Drunk from the Bitter Truth: The Poems of Anna Margolin

HE BRINGS SORROW

250 ʸʲʩʥʸʨ ʨʢʰʲʸʡ ʸʲ ʸʲ : ʭˋʣˋʮ , ʣ‫ٷ‬ʬ ʪʩʮ ʨʥʨ ʱʲ ʱʰʩʥʦˋ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʯʢˌʦ ʥʶ , ʯʸʲʤ ʥʶ ʡʩʬ ʨʩʰ ʦʩʠ ʱˌʥʥ . ʭʥʷ ʪʩʠ , ʸʲʣʮʲʸ˦ ˋ , ʨ‫ٷ‬ʥʥ ʸʲʣ ʯʥ˦ ʯʸʲʨʹ ʥʶ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʯʣʩʸ˦ ʭʲʣ . ʩʦ : ʫ ʡʩʥʠ ʯʥʠ ' ʯʸʲʥʥʸˋ˦ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʬʲʥʥ ? ʸʲ : ʯʲʷʰˋʣ ʸʹ˦ʠ ʬʲʥʥ ʯʥʠ ʯʢʬˌ˦ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʪʩʠ ʬʲʥʥ . ʨʩʰ ʸʩʠ ʨʡʩʩʬʢ ʩʶ , ʦˋ ʸʲʩʥʣˋʡ ʪʩʠ ʸʲʩʥʸʨ ʯʥ˦ ʸˌʣˋʱˋʡʮˋ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʥʶ ? ʨʷʩʹʲʢ ʣʰ‫ٷ‬ʸ˦ ʯʨʱʰʲˌʰ ʯʥ˦ ʦʩʠ ʯʲʮ ʯʲʥʥ ʸˌʰ ʯʷʰˋʸʷ ˋ ʯʥ˦ ʯʥʠ ... ʩʦ : ʷʰˋʸʷ ʦʩʠ ʸʲ ? ʨʢʩʬ ʸʲ ? ʯ˦ʥʸ ʪʩʮ ʨʷʩʹʲʢ ? ʨʮʥʷ . ʸʲ : ʨʮʥʨʹʸˋ˦ ʸʲʥʥ ʪʩʠ ʯʥʠ ʯʢˌʦ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʬʩʥʥ ʪʩʠ , ʭˋʣˋʮ . ʨʩʰ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʨ˦ʥʸ ʸʲ . ʩʦ : ˌ ... ʸʲ : ʱʩʩʥʥ ʪʩʠ , ʨʱʩʩʸʨ ʲʣʲʩ ʦʩʠ ʪʲʸ˦ ʦˋ . ) ʳʩʨ ʪʩʦ ʨʢʩʩʰʸˋ˦ ( 251 HE BRINGS SORROW He: Madam, it distresses me to tell you what is not pleasant to hear. I come, a stranger from afar to disrupt your happiness. She: And were I to stop you? He: Then I will obey you and perhaps thank you, will you believe that I regret being an ambassador of sorrow? But when one is sent by a close friend who is ill. . . She: Is he ill? Is he in bed? He sent you to call me? Come! He: I want to tell you but I am struck dumb, Madam, he does not call for you. She: Oh! He: I know that every consolation is presumptuous. (He bows deeply) 252 ʲʹ ʪʲʬʢʲʥʥʠʡʮʥʠ ʨʢʩʬ ʤʲʹ ʪˌʰ ʤ ˌʸʲʩ˝ ʡʬˋʤ ʯʥʠ ʯʥˋ˦ ʡʬˋʤ ʯʥ˦ ʬʫʩʩʮʹ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʨʩʮ , ʯʲʩʥʸ ʯʥʠ ʯʫʲʬʨʸʲʶ ʬʫʩʩʮʹ ʭʲʰʲʩ ʨʩʮ , ʯʲʩʥʸ˦ ʩʣ ʥʶ ʬʩ˦ ʩʥʦˋ ʨʢˋʦ ʱˌʥʥ ... ) ʲʸʨʩʫ (: ʸʲʮ ʥʶ ʨʢˌʦ ʬʫʩʩʮʹ ʸʲʣ ʸʲʡˌ , ʯʡʲʢ ʯʲʷ ʸʲ ʩʥʥ ... ʲʦ ʪʩʠ , ʯʣʲʸ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʮ ʸʲʥʥʹ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʨʬˋ˦ . ʸʩʮ ʨʩʢʸˋ˦ . ˌ , ʯʡʲʢʸˋ˦ ʨʲʥʥ ʸʩʠ . ... ʢʲʨ ʲʶʰˋʢ ʪʲʬʢʲʥʥˋʡʮʥʠ ʨʢʩʬ , ʢʲʥʥ ʯʸʲʥʥʹ ʯʥ˦ ʸʲʨʹʬʧʸʠ˦ ˋ ʩʥʥ , ʨʩʰ ʯʲʷ ʱˌʥʥ , ʯʩʩʢ ʸʲʨ‫ٷ‬ʥʥ ʨʩʰ ʬʩʥʥ ... ʭˋʣˋʮ , ʯʩʩʮʲʢ ʸˋ˦ ʯʨʬˋʤ ʪʩʮ ʨʢʲʮ ʸʩʠ , ʸʲʡʩʠ ʡʩʢ ʪʩʠ ʸˌʰ , ʨʢˌʦ ʸʲ ʱˌʥʥ : “ ʯʩʩʹ ʥʶ ʦʩʠ ʩʦ ” , ʸʲ ʨʢˌʦ , ʯʥʠ : “ ʣʰ‫ٷ‬ʸ˦ , ʯʩʩʨʹʸˋ˦ ʥʨʱʰʲʷ , ʨʱˋʬ ʨʸʲʥʥ ʨʩʮʲʢ ʯʸʲʨʶʰʩ˦ ˋ ʯʥ˦ ʨʩʩʷʰʩʩʹ ʩʥʥ ? ʲʸˋʡʨʱˌʷ ˋ ʦʩʠ ʱʲ ʯʲʥʥ ʥʬʩ˦ˋ , ʭʥʩ ˋ - ʨʱˋʬ ʲʷʩʣˤʥʨ , ʯʩʥʸʷ ʲʫʲʬʢʩʰʲʷ ˋ ʩʥʥ . ʨʩʰ ʢʩʰʲʷ ʯʩʩʷ ʯʩʡ ʸʲʡˌ ʪʩʠ , ʯʥʮʤ ʯʥ˦ ʸʲʰʩʩʠ ʸˌʰ , ʯʩʩʨʹʸˋ˦ ʥʨʱʰʲʷ ? ” ʷʰˋʸʷ ʨʱʰʸʲ ʲʷˋʨ ʸʲ ʦʩʠ ʩʶ ? ʯ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʯʲʷ , ʨʩʰ ʦˋ . ʯʬʩʥʥ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʦʩʠ ʷʰˋʸʷ , ʨʩʮʲʢ ʯʩʩʦ . ʣʩʮ ʪʲʬʡʸˋʨʹ ʦʩʠ ʹʨʰʲʮ ʸʲʣ ... 253 Is he so gravely ill? Perhaps only his mood is sick, his disposition. This person is deathly tired. . . Lies motionless hour after hour, his smile half fawn, half Pierrot, with that gentle, raw smile that promises so much to women. . . (Slyly) But the smile promises more, than he can deliver. . . I see that my words fall heavily upon you. Forgive me. Oh, you must forgive. . . . lies motionless entire days, like someone half-faint after a tiring journey, who cannot, will not, go further. . . Madam, you may consider me vile, but I repeat what he said: “She is too beautiful,” he says: “Friend, can you understand, how the beauty of a dark disposition becomes a burden? Even when it is an expensive, a festive burden? Like a regal crown. But no king am I, only one of the crowd, can you understand?” 254 “ ʯʩʩʹ ʥʶ ʦʩʠ ʩʦ ” , ʨʱʩʩʸʣ ʨʩʰ ʸʲ ʨʢˌʦ . ʸʲ , ʨʱ‫ٷ‬ʢ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʮʲʸˌ , ʪ‫ٷ‬ʸʢʩʰʲʷ ʯʩʩʷ ʨʩʰ ʳʸˋʣ . ʪ‫ٷ‬ʸ ʥʶ ʭʩʠ ʸˋ˦ ʨ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʸʩʠ . “ ʯʥʠ ʪʩʠ , ʸˋʰ ʸʲʫˋ˦ʨʰʦʩʥʨ ʸʲʣ , ʸˋʢʩʱ ʭʲʰʲʹˌʬʸˋ˦ ʭʲʣ ʸʲʣʩʥʥ ʸʲʫʩʩʸʸˋ˦ ʷʩʶʩʥʥ ʵʰˋʢ ʣʲʸ ʯʥʠ , ʯʩʩʰ ? ʯʱˋʬʲʢ ʵʰˋʢ ʯʥʠ . ʱ ʯʥʠ ' ʸʲʶ ʸʲʣ ʨ‫ٷ‬ʶ ʲʶʰˋʢ ʩʣ ʪʩʮ ʨʸʲʡʷʲ , ʯ˦ˌʤ ʸʩʠ ʯʲʷ ʩʥʥ , ʯʱˋʤ ʨʩʰ ʪʩʮ ʬˋʦ ʩʦ ? ” ʸʩʠ ʨ˦‫ٷ‬ʸʢˋʡ , ʩʥʸ˦ ʲʰʩʩʹ , ʸʲʶ ʭʲʣ ? ʸʩʠ ʨʢ‫ٷ‬ʥʥʹ , ˌ , ʵʬˌʨʹ ʨ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʸʩʠ . ˋ ʨ‫ٷ‬ʦ ʸʩʠ ʲʬʲʷʰʥʨ ʵʬˌʤʰʡʲ ʯʥ˦ ʲʥʨˋʨʱ , ʯʩʩʰ , ʦʣʰˌʸʡ ʯʥ˦ . “ ʣʰ‫ٷ‬ʸ˦ ” , ʸʲ ʨʢˌʦ , “ ʯʫˋʬ ʨʩʰ ʸʩʮ ʯʥ˦ ʨʱʬˌʦ : ʯʫˋʦ ʲʷʩʣʥʥʲʬʩ˝ʹ ʲʰʩʩʬʷ ʪˌʰ ʷʰʲʡ ʪʩʠ — ʱʩ˦ ʲʦʲʩʶˋʸʢ ʯʥ˦ ʵʰˋʨ ʯʨʫ‫ٷ‬ʬ ʯʫˌʰ , ʯʲʩʩʸʹʲʢ ʯʥʠ ʱʲʩʸˋ ʲʹʩʸʲ˦ʩʨʹ ʪˌʰ ' ʱʩʡ ,' ʸʲʫʩʡ ʲʰʲʩ ʪˌʰ , ʵʩʥʥ ˋ ʨʸʲʥʥ ʯʡʲʬ ʱˌʣ ˒ʥʥ , ʱʩʥʥʲʢ ʯʥʠ , ʢ ʱʩʥʥʩ — ʯʧ ʯʥʥʑ ʩˋʰ ʨʩʮ ʪʲʬʣʩʩʮ ʲʢʰʥʩ ʪˌʰ , ʯʲʰʩʩʮ ʱˌʥʥ ' ˌʩ ' ʯʢˌʦ ʯʥʠ ' ʯʩʩʰ ' ʯʶʸˋʤ ʯʩʠ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʸˋ ʪʩʦ ʯʫˋʬ ʯʥʠ ... ” 255 “Friend”, he says, “don’t mock me: I long for only small, playful things— for the easy dance of graceful feet, for mischievous arias and shouts of ‘encore,’ for those books wherein life becomes a jest, and surely, surely— for young girls with naive charm, who mean ‘yes’ but say ‘no’ and laugh up their sleeves . . .” “She is too beautiful”, he says, not boldly— he, poor in spirit, needs no kingdom. You are too expensive for him. “And I, the thousand-fold fool, re-light my cigar once again and speak quite wittily, no? And quite easily. But all the while, grief digs into me, how can I hope that she won’t hate me?” Lovely lady, can you comprehend the sorrow? You are silent. Oh, you are proud. You are a dark statue of ebony. No, of bronze. 256 ʸˋʮʹˌʷ ʸʲʫʲʬʱʲʤ ˋ ʳˌʬʹ ʯʩʠ ʨʩʩʢʸʠ˦ ʱʲ ʩʥʥ , ʯʩʩʢ‫ٷ‬ʡʸˋ˦ ʪ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʸˋ˦ ʣʬˋʡ ʨˌ ʪʩʠ ʬʲʥʥ ʩʥʦˋ . ʯʢ‫ٷ‬ʥʥʹ ʯʫʲʬʸʲʣʰ˒ʥʥ ʯʥ˦ ʣʥʱ ˋ ʪʩʦ ʨʩʮ ʷʲʥʥˋ ʢˌʸʨ ʪʩʠ , ʨʰʲʩʩʬʲʢʱʩʥʸˋ ʣʥʱ ˋ ʬʩ˦ˌʸ˝ ʯʬʲʷʰʥʨ ˋ ʯʥ˦ , ʨʰʩʩʨʹʸˋ˦ ʯʥʠ ʬʣʩʩʠ . ʸˌʰ , ʸʲʰ‫ٷ‬ʮ ʨˌʢ ! ʱˌʥʥ ? ʨʰʩʩʥʥ ʸʩʠ ? ʯʲʰʩʩʮ ʱʲ ʬˌʦ ʸʲʥʥ , ʲʰʲʦʣʰˌʸʡ ˋ ʦˋ ʲʥʨˋʨʱ ʯʲʰʩʩʥʥ ʯʲʷ . 257 Like a hateful nightmare that passes in sleep, so will I now pass by you. And carry away with me a secret of awesome silence, a secret recited from a dusky profile, refined and stony. But, by God! What? You’re crying? Who would believe that a bronze statue can weep. ...