Оскар Уайльд - Баллада Редингской тюрьмы

IV

There is no chapel on the dayOn which they hang a man:The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,Or his face is far to wan,Or there is that written in his eyesWhich none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,And then they rang the bell,And the Warders with their jingling keysOpened each listening cell,And down the iron stair we tramped,Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,But not in wonted way,For this man's face was white with fear,And that man's face was grey,And I never saw sad men who lookedSo wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWe prisoners called the sky,And at every careless cloud that passedIn happy freedom by.

But their were those amongst us allWho walked with downcast head,And knew that, had each got his due,They should have died instead:He had but killed a thing that livedWhilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second timeWakes a dead soul to pain,And draws it from its spotted shroud,And makes it bleed again,And makes it bleed great gouts of bloodAnd makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garbWith crooked arrows starred,Silently we went round and roundThe slippery asphalte yard;Silently we went round and round,And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,And through each hollow mindThe memory of dreadful thingsRushed like a dreadful wind,An Horror stalked before each man,And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,And kept their herd of brutes,Their uniforms were spick and span,And they wore their Sunday suits,But we knew the work they had been atBy the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,There was no grave at all:Only a stretch of mud and sandBy the hideous prison-wall,And a little heap of burning lime,That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,Such as few men can claim:Deep down below a prison-yard,Naked for greater shame,He lies, with fetters on each foot,Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning limeEats flesh and bone away,It eats the brittle bone by night,And the soft flesh by the day,It eats the flesh and bones by turns,But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sowOr root or seedling there:For three long years the unblessed spotWill sterile be and bare,And look upon the wondering skyWith unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taintEach simple seed they sow.It is not true! God's kindly earthIs kindlier than men know,And the red rose would but blow more red,The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!Out of his heart a white!For who can say by what strange way,Christ brings his will to light,Since the barren staff the pilgrim boreBloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor redMay bloom in prison air;The shard, the pebble, and the flint,Are what they give us there:For flowers have been known to healA common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,Petal by petal, fallOn that stretch of mud and sand that liesBy the hideous prison-wall,To tell the men who tramp the yardThat God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wallStill hems him round and round,And a spirit man not walk by nightThat is with fetters bound,And a spirit may not weep that liesIn such unholy ground,

He is at peace — this wretched man—At peace, or will be soon:There is no thing to make him mad,Nor does Terror walk at noon,For the lampless Earth in which he liesHas neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:They did not even tollA requiem that might have broughtRest to his startled soul,But hurriedly they took him out,And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,And gave him to the flies;They mocked the swollen purple throatAnd the stark and staring eyes:And with laughter loud they heaped the shroudIn which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to prayBy his dishonoured grave:Nor mark it with that blessed CrossThat Christ for sinners gave,Because the man was one of thoseWhom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passedTo Life's appointed bourne:And alien tears will fill for himPity's long-broken urn,For his mourner will be outcast men,And outcasts always mourn.

V

I know not whether Laws be right,Or whether Laws be wrong;All that we know who lie in goalIs that the wall is strong;And that each day is like a year,A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every LawThat men have made for Man,Since first Man took his brother's life,And the sad world began,But straws the wheat and saves the chaffWith a most evil fan.

