Младшая из трёх знаменитых сестёр, Энн Бронте (17 января 1820 — 28 мая 1849) не стала такой известной, как её сёстры Шарлотта и Эмили. Она вошла в историю мировой литературы как автор всего лишь двух романов — «Агнес Грей» (1847) и «Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла» (1848).

Энн почти не помнила своих рано умерших сестёр Марию и Элизабет, и её детство было относительно счастливым. Став взрослой, она считала главной своей целью изменение этого мира к лучшему. Она верила, что злодеи и негодяи вырастают из детей, попавших в неправильную среду, и что должная забота и внимание могут сделать ребёнка достойным членом общества.

Получив образование в школе Роу Хэд, она начала работать гувернанткой и стала единственной из сестёр Бронте, добившейся успеха в этой области: после неудачного первого опыта она в течение пяти лет воспитывала детей семейства Робинсон, а две её ученицы стали её подругами на всю оставшуюся жизнь.

В 1846 году сёстры выпустили совместный сборник стихотворений под мужскими псевдонимами: Шарлотта, Эмили и Энн Бронте стали Каррером, Эллисом и Эктоном Беллами соответственно. Это было вызвано существовавшим в XIX веке предубеждением относительно женского литературного творчества.

Этот сборник, наряду с романами Энн Бронте стал важной вехой в её литературной карьере. Роман «Агнес Грей» основывался на её опыте работой гувернанткой, а вот второй роман — «Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла» — стал по-настоящему знаковым событием. Он считается одним из первых феминистских романов. В нём критикуется положение женщины в семье, тем самым роман бросал вызов моральным устоям викторианской Англии. Вообще говоря, роман пришёлся не ко времени. Кроме уже вышеозначенного, он поднимал темы распущенности и алкоголизма в высших кругах, аргументы в пользу разрешения разводов, а также содержал нестандартные взгляды на воспитание детей. Помимо всего прочего в романе высказывалась идея универсализма, граничившая в XIX веке с ересью, заключавшаяся в том, что любой грешник в конечном счёте искупит свои грехи. Неудивительно, что Шарлотта Бронте, ставшая после смерти сестёр обладателем их авторских прав, запретила данный роман к дальнейшей публикации.

В центре поэзии Энн Бронте находятся вопросы морали и этические принципы, определяющие поведение человека. Она часто обращается к темам эмоций, отношений, душевных переживаний и веры. Природа занимает значительное место, выступая одновременно и как лирический дневник, и как неотъемлемая часть её художественного мира. Все её стихи насыщены настроением, передающим состояние печали, скорби и грусти. В то же время, по сравнению с произведениями Эмили и Шарлотты, они отличаются более спокойным и смиренным настроем.

Что касается переводов, то её стихотворения переводились на русский язык, хотя также, как и стихи её сестёр, не слишком часто.

Первый относительно крупный корпус её стихотворений был опубликован в 1990 г. в сборнике «Агнес Грей. Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Стихотворения» (Москва, Издательство «Художественная литература») в переводе Ирины Гуровой.

Впоследствии отдельные стихотворения выходили в переводах Л. Володарской, С. Минакова, А. Лукьянова в различных антологиях английской поэзии.

Однако попыток издать собрание стихотворений Энн Бронте, хотя бы примерно повторяющее собрание 1990 года, не предпринималось вплоть до 2026-го, когда в издательстве «Азбука» вышел новый сборник «Агнес Грей. Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Стихотворения». Над переводами стихотворений для этой книги работали Наталья Бухтоярова, Елена Рукомойникова, Софья Микушина, Анна Скворцова, Татьяна Иванова-Шеленгер и Александра Глебовская.

Во время работы над составлением данного сборника были использованы следующие издания:

1. «Poems by Currer, Eliis, and Acton Bell» (1846, Лондон, издательство «Smith, Elder & Co.»)

2. «The Complete Poems of Anne Brontë» (1920, Нью-Йорк, издательство «George H. Doran Co.»)

3. «Brontë poems. Selection from the poetry of Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Branwell Brontë» (1915, Нью-Йорк — Лондон, издательство «G.P. Putnam’s Sons»)

В настоящем сборнике собраны все стихотворения Энн Бронте, расположенные в хронологическом порядке. При наличии их публикаций на русском языке в сносках указаны имена переводчиков, а также названия изданий, где они были опубликованы. В случае отсутствия переводов стихотворений на русский язык, сноски не приводятся.

