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Нет, бил барабан перед смутным полком, Когда мы вождя хоронили: То зубы царёвы над мёртвым певцом Почётную дробь выводили. Такой уж почёт, что ближайшим друзьям — Нет места. В изглавьи, в изножьи, И справа, и слева — ручищи по швам — Жандармские груди и рожи. Не диво ли — и на тишайшем из лож Пребыть поднадзорным мальчишкой? На что-то, на что-то, на что-то похож Почёт сей, почётно — да слишком! Гляди, мол, страна, как, молве вопреки, Монарх о поэте печётся! Почётно — почётно — почётно — архи- почётно, — почётно — до чёрту! Кого ж это так — точно воры вора Пристреленного — выносили? Изменника? Нет. С проходного двора — Умнейшего мужа России.
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Note on TransliterationsText Authorship:
- by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetayeva (1892 - 1941), no title, written 1931 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich (1906 - 1975), "Нет, бил барабан", op. 143a no. 5, from Шесть стихотворении Марини Цветаевой = Shest' stikhotvorenii Marini Cvetajevoj, no. 5 [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Dann Mitton) , "No, there was a drumbeat", copyright © 2020, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ENG English (Sergey Rybin) , "No, the drum was drumming", copyright © 2020, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Non, le tambour bat devant les troupes inquiètes", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: John Versmoren
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 113
No, the drum was drumming in front of a gloomy regiment When we were burying the leader. That sound was the teeth of the Tsar Above the dead poet sounding an honorary drum roll. Such a huge honour, that even for the closest of friends There was no space to be found. By the bedhead, at the feet, To the right and left - hands to the seams - only chests and mugs of gendarmes. What a wonder – even upon the quietest of beds To remain under surveillance like a little boy? Something, something, something this honour reminds me of, Honourable – but a little too much! Look, subjects, how against all rumours, The Monarch cares about the Poet! Honourable, honourable, honourable, Super honourable, honourable – cursedly so! So whom – like thieves another thief, Shot with a gun – did they carry out? A traitor? No. Through the back door - The cleverest man of all Russia.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from Russian (Русский) to English copyright © 2020 by Sergey Rybin, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on:
- a text in Russian (Русский) by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetayeva (1892 - 1941), no title, written 1931
This text was added to the website: 2020-09-16
Line count: 20
Word count: 156