Aleksandr Vvedensky, p.2
FROTHER
The sons stood by the wall, flashing their feet shod in spurs. They rejoiced and said:
Promulgate to us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
The father, flashing his eyes, replied:
Do not confuse, my sons
The day of the end and the knight of spring.
Blue, terrible and grizzled is Frother.
I am your angel. I am your father.
I know its cruelty,
My death is close at hand.
Bald spots gape on my head,
Empty patches. I am bored.
And should my life drag on,
Neither a falcon nor a tuft of hair
Will remain anywhere.
This means death is at hand.
This means hello boredom.
The sons twinkled their bells and then rattled their tongues:
But that wasn’t our question,
Our thoughts gestate like mansions.
Won’t you tell us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
And the father exclaimed, “The prologue!
In the prologue what matters is God.
Go to sleep, sons.
There are dreams: watch some.”
The sons lay down to sleep. Having hid mushrooms in their pockets. Even the walls seemed obedient. Many things seemed, what of it. Actually not much seemed to us nor to them. But hark! What was that? Once more the father didn’t give a direct answer. And to the sons who woke anew this is what he said, exclaiming and flashing his eyebrows:
Let the gray-haired people
Sing and dance.
Let them wave their arms
Like a man.
On a placid, beautiful day
You diminish in breath.
How soon I will apprehend
The perfection of death.
The horses rush like waves,
Hooves clop.
The steeds are dashing and ablaze,
Vanished they gallop.
But how to clasp their abatement,
And are all of us mortal?
What can you tell me, O moment
Will I understand you?
The bed stands before me,
I’ll softly lie,
And under the wall I’ll feign to be
A flag and gladioli.
Sons, sons. My hour approaches.
I’m dying. I’m dying.
Don’t ride in coaches.
The end, it comes.
In rows, flashing their feet, the sons begin to dance a quadrille. The first son, or is it the first pair, says:
Please do tell us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
And the second son, or is it the second pair, says:
Maybe Frother is a tether,
A teether or a head in feathers.
Then the third son, or is it the third pair:
I can’t understand O father
Where is Frother? What is Frother?
The father, flashing his eyes, moans menacingly:
O I wallow in pillows!
The first son:
Father, I pallow in willows.
You must not die
Before you ply reply.
The second son, dancing like a loyal subject:
O Frother, Frother, Frother.
O father, father, father.
Finally the third son, dancing like a gunshot:
Dolls and dunce caps have burned out,
I’m a boat a boat a bout.
The sons stop dancing, because it can’t all be fun and games, can it. They sit mutely and quietly by their father’s expired bed. They look into his wilting eyes. They wish to repeat everything. The father is dying. He becomes fleshy like a bunch of grapes. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. The sons say nothing as each of them enters his own superstitious wall.
Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.
The father is flying over the writing desk. But don’t think he’s a spirit.
I saw, as you’d have it, a rose,
This tedious petal of earth.
The flower apparently was
Thinking its last thoughts.
It caressed the neighboring mountains
With the terminal breath of its soul.
Princesses floated and stars
Above in the heavenly pall.
As my sons went away
And my horse like a wave
Stood and clacked its hoof,
The moon yellowed nearby.
O flower convinced of delight
The godly hour is at hand.
The world comes to like the dawn
And I have gone out like a light.
The father stops speaking in verse. He takes a puff on a candle, holding it in his teeth like a flute while sinking pillow-like into the armchair.
The first son enters and says: And he hasn’t even answered our question. Therefore he now turns to the pillow with a question:
Pillow pillow
Tell us rather
What is this thing called Frother.
The pillow who is also the father:
I know. I know!
The second son asks in a hurry:
Then answer,
Wherefore speak you not.
The third son, utterly incensed:
In vain are you a widow,
O comfortable pillow.
Reply.
The first son:
So answer.
The second son:
Some fire here! Fire!
The third son:
I am going to hang somebody, I can just feel it.
The pillow, who is also the father:
A little patience,
Then maybe I’ll answer all your questions.
I’d like to hear you sing.
Then maybe I’ll grow loquacious.
I’m so exhausted.
Maybe art will give me a second wind.
Farewell, pedestal.
I wish to hear your voices set to music.
Then the sons could not deny their father’s astounded request. They huddled together like cattle and broke into a universal song:
Big brat brother Brutus,
A marvelous Roman.
Everyone lies. Everyone dies.
That was the first stanza.
The second stanza:
Sang sank skittered stole
A lonely tightrope walker.
That acrobat. What gall.
Third stanza:
The stallion
In the netherworld
Is waiting for the clarion.
And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stood around the unsightly pillow, and awaited with meaningless hope the answer to their unenviable and savage, imposing question: What is Frother? And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Father sat over the cow-wheat writing desk, and the sons stood against the wall like umbrellas. That’s what Frother is.
