Бесплатный фрагмент - A Confession

Three generations of people constantly succeed one another. The first finds God, the second erects a narrow temple over him and thereby chains God to itself, and the third descends into poverty and pulls apart the building of God, stone by stone, to hastily build their own wretched huts. And then comes the time for those who are forced to seek God once more…

— R. M. Rilke, The Florentine Diary

And I came to You, full of the future.

— R. M. Rilke, The Florentine Diary

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The Angel Rainer Maria Rilke

A Word on the Poet and the Messenger

This world, seen no longer with human eyes, but in the gaze of an angel, is perhaps my true life’s task.

— R. M. Rilke

This book is inspired by the prophetic insights of the early, exalted Rilke full of awakening and spring, of «fair-haired youth» and rising creative sap. It is conceived as a notebook of the poet’s «sketches» and «studies,» in which he appears not only as an artist of the word but also as a spiritual visionary with an angelic gaze, a herald of a new world season: the abundant, fruitful Summer that is to follow the festive Spring once experienced by humanity.

The collection includes fragments from the «Florentine Diary, and several other works by the poet, as well as numerous excerpts from his letters, predominantly from the pre-war period. In places, the fragments form a whimsical mosaic of texts from which each reader can draw their own meanings and their own narrative. For example, although Rilke did not adhere to any specific religious convictions, the intonation of some studies unwittingly brings to mind… the soul-saving «little flowers» of Saint Francis, while others one is tempted to compare… with the moral teachings of an Augustinian confessor.

While leafing through this notebook, one should not imagine that Rilke — wreathed in dreamy tenderness and chaste coolness — was born a fully-formed poet, as if he were an eternally blooming youth with flowing hair who has just stepped down to us from the magnificent canvases of the Renaissance.

We know another Rilke as well — one like a delicate flower nipped by a spring frost: despairing and lost, without any spiritual compass in life, a «corpse in a derelict tomb,» a «prodigal son» wandering the ugly back alleys of Paris. And also as a creator turned away from the world, withdrawn into himself — with a «heart turned to ice» — a silent figure of the war years.

It is important to note that despite such contradictory emotional turmoil, which was constantly exacerbated by his perpetually unsettled life, the poet never once betrayed himself. He steadfastly continued on the «path of those who lived by the heart’s command.» Moreover, in his tireless and daring effort to overcome himself, he found the strength for such an inner transformation that he was able to endure the Spring and enter the Summer, whose great glory he was called to proclaim. For example, do not the Sonnets to Orpheus — which descended upon the later Rilke, who had found perfect unity with himself in the Château de Muzot and stepped into the world «with a laudatory bowl full of fruit» — speak eloquently of this? Therefore, even when reading the early Rilke, who rapturously celebrated his own divine chosenness, one cannot doubt the convincing truth of his words:

I […] drew beauty with blissful hands; I have it in superabundance, enough to raise mountains of treasure before You and myself, so that we could not be seen, whoever might be near…

The Florentine Diary

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From the Compiler and Translator

This collection by no means claims to be an exhaustive anthology dedicated to Rilke. In terms of content, my aim was to convey the spirit of the early Rilke’s message without overloading the book with texts. As for its form, I wanted the selection to feel lively and unobtrusive, inviting the reader into an inner dialogue with the poet.

When choosing the material, I gave preference to Rilke’s springtime moods, and when a theme proved to be serious and lengthy, I tried not to draw out the narrative.

All texts in this book are in my own translation.

The illustrations featuring Rilke were created by me using a graphic editor, based on early 20th-century photographs.

In conclusion, I would like to note that this book, conceived as a notebook, certainly calls for a sequel. The volume of Rilke’s lyrical and epistolary heritage is so vast that it will be enough for more than one generation of translators inspired by the work of this greatest lyric poet of the 20th century.

A Confession

Flowers of the Soul

And I See the Causes of All Things…

Freedom from Fear

From The Florentine Diary

…I know that within me lies hidden <…> an unheard-of enlightenment, which grants my tongue both power and an overabundance of images. At times, I catch myself listening to myself in amazement and learning from my own words. Some innermost being awakens within me, one that yearns to reach people, breaking beyond these pages, beyond the melodies dear to my heart, beyond all my aspirations. It is as if I am destined to speak, here and now, in a moment of power and clarity, when something greater than myself emanates from me — my bliss. It is as if I must convert all who waver and doubt, for there is more persuasive power in me than all my words can contain, and I wish to use this power to deliver people from that alien fear from which I myself have emerged.