This too I know — and wise it wereIf each could know the same—That every prison that men buildIs built with bricks of shame,And bound with bars lest Christ should seeHow men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,And blind the goodly sun:And they do well to hide their Hell,For in it things are doneThat Son of God nor son of ManEver should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weedsBloom well in prison-air:It is only what is good in ManThat wastes and withers there:Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened childTill it weeps both night and day:And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,And gibe the old and grey,And some grow mad, and all grow bad,And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwellIs foul and dark latrine,And the fetid breath of living DeathChokes up each grated screen,And all, but Lust, is turned to dustIn Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drinkCreeps with a loathsome slime,And the bitter bread they weigh in scalesIs full of chalk and lime,And Sleep will not lie down, but walksWild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green ThirstLike asp with adder fight,We have little care of prison fare,For what chills and kills outrightIs that every stone one lifts by dayBecomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,And twilight in one's cell,We turn the crank, or tear the rope,Each in his separate Hell,And the silence is more awful farThan the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes nearTo speak a gentle word:And the eye that watches through the doorIs pitiless and hard:And by all forgot, we rot and rot,With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chainDegraded and alone:And some men curse, and some men weep,And some men make no moan:But God's eternal Laws are kindAnd break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,In prison-cell or yard,Is as that broken box that gaveIts treasure to the Lord,And filled the unclean leper's houseWith the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can breakAnd peace of pardon win!How else may man make straight his planAnd cleanse his soul from Sin?How else but through a broken heartMay Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.And the stark and staring eyes,Waits for the holy hands that tookThe Thief to Paradise;And a broken and a contrite heartThe Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the LawGave him three weeks of life,Three little weeks in which to healHis soul of his soul's strife,And cleanse from every blot of bloodThe hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,The hand that held the steel:For only blood can wipe out blood,And only tears can heal:And the crimson stain that was of CainBecame Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading townThere is a pit of shame,And in it lies a wretched manEaten by teeth of flame,In burning winding-sheet he lies,And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,In silence let him lie:No need to waste the foolish tear,Or heave the windy sigh:The man had killed the thing he loved,And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,By all let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look,Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss,The brave man with a sword!

Баллада Редингской тюрьмы

(перевод Нины Воронель)

Памяти К. Т. У., бывшего кавалериста королевской конной гвардии. Казнен в тюрьме Его величества, Рэдинг, Беркшир, 7 июля 1896 года.

Глава 1

Не в красном был Он в этот часОн кровью залит был,Да, красной кровью и виномОн руки обагрил,Когда любимую своюВ постели Он убил.

В тюремной куртке через дворПрошел Он в первый раз,Легко ступая по камням,Шагал Он среди нас,Но никогда я не встречалТаких тоскливых глаз.

Нет, не смотрел никто из насС такой тоской в глазахНа лоскуток голубизныВ тюремных небесах,Где проплывают облакаНа легких парусах.

В немом строю погибших душМы шли друг другу вслед,И думал Я — что сделал Он,Виновен или нет?«Его повесят поутру», —Шепнул мне мой сосед.

О Боже! Стены, задрожав,Обрушились вокруг,И небо стиснуло мне лоб,Как раскаленный круг,Моя погибшая душаСебя забыла вдруг.

Так вот какой гнетущий страхТолкал Его вперед,Вот почему Он так смотрелНа бледный небосвод:Убил возлюбленную ОнИ сам теперь умрет!

Ведь каждый, кто на свете жил,Любимых убивал,Один — жестокостью, другой —Отравою похвал,Коварным поцелуем — трус,А смелый — наповал.

Один убил на склоне лет,В расцвете сил — другой.Кто властью золота душил,Кто похотью слепой,А милосердный пожалел:Сразил своей рукой.

Кто слишком преданно любил,Кто быстро разлюбил,Кто покупал, кто продавал,Кто лгал, кто слезы лил,Но ведь не каждый принял смертьЗа то, что он убил.

Не каждый всходит на помостПо лестнице крутой,Захлебываясь под мешкомПредсмертной темнотой.Чтоб, задыхаясь, заплясатьВ петле над пустотой.

Не каждый отдан день и ночьТюремщикам во власть,Чтоб ни забыться Он не мог,Ни помолиться всласть;Чтоб смерть добычу у тюрьмыНе вздумала украсть.

Не каждый видит в страшный час,Когда в глазах туман,Как входит черный комендантИ белый капеллан,Как смотрит желтый лик СудаВ тюремный балаган.

Не каждый куртку застегнет,Нелепо суетясь,Пока отсчитывает врачСердечный перепляс,Пока, как молот, бьют часыЕго последний час.

Не каждому сухим пескомВсю глотку обдерет,Когда появится палачВ перчатках у воротИ, чтобы жажду Он забыл,В ремни Его возьмет.

Не каждому, пока Он жив,Прочтут заупокой,Чтоб только ужас подтвердил,Что Он еще живой;Не каждый, проходя двором,О гроб споткнется свой.

Не каждый должен видеть высь,Как в каменном кольце,И непослушным языкомМолиться о конце,Узнав Кайафы поцелуйНа стынущем лице.

Глава 2