The father sat atop a bronze steed while the sons stood at his sides. And the third son stood alternately by the horse’s face and the horse’s tail. As was apparent to him and to us, he felt out of place. And the horse was like a wave. No one spoke a word. They were speaking in thoughts.
Now the father sitting on the steed and stroking his darling duck exclaimed mentally, flashing his eyes:
You’re waiting to hear what the father will blather.
Will he or won’t he explain what is Frother.
O Lord I am a disconsolate widower,
A sinless singer.
The first son bending down picked up a five-kopeck piece from the floor. He moaned mentally and started flashing his feet:
Papa, the end is near.
I see a crown form above your ear.
Your breathing is tall and austere,
You’re already a popsicle.
The second son was just as gloomy. He bent down on the other side and picked up a ladies’ purse. Then he cried thoughts and started flashing his feet:
If only I were a priest
Or a deceased released,
I would have visited your court,
Almighty Lord.
And the third son, standing at the horse’s tail and plucking at his mustaches with his thoughts, started flashing his feet:
Where is the key to my mind?
Where is that ray of light,
The sudden generosity of winter?
And as he relocated to the face of the horse, which was like a wave, he smoothed his hair with his thoughts and started flashing his feet:
You see no eyebrows father,
How barren are the bloodlines of Frother.
Then the father took out of his pocket the barrel of a certain gun and, showing it to his children, exclaimed elated and loud, flashing his eyes:
Look: a gun barrel!
It’s so big and unsterile!
First son:
Where? How? Teach us—
Second son:
Everywhere. Like finches.
Third son:
The last fear
After mass
Was past
Crumbled to dust.
The gates of heaven then flew open.
And a nanny came out of the barn.
She had two legs, one after another.
And this again reminded everyone of their eternal question, namely:
What is this thing called Frother?
A horrible silence descended on everything. The sons lay strewn like candy across the night room, revolving their white grizzled occiputs and flashing their feet. Superstition overpowered them all.
The nanny had two legs, one after another.
She hung in the room mercilessly smothered.
The nanny began to put the father, who had turned small as a child’s bone, to bed. She sang him a song:
Over your cradle, drool runs down your lips
And the moon lives.
Over the grave, over the pine
Sleep and repine.
Better not rise.
Better pulverize.
Hey there blacksmith jacksmith,
We’ll sleep in your forge.
We’re all prisoners.
And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stand around the father’s softly expired bed. They wish to repeat everything. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.
Dear God, the sons could have said if only they could. But we knew that already.
3 PARTS
The sons stood by the wall, flashing their feet shod in spurs. They rejoiced and said:
Promulgate to us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
The father, flashing his eyes, replied:
Do not confuse, my sons
The day of the end and the knight of spring.
Blue, terrible and grizzled is Frother.
I am your angel. I am your father.
I know its cruelty,
My death is close at hand.
Bald spots gape on my head,
Empty patches. I am bored.
And should my life drag on,
Neither a falcon nor a tuft of hair
Will remain anywhere.
This means death is at hand.
This means hello boredom.
The sons twinkled their bells and then rattled their tongues:
But that wasn’t our question,
Our thoughts gestate like mansions.
Won’t you tell us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
And the father exclaimed, “The prologue!
In the prologue what matters is God.
Go to sleep, sons.
There are dreams: watch some.”
The sons lay down to sleep. Having hid mushrooms in their pockets. Even the walls seemed obedient. Many things seemed, what of it. Actually not much seemed to us nor to them. But hark! What was that? Once more the father didn’t give a direct answer. And to the sons who woke anew this is what he said, exclaiming and flashing his eyebrows:
Let the gray-haired people
Sing and dance.
Let them wave their arms
Like a man.
On a placid, beautiful day
You diminish in breath.
How soon I will apprehend
The perfection of death.
The horses rush like waves,
Hooves clop.
The steeds are dashing and ablaze,
Vanished they gallop.
But how to clasp their abatement,
And are all of us mortal?
What can you tell me, O moment
Will I understand you?
The bed stands before me,
I’ll softly lie,
And under the wall I’ll feign to be
A flag and gladioli.
Sons, sons. My hour approaches.
I’m dying. I’m dying.
Don’t ride in coaches.
The end, it comes.
In rows, flashing their feet, the sons begin to dance a quadrille. The first son, or is it the first pair, says:
Please do tell us dear father
What is this thing called Frother.
And the second son, or is it the second pair, says:
Maybe Frother is a tether,
A teether or a head in feathers.
Then the third son, or is it the third pair:
I can’t understand O father
Where is Frother? What is Frother?
The father, flashing his eyes, moans menacingly:
O I wallow in pillows!
The first son:
Father, I pallow in willows.
You must not die
Before you ply reply.
The second son, dancing like a loyal subject:
O Frother, Frother, Frother.
O father, father, father.
Finally the third son, dancing like a gunshot:
Dolls and dunce caps have burned out,
I’m a boat a boat a bout.