В. Щербаков

Poems by Anne Brontё

The Captain’s Dream

Methought I saw him, but I knew him not,

He was so changed from what he used to be;

There was no redness in his woe-worn cheeks,

No sunny smile upon his ashy lips;

His hollow, wandering eyes looked wild and fierce,

And grief was printed on his marble brow;

And, oh, I thought he clasped his wasted hands,

And raised his haggard eyes to Heaven, and prayed

That he might die. I had no power to speak;

I thought I was allowed to see him thus,

And yet I might not speak one single word;

I might not even tell him that I lived,

And that it might be possible, if search were made,

To find out where I was, and set me free.

Oh! how I longed to clasp him to my heart,

Or but to hold his trembling hand in mine,

And speak one word of comfort to his mind.

I struggled wildly, but it was in vain;

I could not rise from my dark dungeon floor;

And the dear name I vainly strove to speak

Died in a voiceless whisper on my tongue.

Then I awoke, and, lo! it was a dream.

A dream? Alas! it was reality;

For well I know, wherever he may be,

He mourns me thus. Oh, Heaven! I could bear

My deadly fate with calmness if there were

No kindred hearts to bleed and break for me.

1838

The North Wind

That wind is from the North: I know it well;

No other breeze could have so wild a swell.

Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,

Then faintly dies, and softly sighs,

And moans and murmurs mournfully.

I know its language: thus it speaks to me:

«I have passed over thy own mountains dear,

Thy northern mountains, and they still are free;

Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear,

And stern, and lovely, as they used to be

«When thou, a young enthusiast,

As wild and free as they,

O’er rocks, and glens, and snowy heights,

Didst often love to stray.

«I’ve blown the pure, untrodden snows

In whirling eddies from their brows;

And I have howled in caverns wild,

Where thou, a joyous mountain-child,

Didst dearly love to be.

The sweet world is not changed, but thou

Art pining in a dungeon now,

Where thou must ever be.

«No voice but mine can reach thy ear,

And Heaven has kindly sent me here

To mourn and sigh with thee,

And tell thee of the cherished land

Of thy nativity.»

Blow on, wild wind; thy solemn’s voice,

However sad and drear,

Is nothing to the gloomy silence

I have had to bear.

Hot tears are streaming from my eyes,

But these are better far

Than that dull, gnawing, tearless time,

The stupor of despair.

Confined and hopeless as I am,

Oh, speak of liberty!

Oh, tell me of my mountain home,

And I will welcome thee!

1838

The Parting

The chestnut steed stood by the gate,

His noble master’s will to wait;

The wooded park, so green and bright,

Was glowing in the morning light;

The young leaves of the aspen trees

Were dancing in the morning breeze.

The palace door was open wide,

The lord was standing there,

And his sweet lady by his side,

With soft, dark eyes, and raven hair.

He, smiling, took her ivory hand,

And said, «No longer here I stand;

My charger shakes his flowing mane,

And calls me with impatient neigh.

Adieu, then, till we meet again:

Sweet love, I must no longer stay.»

«You must not go so soon,» she said,

«I will not say «farewell»;

The sun has not dispelled the shade

In yonder dewy dell.

Dark shadows of gigantic length

Are sleeping on the lawn,

And scarcely have the birds begun

To hail the summer morn.

Then stay with me a little while,»

She said, with soft and sunny smile.

He smiled again, and did not speak,

But lightly kissed her rosy cheek,

And fondly clasped her in his arms;

Then vaulted on his steed,

And down the park’s smooth, winding road,

He urged its flying speed.

Still by the door his lady stood

And watched his rapid flight

Until he reached a distant wood

That hid him from her sight.

But ere he vanished from her view

He waved to her a lost «Adieu!»

Then onward, hastily, he steered,

And in the forest disappeared.

The lady smiled a pensive smile,

And heaved a gentle sigh;

But her cheek was all unbleached the while,

And tearless was her eye.

«A thousand lovely flowers,» she said,

«Are smiling on the plain,

And, ere one half of them are dead,

My lord will come again.

The leaves are waving fresh and green

On every stately tree,

And, long before they die away,

He will return to me!»

Alas! fair lady, say not so:

Thou canst not tell the weight of woe

That lies in store for thee!

Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall,

Winter will darken yonder hall,

Sweet spring will smile o’er hill and plain,

And trees and flowers will bloom again,

And years will still keep rolling on;

But thy beloved lord is gone!