A Prayer to Life

From The Florentine Diary

It was a wondrous Sunday. A sacred day for me. <…> I was even able to capture on these pages what I had so ardently nurtured for a long time: a thirst for confession, clarity, and daring. <…> Everything seemed ripe [on that day] for a true celebration. <…> as if from a single spring I had drunk all feelings, both joy and sorrow, and was ready for a grateful communion. And I knelt amidst the evening glow, which, reflecting from the high walls of my room, blazed within it like a gold-bearing mine. And in the tremor of my silence, a deeply moved prayer resounded to the sacred life, to which I was so close in the restful hours of my creation. And may I be worthy to enter into accomplishments of this life with devotion and trust, so that my joy may become a particle of its magnificence, and my sufferings great and fruitful, like the blessed weeping of its spring days. And may reconciliation descend upon me, which abides over all its creations like a radiance emanating from the ever-equanimous, ever-bestowing sun, so that I, illuminated by this quiet light, might direct my path toward MYSELF: I, a pilgrim, toward that SELF who is a King and for whom a kingdom of roses and the crown of summer have been prepared from the beginning of time, amidst [triumphant] life.

And May My Spirit Rise…

And may my spirit rise and tower mightily above the fleeting fears of the day and all the torments of the night. And may that which presses within me as destiny be fulfilled. And when I have accomplished it, may I feel myself becoming immeasurably richer, immeasurably vaster, filled with a high, selfless pride.

Moments of Creation

From The Florentine Diary

On such days of repose, I begin to feel clearly how the veils fall from things, how everything around becomes trusting and forgets its pretense. Moments of creation are like the twilight after sultry summer days. All things become like young maidens, pale and quiet, with a smiling sadness. Until they suddenly press against you with a strange, impetuous tenderness, tremble like fleeing does, and weep like children in their sleep: somewhere deep within themselves, plaintively and breathlessly. As if to say: «Oh, we are not really who we seem to be. We have lied. Forgive us.» And then you reach out your cool hands to them, compassionate and all-knowing, and gently stroke their heads.

And I See the Causes of All Things…

From The Florentine Diary

It lasts but a moment, yet in its glimmer, I peer into the depths of the earth. And the causes of all things are revealed to me, like the roots of sprawling trees with their rustling crowns. And I see how they all reach for one another and embrace one another, like brothers. And they all drink from a single source.

It lasts but a moment, yet in its glimmer, I gaze high into the heavens. And the stars are revealed to me, blossoming on these whispering trees like quiet, smiling flowers. And they sway and wave to one another, and know that a single depth grants them fragrance and sweetness.

It lasts but a moment, yet in its glimmer, I look into the farthest corners of the earth. And I see that people are strong and solitary trunks which, like wide-flung bridges, rise from the roots to the flowers and calmly and joyfully offer up their sap to the sun.

True Growth Happens in Silence…

To Karl and Elisabeth von der Heydt,

21 February 1907

This one experience of mine, confirmed time and again, toward which I have slowly advanced after a troubled and greatly prolonged childhood, is this: that the true growth in my life cannot be forced, that it happens in silence, and that I am engaged in it when I am working calmly and with inspiration on the things which I have, in the deepest sense, recognized as my tasks.

Tempted by Children’s Games…

From The Florentine Diary

And yet I, too, was like a child who, for the sake of his deathly ill little sister, runs from a remote village through the night and the storm to the city for medicine, but then on a sunny morning, tempted by children’s games, forgets why he undertook his journey and cheerfully returns home without the vital aid… This cheerfulness will soon turn to weeping, and despair will follow: so it was with me.

A Love for Simple Things

To Franz Xaver Kappus,

July 16, 1903

If you will get close to Nature, to the simple things in her, to the little things that no one notices, and that can suddenly manifest as great and immense; if you develop this love for the small things and, simply as a servant, try to win the trust of what seems poor — then everything will become easier for you, more unified and somehow more reconciling — not in your mind, which may remain astonished, but in your innermost being, in your wakefulness, and in your knowing.

