad to melt

From women's tears and blindly believe them.

She is sure that her eyes are tearful

Its irresistible - and if the same

I thought about my laughter, then, surely,

Everybody used to smile. Walsingham praised

Noisy northern beauties: here

She parted. Hate

The hair of these Scottish is yellow.

Chairperson

Listen: I hear the sound of wheels!

There is a cart filled with dead bodies. The Negro controls her.

Aha! Louise is ill; in it, I thought

Judging by the language, a man's heart.

But so-and-so - tender weaker cruel,

And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions!

Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better.

Sister of my sorrow and shame,

Lay down on my chest.

Louise

(coming to my senses)

Terrible demon

I dreamed: all black, white-eyed ...

He called me into his cart. In it

The dead lay and babbled

A terrible, unknown speech ...

Tell me: was it in a dream?

Has the cart gone?

Young man

Well Louise

Cheer up - even though the street is all ours

A silent haven from death

A haven of unperturbed feasts

But you know, this black cart

Has the right to travel everywhere.

We must let her pass! Listen,

Thou Walsingham: for the suppression of disputes

And sing the consequences of women's fainting

A song for us, a free, live song,

I'm not inspired by Scottish sadness,

And a violent, bacchic song,

Born for a boiling cup.

Chairperson

I don’t know such, but I’ll sing you a hymn

I am in honor of the plague - I wrote it

Last night, how we parted.

A strange one found me a hunt for rhymes

For the first time in my life! Listen to me:

Many

A hymn in honor of the plague! let's listen to him!

A hymn in honor of the plague! wonderful! bravo! bravo!

Chairperson

(sings)

When the mighty Winter
Like a peppy leader, she leads herself
Shaggy squads are on us
Your frosts and snows, -
Fireplaces crackling towards her,
And the winter heat of the feasts was merry.

*
The fearsome queen, the Plague
Now she comes at us
And flattering at the rich harvest;
And to our window day and night
Knocks with a grave shovel ...
What should we do? and how to help?

*
As from the mischievous Winter,
Let's also lock ourselves up from the Plague!
Let's light the lights, pour the glasses
Let's drown our minds merrily
And, having brewed feasts and balls,
Let's praise the kingdom of the Plague.

*
There is rapture in battle,
And the dark abyss at the edge,
And in a raging ocean
Amid the formidable waves and stormy darkness,
And in the Arabian hurricane
And in the breath of the Plague.

*
Everything, everything that threatens with death,
For the heart of a mortal conceals
Inexplicable pleasures -
Immortality, maybe a pledge!
And happy is he who is in the midst of excitement
He could acquire and know them.

*
So, praise you, Plague,
We are not afraid of the darkness of the grave,
We will not be confused by your calling!
Glasses we sing together
And the maiden-roses we drink the breath, -
Maybe ... full of the Plague!

Enters old priest.

Priest

Godless feast, godless madmen!

You feast and songs of debauchery

You scold the gloomy silence

Death is widespread everywhere!

Amid the horror of a deplorable funeral,

Among pale faces I pray in the cemetery,

And your hateful raptures

Confused by the silence of the coffins - and the earth

Over the dead bodies are shocked!

When would old men and wives pray

They did not consecrate a common, mortal pit, -

I could have thought that nowadays demons

The lost spirit of the atheist is tormented

And they drag me into the pitch darkness with laughter.

Go, old man! go your way!

Priest

I conjure you with holy blood

Savior crucified for us:

Break the monstrous feast when

Do you wish to meet in heaven

Lost beloved souls.

Go to your homes!

Chairperson

We are sad - youth loves joy.

Priest

Is it you, Walsingham? you are the one

Who is three weeks old, on his knees,

The corpse of the mother, sobbing, hugged

And fought with a cry over her grave?