His absence thou shalt deeply mourn,

And never smile on his return.

The lady of Abyerno’s hall

Is waiting for her lord;

The blackbird’s song, the cuckoo’s call,

No joy to her afford.

She smiles not at the summer’s sun,

Nor at the winter’s blast;

She mourns that she is still alone

Though three long years have passed.

I knew her when her eye was bright,

I knew her when her step was light

And blithesome as a mountain doe’s,

And when her cheek was like the rose,

And when her voice was full and free,

And when her smile was sweet to see.

But now the lustre of her eye

Is dimmed with many a tear;

Her footstep’s elasticity

Is timed with grief and fear.

The rose has left her hollow cheeks;

In low and mournful tone she speaks,

And when she smiles, ’tis but a gleam

Of sunshine on a winter’s day

That faintly beams through dreary clouds,

And in a moment dies away.

It does not warm, it does not cheer,

It makes us sigh for summer days

When fields are green and skies are clear,

And when the sun has kinder rays.

For three years she has waited there,

Still hoping for her lord’s return;

But vainly she may hope and fear,

And vainly watch and weep and mourn.

She may wait him till her hairs are grey,

And she may wear her life away,

But to his lady and his home

Her noble lord will never come.

«I wish I knew the worst,» she said,

«I wish I could despair:

These fruitless hopes, this constant dread,

Are more than I can bear.»

«Then do not hope, and do not weep:

He loved thee faithfully,

And nothing short of death could keep

So true a heart from thee.

Eliza, he would never go

And leave thee thus to mourn;

He must be dead, for death alone

Could hinder his return.»

«Twas thus I spoke, because I felt

As if my heart would break

To see her thus so slowly pine

For Abyerno’s sake.

But more than that I would not tell,

Though all the while I knew so well

The time and nature of his death;

For when he drew his parting breath

His head was pillowed on my knee,

And his dark eyes were turned to me

With an agonized heart-breaking glance

Until they saw me not.

Oh! the look of that dying man

Can never be forgot –!

1838

Verses to a Child

Oh, raise those eyes to me again,

And smile again so joyously;

And fear not, love; it was not pain

Nor grief that drew those tears from me.

Beloved child! thou canst not tell

The thoughts that in my bosom swell

Whene’er I look on thee1

Thou knowest not that a glance of thine

Can bring back long-departed years,

And that thy blue eyes’ magic shine

Can overflow my own with tears,

And that each feature, soft and fair,

And every curl of thy golden hair,

Some sweet remembrance bears.

Just then thou didst rcall to me

A distant, long-forgotten scene;

One smile, and one sweet word from thee

Dispelled the years that rolled between:

I was a little child again,

And every after joy and pain

Seemed never to have been.

Tall forest trees waved over me

To hide me from the heat of day,

And by my side a child like thee

Among the summer flowerets lay.

He was thy own, thou merry child:

Like thee he spoke, like thee he smiled,

Like thee he used to play.

Oh! those were calm and happy days;

We loved each othr fondly then;

But human love too soon decays,

And ours can never bloom again.

I never thought to see the day

When Florian’s friendship would decay

Like that of colder men.

Now, Flora, thou hast but begun

To sail on life’s deceitful sea;

Oh! do not err as I have done,

For I have trusted foolishly

The faith of every friend I loved:

I never doubted till I proved

Their heart’s inconstancy.

«Tis mournful to look back upon

Those long departed joys and cares,

And I will weep since thou alone

Art witness to my streaming tears.

This lingering love will not depart:

I cannot banish from my heart

The friend of childhood’s years.

But, though thy father loves me not,

Yet shall I still be loved by thee;

And, though I am by him forgot,

Say, wilt not thou remember me?

I will not cause thy heart to ache;

For thy regretted father’s sake

I’ll love and cherish thee.

1838

Self-Congratulation

«Ellen, you were thoughtless once

Of beauty or of grace,

Simple and homely in attire,

Careless of form and face.

Then whence this change? and wherefore now

So often smooth your hair?

And wherefore deck your youthful form

With such unwearied care?

«Tell us, and cease to tire our ears

With that familiar strain;

Why will you play those simple tunes

So often o’er again?»