The sons stop dancing, because it can’t all be fun and games, can it. They sit mutely and quietly by their father’s expired bed. They look into his wilting eyes. They wish to repeat everything. The father is dying. He becomes fleshy like a bunch of grapes. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. The sons say nothing as each of them enters his own superstitious wall.
Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.
PART TWO
The father is flying over the writing desk. But don’t think he’s a spirit.
I saw, as you’d have it, a rose,
This tedious petal of earth.
The flower apparently was
Thinking its last thoughts.
It caressed the neighboring mountains
With the terminal breath of its soul.
Princesses floated and stars
Above in the heavenly pall.
As my sons went away
And my horse like a wave
Stood and clacked its hoof,
The moon yellowed nearby.
O flower convinced of delight
The godly hour is at hand.
The world comes to like the dawn
And I have gone out like a light.
The father stops speaking in verse. He takes a puff on a candle, holding it in his teeth like a flute while sinking pillow-like into the armchair.
The first son enters and says: And he hasn’t even answered our question. Therefore he now turns to the pillow with a question:
Pillow pillow
Tell us rather
What is this thing called Frother.
The pillow who is also the father:
I know. I know!
The second son asks in a hurry:
Then answer,
Wherefore speak you not.
The third son, utterly incensed:
In vain are you a widow,
O comfortable pillow.
Reply.
The first son:
So answer.
The second son:
Some fire here! Fire!
The third son:
I am going to hang somebody, I can just feel it.
The pillow, who is also the father:
A little patience,
Then maybe I’ll answer all your questions.
I’d like to hear you sing.
Then maybe I’ll grow loquacious.
I’m so exhausted.
Maybe art will give me a second wind.
Farewell, pedestal.
I wish to hear your voices set to music.
Then the sons could not deny their father’s astounded request. They huddled together like cattle and broke into a universal song:
Big brat brother Brutus,
A marvelous Roman.
Everyone lies. Everyone dies.
That was the first stanza.
The second stanza:
Sang sank skittered stole
A lonely tightrope walker.
That acrobat. What gall.
Third stanza:
The stallion
In the netherworld
Is waiting for the clarion.
And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stood around the unsightly pillow, and awaited with meaningless hope the answer to their unenviable and savage, imposing question: What is Frother? And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Father sat over the cow-wheat writing desk, and the sons stood against the wall like umbrellas. That’s what Frother is.
PART THREE
The father sat atop a bronze steed while the sons stood at his sides. And the third son stood alternately by the horse’s face and the horse’s tail. As was apparent to him and to us, he felt out of place. And the horse was like a wave. No one spoke a word. They were speaking in thoughts.
Now the father sitting on the steed and stroking his darling duck exclaimed mentally, flashing his eyes:
You’re waiting to hear what the father will blather.
Will he or won’t he explain what is Frother.
O Lord I am a disconsolate widower,
A sinless singer.
The first son bending down picked up a five-kopeck piece from the floor. He moaned mentally and started flashing his feet:
Papa, the end is near.
I see a crown form above your ear.
Your breathing is tall and austere,
You’re already a popsicle.
The second son was just as gloomy. He bent down on the other side and picked up a ladies’ purse. Then he cried thoughts and started flashing his feet:
If only I were a priest
Or a deceased released,
I would have visited your court,
Almighty Lord.
And the third son, standing at the horse’s tail and plucking at his mustaches with his thoughts, started flashing his feet:
Where is the key to my mind?
Where is that ray of light,
The sudden generosity of winter?
And as he relocated to the face of the horse, which was like a wave, he smoothed his hair with his thoughts and started flashing his feet:
You see no eyebrows father,
How barren are the bloodlines of Frother.
Then the father took out of his pocket the barrel of a certain gun and, showing it to his children, exclaimed elated and loud, flashing his eyes:
Look: a gun barrel!
It’s so big and unsterile!
First son:
Where? How? Teach us—
Second son:
Everywhere. Like finches.
Third son:
The last fear
After mass
Was past
Crumbled to dust.
The gates of heaven then flew open.
And a nanny came out of the barn.
She had two legs, one after another.
And this again reminded everyone of their eternal question, namely:
What is this thing called Frother?
A horrible silence descended on everything. The sons lay strewn like candy across the night room, revolving their white grizzled occiputs and flashing their feet. Superstition overpowered them all.
The nanny had two legs, one after another.
She hung in the room mercilessly smothered.
The nanny began to put the father, who had turned small as a child’s bone, to bed. She sang him a song:
Over your cradle, drool runs down your lips
And the moon lives.
Over the grave, over the pine
Sleep and repine.
Better not rise.
Better pulverize.
Hey there blacksmith jacksmith,
We’ll sleep in your forge.
We’re all prisoners.
And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stand around the father’s softly expired bed. They wish to repeat everything. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.
Dear God, the sons could have said if only they could. But we knew that already.