“Он” Леонида Андреева: теперь на английском

Совершенно случайно, пока читала Брейн Пикинг (о том, как можно проиллюстрировать страшные сны), вспомнила одну из любимых повестей Леонида Андреева “Он”, в которой главный герой оказывается пленником мучительного и тоскливого кошмара: к нему в комнату приходит таинственный Он, кладет холодную ладонь на лоб, и героя охватывают мучительные “сон и тоска, сон и тоска”. Вот это самое повторение сна и тоски я запомнила совершенно отчетливо, и мне вдруг захотелось найти эту андреевскую историю на английском. Я быстро выяснила, что, как и в случае с Блоком, Андреева переводили мало, выборочно и плохо, но тут же меня подстерегла неслыханная удача: я нашла великолепный перевод повести “Он” вот здесь. Не могу удержаться и не процитировать оттуда один отрывок — еще раз повторюсь, но по-моему перевод просто безупречный:

But he kept silent, and I felt ludicrous for addressing him with sir. Even so I inferred from his silence that I had to go to bed, and so I did, taking off my clothes slowly and methodically under his unseen yet palpable stare — I was sitting on my bed, which creaked badly as I moved, and for some reason that greatly embarrassed me. As I was crawling under the cold blanket, I happened to realize I had not set my shoes out but decided it made no difference now. I lay down supine, with my face upwards, since it seemed impolite to do otherwise; and the next moment he sat down, pushing me carefully to the wall, on the edge of the bed, and put his hand upon my head. It was moderately cold and very heavy, and what it exuded was sleep and sorrow. I had gone through a lot of hardships in my life, I saw my father, whom I loved deeply, die before my very eyes, I had thought more than once, despite my youth, that my heart could break and burst with sadness and grief, but I could have not even imagined such a grief until that night, until that cold and heavy hand touched my forehead for the first time. I felt on the instant that I was falling asleep, yet, oddly enough, sleep and sorrow did not conflict but entered me as a whole and spread lingeringly down from the head all through my body, penetrating its innermost depths, becoming my blood, my fingers, my chest. I was still able to know the moment when sorrow and sleep reached my heart and flooded it but everything after that — be it consciousness, fear or fragmentary thoughts — everything left me in the monolithic emotion of all-exhausting, all-encompassing sorrow. They all left me, every single image, thought or memory, and my youth slid away; all my wishes gone, the life itself extinguished, and my soul hurt so painfully, overwhelmed by such a sorrow that our language has neither images to compare it with nor words to express it. It did not matter now that he was sitting beside me, keeping his dreadful hand upon my head; and slowly, grieving mortally, grieving motionlessly, grieving beyond all limits that the imbounded reality sets — slowly I settled down into a dreamless sleep.

Читаю — и снова вижу  перед собой нищего студента, странную семью Нордена, как будто бы различаю среди героев Елену, которая давно умерла, но, возможно, что и не совсем, — и, конечно, Его, ростом в два этажа, который смотрит в тебя сквозь темное окно, а внутри сон и тоска, сон и тоска.