Spring, a Stork, Moonlit Nights…

It takes but the slightest bird’s voice in the wild to stir me, and I pray to God for spring to come quickly, so that I may rush toward nature with all my senses…

R. M. Rilke, from a letter to Marie von Thurn und Taxis, December 17, 1912

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To Oskar Zwintscher,

April 24, 1902

…Ah, spring has arrived, and this time, as we watch a small garden blossom from under our hands, we feel an extraordinary kinship with it. The tulips and daffodils, next to a large peony, are already growing vigorously; two small arbors are already draped with the twigs of young birches, like green lace veils; and several standard roses are already sprouting, which is impossible to forget and feels like the most delightful promise.

A stork recently appeared on our neighbors’ roof, and the thorough inspection he gave it allows us to hope he is considering settling there — which would, naturally, bring us all immense joy.

How beautiful the spring is here in its arrival. In the morning, the dawn is heralded by a thousand birds’ voices, and the evenings grow deeper with the first sounds of the nightingale, which further accentuate the silence and fill it with premonitions. And the moonlit nights are unusually bright, and if they darken, it is to begin raining: a gentle, soft, and warm rain — as carefree as a dream, and yet full of intimate happenings…

The Female Experience of the Creator

To a young woman,

November 20, 1904

The most profound experience of the creative artist is female, for it is the experience of conceiving and giving birth. The poet Obstfelder once wrote, recalling a stranger’s face: «When he began to speak, it was as if a woman had taken up residence in him.» It seems to me that every poet has had a similar experience when they began to utter their word.

Not in Bright Light

To Marie von Thurn und Taxis,

April 6, 1912

Surely you are especially familiar with this image: the sky veiled in an evening haze, a greening meadow, and trees blooming half against its backdrop, half in the gray, silent air? For me, this is one of the most unforgettable sights: trees blooming without sun in anticipation of rain, and the isolated cries of birds foretelling what it will be like. Oh, if only I could feel alone with myself again as one does in nature: not in the light, perhaps, but quiet and full of future.

How That Voice Shone Before God…

To Nanny Wunderly-Volkart,

February 24, 1920

And there it was — having gained in strength, singing out from its very soul — one of those intimate birdsongs, which against the backdrop of all the others sounded like a poem that had surpassed a few stanzas: how it shone before God — at last it had happened, at last — how much certainty was in it, as if it were fused into one with itself, a song-bud, not yet fully colored with sound, but already aware of its irrepressible surge — before the bliss, before the anxieties. And most likely, the anxiety was already entirely within it, that universal pain of being, which cannot be separated and which is just as simple [and innocent] as the transcendent bliss that nothing can diminish.

In the Rising Sap

To Marie von Thurn und Taxis,

March 2, 1912

…we are in a realm of fog; it billowed up recently as if by stage magic on one of the brightest sunny days, and since then all outlines have dissolved. Somewhere in the impenetrable distance, ships are sounding their horns, frightening one another; only the nearest barges catch the diffused light in their sails and, before vanishing, look like phantoms in the hazy grey expanse. Now and then, a drizzling rain sketches itself with filigreed softness, and against this backdrop, above the stillness of the days, the garden is slowly turning green. Yellow twin daffodils on hastily bent stems curiously push through to the light, and on all the bare bushes, the delicate and vibrant work that was conceived and prepared in the rising sap begins to emerge.

The weeds have been pulled; the legitimate rose cuttings stand alone in the warm-brown, pensive soil, and one need only see the gardener bent over them to feel a sense of tenderness, as if the simple, diligent task he is performing must be recognized and rewarded somewhere in the Oneness, as if there, too, something must be set in its proper place, grafted, and tied up.

The Bellflower

To Countess Margot Sizzo,

April 12, 1923

Anemones! I wonder what you think of them…

Last year, someone told me that this furry, dark-violet pasqueflower grows only in the Swiss canton of Valais. I readily believed what I heard, as I must confess I am not very well-versed in botany. But today a man passed by who dismissively called this little bellflower a «cowbell» and even a «kitchen-maid’s flower» and assured me that it is as common as can be. This fact in itself does not in the least diminish the flower’s beauty, yet I couldn’t help but think: in the extraordinary way it appears here, as the first [spring] sprout on a rocky surface, enveloped in the care of its silvery down which protects it from all harsh weather, it truly seems rare and noble.

Have you ever come across it?

Childhood Friends

Spanish Notebook, 1913

By the stream, I picked marsh marigolds, almost green, with a light, fresh yellow tint painted on the calyx as if at the very last moment. Inside, around the stamens, was a circle saturated with oil, as though they fed on it. A green scent came from the tubular stems. And on my hand — traces of it all, like a sign of kinship. Friends, old childhood friends, with their warm little palms — could it be that this has moved me so?