«Indeed, dear friends, I can but say

That childhood’s thoughts are gone;

Each year its own new feelings brings,

And years move swiftly on:

«And for those little simple airs —

I love to play them o’er

So much — I dare not promise, now,

To play them nevermore.»

I answered — and it was enough;

They turned them to depart;

They could not read my secret thoughts,

Nor see my throbbing heart.

I’ve noticed many a youthful form,

Upon whose changeful face

The inmost workings of the soul

The gazer well might trace;

The speaking eye, the changing lip,

The ready blushing cheek,

The smiling, or beelouded brow,

Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine

For hours, and never know

The secret changes of my soul

From joy to keenest woe.

Last night, as we sat round the fire,

Conversing merrily,

We heard, without, approaching steps

Of one well knownt to me!

There was no trembling in my voice,

No blush upon my cheek,

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,

Of hope, or joy, to speak;

But, oh! my spirit burned within,

My heart beat full and fast!

He came not nigh — he went away —

And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not:

My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o’er my face

No signs of sadness came.

They little knew my hidden thoughts;

And they will never know

The aching anguish of my heart,

The bitter, burning woe!

1840

The Bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit dwells

In every little flower,

Each one its own sweet feeling breathes

With more or less of power.

There is a silent eloquence

In every wild bluebell,

That fills my softened heart with bliss

That words could never tell.

Yet I recall, not long ago,

A bright and sunny day:

«Twas when I led a toilsome life

So many leagues away.

That day along a sunny road

All carelessly I strayed

Between two banks where smiling flowers

Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,

Behind me lay the sea;

My heart was not so heavy then

As it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other times

I saw the scene was fair,

And spoke and laughed to those around,

As if I knew no care.

But as I looked upon the bank,

My wandering glances fell

Upon a little trembling flower,

A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat,

That dimness in my eyes?

Why did those burning drops distil,

Those bitter feelings rise?

Oh, that lone flower recalled to me

My happy childhood’s hours.

When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts,

A prize among the flowers.

Those sunny days of merriment

When heart and soul were free,

And when I dwelt with kindred hearts

That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds

To spend a thankless life,

In seeking after others’ weal

With anxious toil and strife.

«Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times

That never may return!»

The lovely floweret seemed to say,

And thus it made me mourn.

1840

Retirement

O, let me be alone a while,

No human form is nigh.

And may I sing and muse aloud,

No mortal ear is by.

Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss,

Ye earthly cares begone:

Depart! ye restless wandering thoughts,

And let me be alone!

One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings,

And quit this joyless sod,

Bask in the sunshine of the sky,

And be alone with God!

1840

An Orphan’s Lament

She’s gone; and twice the summer’s sun

Has gilt Regina’s towers,

And melted wild Angora’s snows,

And warmed Epina’s bowers.

The flowerets twice on hill and dale

Have bloomed and died away;

And twice the rustling forest leaves

Have fallen to decay.

And thrice stern winter’s icy hand

Has checked the rivers’ flow,

And three times o’er the mountains thrown

His spotless robe of snow.

Two summers, springs and autumns sad,

Three winters, cold and grey:

And is it then so long ago

That wild November day?

They say such tears as children weep

Will soon be dried away;

That childhood’s grief, however strong,

Is only for a day;

And parted friends, how dear soe’er,

Will soon forgotten be:

It may be so with other hears;

It is not so with me.

My mother, thou wilt weep no more,

For thou art gone above;

But, can I ever cease to mourn

Thy fond and fervent love?

While that was mine the world to me

Was sunshine bright and fair;

No feeling rose within my heart

But thou couldst read it there.

And thou couldst feel for all my joys,

And all my childish cares,

And never weary of my play

Or scorn my foolish fears.

Beneath thy sweet maternal smile

All pain and sorrow fled;

And even the very tears were sweet

Upon thy bosom shed.

Thy loss can never be repaired:

I shall not know again,

While life remains, the peaceful joy

That filled my spirit then.

Where shall I find a heart like thine

While life remains to me?

And where shall I bestow the love

I ever bore for thee?

1841

Lines Written at Thorp Green

That summer sun, whose genial glow

Now cheers my drooping spirit so,

Must cold and silent be,

And only light our northern clime

With feeble ray, before the time

I long so much to see.

And this soft, whispering breeze, that now

So gently cools my fevered brow,

This too, alas! must turn

To a wild blast, whose icy dart

Pierces and chills me to the heart,

Before I cease to mourn.