Or do you think she's not crying now

There is a laid table outside, at which several young men and women are feasting. One of the feasts, a young man, addressing the chairman of the feast, reminds of their mutual friend, the cheerful Jackson, whose jokes and witticisms amused everyone, enlivened the feast and dispersed the darkness that a fierce plague now sends to the city. Jackson is dead, his chair at the table is empty, and the young man offers a drink in his memory. The chairman agrees, but believes that the drink should be in silence, and everyone drinks in silence in memory of Jackson.

The chairman of the feast turns to a young woman named Mary and asks her to sing a dull and drawn-out song from her native Scotland, so that she can return to the fun again later. Mary sings about home side who thrived in contentment until misfortune fell upon her and the side of fun and work turned into a land of death and sorrow. The heroine of the song asks her sweetheart not to touch her Jenny and leave her native village until the infection has passed, and vows not to leave her beloved Edmond even in heaven.

The chairman thanks Mary for the mournful song and suggests that once upon a time a plague like the one that now mows down all living things here has visited its edges. Mary recalls how she sang in her parents' hut, how they loved to listen to their daughter ... But suddenly the caustic and impudent Louise bursts into the conversation with the words that now such songs are not in vogue, although there are still simple souls ready to melt from women's tears and blindly believe them. Louise screams that she hates the yellowness of that Scottish hair. The chairman intervenes in the dispute, he calls on the feasts to listen to the sound of the wheels. A wagon loaded with corpses is approaching. The cart is driven by a negro. At the sight of this sight, Louise becomes ill, and the chairman asks Mary to splash water in her face to revive her. By her swoon, the chairperson assures, Louise proved that “the gentle is weaker than the cruel”. Mary calms Louise, and Louise, gradually regaining consciousness, says that she saw a black and white-eyed demon who called her to him, into his terrible cart, where the dead were lying and babbling their "terrible, unknown speech." Louise doesn't know if it was in a dream or in reality.

The young man explains to Louise that the black cart has the right to travel everywhere, and asks Valsingam to sing a song, but not a sad Scottish song, but a violent, Bacchic song, instead of a Bacchic song, and asks Valsingam to sing a song, instead of a Bacchic song, to end disputes and "the consequences of women's fainting" in honor of the plague. This hymn resounds praise for the plague, which can bestow an unknown ecstasy, which a strong-willed person is able to feel in the face of impending doom, and this pleasure in battle is "immortality, perhaps a pledge!" Happy is the one, the chairman sings, who is given to feel this pleasure.

While Valsingham is singing, the old priest enters. He reproaches the feasts for their blasphemous feast, calling them atheists, the priest believes that with their feast they are committing an outrage over the "horror of the sacred funeral", and with their raptures "they embarrass the silence of the coffins." The feasts laugh at the gloomy words of the priest, and he conjures them with the Blood of the Savior to stop the monstrous feast if they wish to meet the souls of their deceased loved ones in heaven and go home. The chairman objects to the priest that their homes are sad, and youth loves joy. The priest rebukes Valsingam and reminds him how, just three weeks ago, he hugged his mother's corpse on his knees "and fought with a cry over her grave." He assures that now the poor woman is crying in heaven, looking at the feasting son. He orders Valsingam to follow him, but Valsingam refuses to do this, since he is held here by despair and terrible memory, as well as the consciousness of his own lawlessness, he is held here by the horror of the dead emptiness of his native home, even the shadow of his mother is not able to take him away from here, and he asks the priest to leave. Many admire Valsingam's bold rebuke to the priest, who conjures the wicked with the pure spirit of Matilda. This name leads the chairman into mental confusion, he says that he sees her where his fallen spirit will no longer reach. A woman notices that Valsingham has gone mad and "raves about his buried wife." The priest persuades Valsingam to leave, but Valsingam, in God's name, begs the priest to leave him and leave. Calling on the Holy Name, the priest leaves, the feast continues, but Valsingam "remains in deep thought."

Street. Laid table. Several feasting men and women.

