Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
SCENE I
A room.
Salieri
Everyone says: there is no justice on earth.
But there is no justice above, either. To me
this is as clear as a simple scale.
I was born with love for art;
when I was a child, whenever the organ
sounded aloft in our old church,
I listened and could not cease listening — tears,
involuntary and sweet, would flow.
Early I rejected idle amusements;
sciences alien to music
were hateful to me; stubbornly and proudly
I renounced them and devoted myself
to music alone. The first step is hard,
and dull the first path. I overcame
my early hardships. Craft
I made the pedestal of art;
I became a craftsman: I taught my fingers
obedient, dry fluency
and trained my ear to faithfulness. Killing the sounds,
I dissected music like a corpse.
I tested harmony by algebra. Only then,
experienced in the science, did I dare
surrender myself to the delight of creative dreaming.
I began to create; but silently, secretly,
not yet daring even to think of fame.
Often, after sitting in my silent cell
for two or three days, forgetting sleep and food,
having tasted the rapture and tears of inspiration,
I burned my work and watched coldly
as my thought and the sounds born of me,
blazing, vanished in a wisp of smoke.
What am I saying? When the great Gluck
appeared and revealed new mysteries to us
— profound, enchanting mysteries —
did I not cast aside everything I had known before,
everything I had loved so much, believed in so fervently,
and follow him boldly,
without complaint, like one who had lost his way
and was sent in another direction by a passer-by?
Through strenuous, intense perseverance
I finally attained, in boundless art,
a lofty rank. Fame
smiled upon me; in human hearts
I found an answering resonance to my creations.
I was happy: peacefully I enjoyed
my labour, my success, my fame; and likewise
the labours and successes of my friends,
my companions in this wondrous art.
No! Never did I know envy,
oh, never! — not even when Piccinni
knew how to charm the ears of the savage Parisians,
nor when for the first time
I heard the opening strains of Iphigénie.
Who could say that proud Salieri
had ever been a contemptible envier,
a serpent trampled underfoot by men, alive
and helplessly gnawing sand and dust?
No one! … But now — I myself confess it — now
I am an envier. I envy; deeply,
agonizingly I envy. — O Heaven!
Where is justice, when the sacred gift,
when immortal genius is sent not as a reward
for burning love, self-sacrifice,
labour, devotion, prayers —
but lights upon the head of a madman,
an idle reveller? … O Mozart, Mozart!
Mozart enters.
Mozart
Aha! You saw me! And I wanted
to treat you to an unexpected joke.
Salieri
You are here! — For long?
Mozart
Just arrived. I was coming to see you,
bringing something I wanted to show you;
but as I passed a tavern, suddenly
I heard a violin … No, my friend Salieri!
Never in your life have you heard
anything funnier … A blind fiddler in the tavern
was playing Voi che sapete. Marvellous!
I couldn’t resist; I brought the fiddler along
to treat you to his art.
Come in!
A blind old man enters with a violin.
Something by Mozart for us!
The old man plays an aria from Don Giovanni; Mozart bursts out laughing.
Salieri
And you can laugh at that?
Mozart
Oh, Salieri!
Can it be that you yourself aren’t laughing?
Salieri
No.
I do not laugh when a worthless painter
smears Raphael’s Madonna before my eyes;
I do not laugh when a contemptible buffoon
dishonours Alighieri with a parody.
Go, old man.
Mozart
Wait: here, take this,
drink to my health.
The old man leaves.
You, Salieri,
are out of sorts today. I’ll come to you
another time.
Salieri
What did you bring me?
Mozart
Oh, nothing; a trifle. The other night
my sleeplessness was tormenting me,
and two or three ideas came into my head.
Today I sketched them down. I wanted
to hear your opinion; but now
you have no time for me.
Salieri
Ah, Mozart, Mozart!
When have I ever no time for you? Sit down;
I’m listening.
Mozart
(at the piano)
Imagine … whom?
Well, me, for instance — a little younger;
in love — not too much, just a little —
with a beauty, or with a friend — say, with you;
I am cheerful … Suddenly: a vision of the grave,
a sudden darkness, or something of that sort …
Well, listen.
(He plays.)
Salieri
You were coming to me with this
and could stop outside a tavern
and listen to a blind fiddler! — God!
You, Mozart, are unworthy of yourself.
Mozart
Well? Is it good?
Salieri
What depth!
What daring, and what perfect order!
You, Mozart, are a god, and do not know it yourself;
I know it, I.
Mozart
Oh! Really? Perhaps …
But my divinity has grown hungry.
Salieri
Listen: let us dine together
at the Golden Lion.
Mozart
Gladly;
I’d like that. But let me go home first and tell
my wife not to wait for me
for dinner.
(Leaves.)
Salieri
I’ll wait for you; mind you come.