And these bright flowers I love so well,

Verbena, rose, and sweet bluebell,

Must droop and die away;

Those thick, green leaves, with all their shade

And rustling music, they must fade,

And every one decay.

But if the sunny, summer time,

And woods and meadows in their prime,

Are sweet to them that roam;

Far sweeter is the winter bare,

With long, dark nights, and landscape drear,

To them that are at Home!

1841

Appeal

Oh, I am very weary,

Though tears no longer flow;

My eyes are tired of weeping,

My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely,

My days pass heavily,

I’m weary of repining;

Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings

For thee, from day to day,

My hopes, so often blighted,

Thou wouldst not thus delay!

1841

Despondency

I have gone backward in the work,

The labour has not sped;

Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,

Heavy and dull as lead.

How can I rouse my sinking soul

From such a lethargy?

How can I break these iron chains

And set my spirit free?

There have been times when I have mourned

In anguish o’er the past,

And raised my suppliant hands on high,

While tears fell thick and fast;

And prayed to have my sins forgiven,

With such a fervent zeal,

An earniest grief, a strong desire,

As now I cannot feel.

And vowed to trample on my sins,

And called on Heaven to aid

My spirit in her firm resolves

And hear the vows I made.

And I have felt so full of love,

So strong in spirit then,

As if my heart would never cool,

Or wander back again.

And yet, alas! how many times

My feet have gone astray!

How oft have I forgot my God!

How greatly fallen away!

My sins increase, my love grows cold,

And Hope within me dies:

Even Faith itself is wavering now;

Oh, how shall I arise?

I cannot weep, but I can pray,

Then let me not despair;

Lord Jesus, save me, lest I die;

Christ, hear my humble prayer!

1841

To Cowper

Sweet are thy strains, Celestial Bard;

And oft, in childhood’s years,

I’ve read them o’er and o’er again,

With floods of silent tears.

The language of my inmost heart

I traced in every line;

My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears,

Were there — and only mine.

All for myself the sigh would swell,

The tear of anguish start;

I little knew what wilder woe

Had filled the Poet’s heart.

I did not know the nights of gloom,

The days of misery:

The long, long years of dark despair,

That crushed and tortured thee.

But they are gone; from earth at length

Thy gentle soul is passed,

And in the bosom of its God

Has found its home at last.

It must be so, if God is love,

And answers fervent prayer;

Then surely thou shalt dwell on high,

And I may meet thee there.

Is He the source of every good,

The spring of purity?

Then in thine hours of deepest woe,

Thy God was still with thee.

How else, when every hope was fled,

Couldst thou so fondly cling

To holy things and holy men?

And how so sweetly sing

Of things that God alone could teach?

And whence that purity,

That hatred of all sinful ways —

That gentle charity?

Are these the symptoms of a heart

Of heavenly grace bereft —

For ever banished from its God,

To Satan’s fury left?

Yet, should thy darkest fears be true,

If Heaven be so severe,

That such a soul as thine is lost, —

Oh! how shall I appear?

1842

In Memory of a Happy Day in February

Blessed be Thou for all the joy

My soul has felt to-day!

O let its memory stay with me

And never pass away!

I was alone, for those I loved

Were far away from me;

The sun shone on the withered grass,

The wind blew fresh and free.

Was it the smile of early spring

That made my bosom glow?

«Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind

Could raise my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight,

All vague and undefined?

No, ’twas a rapture deep and strong,

Expanding in my mind!

Was it a sanguine view of life

And all its transient bliss —

A hope of bright prosperity?

O no, it was not this!

It was a glimpse of truths divine

Unto my spirit given,

Illumined by a ray of light

That shone direct from Heaven!

I knew there was a God on high

By whom all things were made;

I saw His wisdom and His power

In all His works displayed.

But most throughout the moral world

I saw His glory shine;

I saw His wisdom infinite,

His mercy all divine.

Deep secrets of His Providence

In darkness long concealed,

Were brought to my delighted eyes

And graciously revealed.

And while I wondered and adored

His wisdom so divine,

I did not tremble at His power —

I felt that God was mine.

I knew that my Redeemer lived,

I did not fear to die;

I felt that I should rise again

To immortality.

I longed to view that bliss divine

Which eye hath never seen,

To see the glories of His face

Without the veil between.

1842

Lines composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

1842

Бесплатный фрагмент закончился.

Купите книгу, чтобы продолжить чтение.