Young man
Honorable Chairman! I remember
About a person who is very familiar to us,
About whose jokes, stories are funny,
Sharp answers and remarks,
So caustic in their amusing importance,
The table conversation was enlivened
And they dispersed the darkness that is now
The infection, our guest, sends
The brightest minds.
That two days our common laughter praised
His stories; impossible to be
So that we are in our merry feast
Forgot Jackson! His armchairs here
Stand empty as if waiting
Merry man - but he's gone already
Into cold underground dwellings ...
Although the most eloquent language
Has not been silent yet in the ashes of the coffin;
But many of us are still alive, and we
There is no reason to be sad. So,
I suggest a drink in his memory
With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation,
As if he were alive.
Chairperson
He was eliminated first
From our circle. Let in silence
We'll drink in honor of him.
Young man
May it be so!
Everyone drinks in silence.

Chairperson
Your voice, honey, outputs sounds
Sweetheart songs with wild perfection;
Sing, Mary, we are sad and drawn out,
So that we then turn to fun
Crazier as the one who is from the earth
Was excommunicated by some vision.
Mary
(sings)
There was a time that flourished
In the world our side:
I've been on Sunday
The Church of God is full;
Our kids in a noisy school
Voices rang out
And sparkled in a bright field
Sickle and quick scythe.

Now the church is empty;
The school is deafly locked;
The cornfield is idly overripe;
The dark grove is empty;
And the village is like a dwelling
Burned, worth it, -
Quiet everything. One cemetery
Not empty, not silent.

They carry the dead every minute
And the groans of the living
Fearfully asking God
Rest their souls!
You need a place every minute,
And the graves among themselves,
Like a frightened flock
They are huddled together in a tight row!

If an early grave
Destined for my spring -
You who I loved so much
Whose love delights me
I pray: don't get close
You are yours to Jenny's body,
Do not touch the lips of the dead,
Follow her from afar.

And then leave the village!
Go somewhere
Where could you torment the soul
Delight and relax.
And when the infection blows
Visit my poor ashes;
And Edmond will not leave
Jenny is even in heaven!
Chairperson
Thank you, pensive Mary,
Thank you for the mournful song!
In the days of the past, the plague is so evident,
I have visited your hills and valleys,
And pitiful groans were heard
On the banks of streams and streams,
Those who run now happily and peacefully
Through the wild paradise of your native land;
And the dark year in which so many have fallen
Brave, kind and wonderful victims,
Barely left a memory of myself
In some simple shepherd's song
Dull and pleasant ... No, nothing
So it does not grieve us in the midst of joy,
As a languid, heart-repeated sound!
Mary
Oh, if I never sang
Outside my parents' hut!
They loved to listen to Mary;
I seem to listen to myself
Singing at the birthmark.
My voice was sweeter at the time: he
Was the voice of innocence ...
Louise
Out of fashion
Now such songs! But everything is there
Still simple souls: glad to melt
From women's tears and blindly believe them.
She is sure that her eyes are tearful
Its irresistible - and if the same
I thought about my laughter, then, surely,
All used to smile. Walsingham praised
Noisy northern beauties: here
She parted. Hate
The hair of these Scottish is yellow.
Chairperson
Listen: I can hear the sound of wheels!
There is a cart filled with dead bodies. The Negro controls her.
Aha! Louise is ill; in it, I thought
Judging by the language, a man's heart.
But so-and-so - tender weaker cruel,
And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions!
Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better.
Mary
Sister of my sorrow and shame,
Lay down on my chest.
Louise
(coming to my senses)
Terrible demon
I dreamed: all black, white-eyed….
He called me into his cart. In it
They lay dead and babbled
A terrible, unknown speech….
Tell me: was it in a dream?
Has the cart gone?
Young man
Well Louise
Cheer up - even though the street is all ours
A silent haven from death
A haven of unperturbed feasts
But you know, this black cart
Has the right to travel everywhere.
We must let her pass! Listen,
Thou Walsingham: for the suppression of disputes
And sing the consequences of women's fainting
A song for us, a free, live song,
I'm not inspired by Scottish sadness,
And a violent, bacchic song,
Born for a boiling cup.
Chairperson
I don’t know such, but I’ll sing you a hymn
I am in honor of the plague - I wrote it
Last night, how we parted.
A strange one found me a hunt for rhymes
For the first time in my life! Listen to me:
My hoarse voice befits a song.
Many
A hymn in honor of the plague! let's listen to him!
A hymn in honor of the plague! wonderful! bravo! bravo!