No! I cannot resist my lot,
my destiny: I have been chosen to
stop him — otherwise we all shall perish,
all of us, priests and servants of music,
not I alone with my obscure fame …
What use is it if Mozart remains alive
and reaches yet another height?
Will he thereby raise art higher? No;
it will fall again when he disappears:
he will leave us no heir.
What use is he? Like some cherub,
he has brought us a few songs of paradise,
only to stir wingless longing
in us, children of dust, and then fly away!
Then fly away! The sooner, the better.
Here is the poison, the final gift of my Isora.
For eighteen years I have carried it with me —
and often since then life has seemed to me
an unbearable wound, and often I have sat
at the same table with a careless enemy,
yet never have I yielded to temptation’s whisper,
though I am no coward,
though I feel an insult deeply,
though I have little love for life. Still I delayed.
Whenever thirst for death tormented me,
what is dying?, I thought: perhaps life
will bring me unexpected gifts;
perhaps rapture will visit me,
a creative night, inspiration;
perhaps a new Haydn will create
something great — and I shall delight in it …
Whenever I feasted with a hated guest,
perhaps, I thought, I shall find
an enemy still more bitter; perhaps the bitterest insult
will strike me from some arrogant height —
then you will not be wasted, gift of Isora.
And I was right! At last I have found
my enemy, and a new Haydn
has wonderfully intoxicated me with delight!
Now — it is time! Cherished gift of love,
pass today into the cup of friendship.
SCENE II
A private room in a tavern; a piano.
Mozart and Salieri are seated at the table.
Salieri
Why are you so gloomy today?
Mozart
I? No!
Salieri
Surely something is troubling you, Mozart?
The dinner is good, the wine excellent,
yet you are silent and frowning.
Mozart
To tell the truth,
my Requiem troubles me.
Salieri
Ah!
You are composing a Requiem? For long?
Mozart
For some time — about three weeks. But there was a strange incident …
Haven’t I told you?
Salieri
No.
Mozart
Then listen.
About three weeks ago I came home
late. They told me that someone had called
asking for me. Why — I don’t know —
all night I kept thinking: Who could it have been?
And what did he want with me? The next day the same man
came again and once more failed to find me.
On the third day I was playing on the floor
with my little boy. Someone called me;
I went out. A man dressed in black,
bowing courteously, commissioned
a Requiem from me and disappeared. At once I sat down
and began to write — and since that day
my man in black has never returned;
and I am glad of it: I should be sorry to part
with my work, although
the Requiem is already quite finished. But meanwhile I …
Salieri
What?
Mozart
I am ashamed to admit this …
Salieri
What is it?
Mozart
Day and night he gives me no peace,
my man in black. Everywhere
he follows me like a shadow. Even now
it seems to me that he himself
is sitting here with us as a third.
Salieri
Oh, enough! What childish fear is this?
Drive the foolish thought away. Beaumarchais
used to say to me: “Listen, brother Salieri,
whenever black thoughts come upon you,
uncork a bottle of champagne
or reread The Marriage of Figaro.”
Mozart
Yes! Beaumarchais was your friend, wasn’t he?
You composed Tarare for him,
a splendid piece. There is one tune in it …
I keep humming it whenever I am happy …
La la la la … Ah, is it true, Salieri,
that Beaumarchais poisoned someone?
Salieri
I don’t think so: he was far too amusing
for such a trade.
Mozart
But he was a genius,
like you and me. And genius and villainy —
they are two incompatible things. Isn’t that so?
Salieri
You think so?
(He drops the poison into Mozart’s glass.)
Well, drink.
Mozart
To your
health, my friend, to the sincere bond
that unites Mozart and Salieri,
two sons of harmony.
(Drinks.)
Salieri
Wait,
wait, wait! … You drank … without me?
Mozart
(throws his napkin onto the table)
Enough, I am full.
(Goes to the piano.)
Now listen, Salieri,
to my Requiem.
(He plays.)
You’re crying?
Salieri
These tears
I shed for the first time: they hurt and yet are sweet,
as though I had fulfilled a heavy duty,
as though a healing knife had cut away
a suffering limb! Friend Mozart, these tears …
Pay no attention to them. Go on, make haste
to fill my soul with sounds once more …
Mozart
If only everyone could feel the power
of harmony like this! But no: then
the world itself could not exist; no one would
care for the needs of common life;
everyone would surrender to free art.
We are few, we chosen ones, happy idlers,
despising contemptible utility,
priests of beauty alone.
Isn’t that so? But I am unwell today,
I feel somehow heavy; I’ll go and sleep.
Farewell!
Salieri
Farewell.
(Alone.)
You will sleep
for a long time, Mozart! But can he be right,
and am I not a genius? Genius and villainy
are two incompatible things. That is not true:
what of Buonarroti? Or is that merely a tale
of the dull, senseless crowd — and was
the creator of the Vatican no murderer?
1830