Pansies

To Marie von Thurn und Taxis, 17 February 1921

This eternal proximity of spring stirs me to the point of confusion: the daisies and the [carpet of] dead-nettles do not cease their blooming for a single moment — and the other day in Zurich, at the Baur au Lac, I saw large pansies peeking out from flowerbeds covered with fir branches, utterly rested and cheerful, like children who have had a full night’s sleep and no longer wish to stay in bed.

Almost Like Boiling Milk…

To Mathilde Vollmoeller, 25 April 1911

…everything falls into place on such waxing days; the trees are growing — with a fervent energy, rapidly — almost like boiling milk, should you look away for just a moment. <…> It seems to me that the world has not seen a spring for a long time so turbulent that the very breath of all this greenery makes the air doubly intoxicating.

Almond Trees in Bloom

To Magda von Hattingberg, 9 February 1914

The almond trees are in bloom: all that we can do here is to recognize ourselves completely in this earthly guise. I marvel endlessly at you, blessed ones, at your nature, how you wear your delicate attire in the eternal sense. Oh, if only one knew how to blossom: their heart would be beyond all transient dangers and full of faith in the great.

Cypress and the Altar Candlesticks of Fig Trees

Lou Andreas-Salomé, April 15, 1904

Here in the vast garden, it has become unusually beautiful, although little is yet in bloom, for what is characteristic of Roman nature [at its peak] is perhaps too clamorous, too assertive, to be called spring. Even these meadows, full of anemones and daisies, are too thick, too heavy, too densely woven, and in the sky, one sees none of those grey days behind still-bare trees, none of those broad, transforming winds and softly falling rains that, for me, are the very depth of all spring. Alas, this is a spring for foreigners with little time — obvious, loud, exaggerated. But still, there is a tree in the garden that could just as well stand on a Tuscan stage: in the old monastery, a tall, old cypress rises, all entwined with a train of wisteria, which are now unfurling their pale blue-violet pendants, climbing and cascading everywhere, right up to the very top — straight out of the tree’s darkness; this is a joy. And then there are the magnificent fig trees, like altar candlesticks from the Old Testament, standing here with their branches curved upwards, slowly unfolding their light-green leaves.

So Many Snails on the Paths

To Clara Rilke, 5 June 1902

Today — for the first time — the sky is overcast, and there is a light rain. The park is beautiful. It is especially delightful to stand at one of the spacious windows of the dining hall. From there, you can see the high sections of the lawns, which are growing wildly and have already risen so much that a few rose bushes are almost disappearing into the green floods. On these lawns grow two infinitely beautiful flowering trees, similar to apple trees. They are called Crataegus (a thornless giant); I do not know what it is, but in any case, they will not seem unfamiliar to you. Otherwise, when I walk through the garden, I am always pleased to recognize one flower or another, or a bush that you named for me. The most beautiful are the paths along the castle moat. There, ancient chestnut trees still stand tall, piled up like mountains, with branches reaching down to the very ground and a whole world of shadows beneath the thousand hands of their leaves. They are already in full bloom. And it is simply amazing how evenly, at a rhythmic interval, their cones of blossoms rise to the highest branches. During the day, everything here is too green, but recently in the evening, around ten-thirty (it was still twilight), these old trees resembled dark mantles with embroidered, regularly repeating patterns. The whiteness of the flowers looked surprisingly mysterious: sometimes one of the flower pyramids would look like raised, folded hands peeking out from under a dark cloak. Unfortunately, the murky, overgrown moat did not reflect these magnificent trees. The lilacs and rhododendrons here also rise to a considerable height — on ancient bushes that suddenly burst into abundant bloom somewhere at the treetops. The flesh-colored azaleas exude their fragrance, and the magnolias have already grown leaves next to their enormous, water-lily-like flowers. And today I also discovered a towering tree, covered in broad, cool-green leaves and strange, silvery-grey unopened buds that looked very majestic. I suppose it is a walnut tree… but I am not in this garden very often, because the heat makes it heavy, and the fact that it is enclosed by a dike fills me with a certain oppressive melancholy. Besides, there are so many black, homeless tree snails on the paths that one walks in constant fear of crushing one of them.

The Buddha of the Nightingales’ Songs

To Clara Rilke, May 3, 1906