Chairperson
(sings)
When the mighty Winter
Like a vigorous leader, she leads
Shaggy squads are on us
Its frosts and snows, -
Fireplaces crackling towards her,
And the winter heat of the feasts was merry.

The fearsome queen, the Plague
Now it comes at us by itself
And flattering at the rich harvest;
And to our window day and night
Knocks with a grave shovel….
What should we do? and how to help?

As from the mischievous Winter,
Let us also hide ourselves from the Plague!
Let's light the lights, pour the glasses
Let's drown our minds merrily
And, having brewed feasts and balls,
Let's praise the kingdom of the Plague.

There is rapture in battle,
And the dark abyss at the edge,
And in a raging ocean
Amid the formidable waves and stormy darkness,
And in the Arabian hurricane
And in the breath of the Plague.

Everything, everything that threatens with death,
For the heart of a mortal conceals
Inexplicable pleasures -
Immortality, maybe a pledge!
And happy is he who is in the midst of excitement
He could acquire and know them.

So, praise you, Plague,
We are not afraid of the darkness of the grave,
We will not be confused by your calling!
Glasses we sing together
And the maidens-roses we drink our breath, -
Perhaps ... full of the Plague!
Enter the OLD PRIEST.

Priest
Godless feast, godless madmen!
You feast and songs of debauchery
You scold the gloomy silence
Death is widespread everywhere!
Amid the horror of a deplorable funeral,
Among pale faces I pray in the cemetery,
And your hateful raptures
Confused by the silence of the coffins - and the earth
Over the dead bodies are shocked!
When the old men and wives pray
They did not consecrate a common, mortal pit, -
I could have thought that nowadays demons
The lost spirit of the atheist is tormented
And they drag me into the pitch darkness with laughter.
Multiple voices
He speaks masterfully of hell!
Go, old man! go your way!
Priest
I conjure you with holy blood
Savior crucified for us:
Break the monstrous feast when
Do you wish to meet in heaven
Lost beloved souls.
Go to your homes!
Chairperson
Houses
We are sad - youth loves joy.
Priest
Is it you, Walsingham? you are the one
Who is three weeks old, on his knees,
The corpse of the mother, sobbing, hugged
And fought with a cry over her grave?
Or do you think she's not crying now
Doesn't cry bitterly in heaven itself,
Looking at the feasting son,
In a feast of debauchery, hearing your voice,
Singing mad songs, in between
The prayers of the saint and heavy sighs?
Follow me!
Chairperson
Why are you coming
Disturb me? I can't, I shouldn't
I'll follow you: I'm kept here
Despair, terrible memory,
Consciousness of my iniquity,
And the horror of that dead emptiness
I meet in my house -
And the news of these mad fun,
And with the graceful poison of this cup,
And caresses (forgive me, lord)
Lost, but sweet creature ...
Mother's shadow won't call me
From here, it's late, I hear your voice,
Calling me, I admit the effort
Save me ... old man, go in peace;
But damn you who will follow you!
Many
Bravo, bravo! worthy chairman!
Here is a sermon to you! let's go! let's go!
Priest
Matilda's pure spirit is calling you!
Chairperson
(stands up)
Swear to me, lifted to heaven
With a withered, pale hand - leave
In a coffin, a name that has been silent forever!
Oh, if only from the eyes of her immortals
Hide this sight! Me once
She considered pure, proud, free -
And she knew heaven in my arms ...
Where I am? Holy child of light! see
I am you where my fallen spirit goes
Will not reach already ...
Female voice
He's crazy -
He raves about his buried wife!
Priest
Let's go, let's go ...
Chairperson
My father, for God's sake,
Leave me alone!
Priest
God save you!
I'm sorry my son.
Leaves. The feast continues. The chairman remains deep in thought.