Nikolai Zabolotsky — The Old Actress

In a gilded room in the Empire style,
Where the armchairs are laced with cords,
The forgotten idol of theatrical Moscow
And our sovereign has risen again.

In her worn house dress she resembles a goldfinch,
Her body bent in three folds.
And yet, O God, what an actress she was
And what minds she held in sway!

There was something unearthly in every feature
Of this woman, young and slender,
And upon her unsettling beauty
Lay the imprint of Italy’s ardent heat.

Now her little house has turned into a museum,
Where her former glory still lives,
Where the old woman at times astonishes her friends
With the willfulness of her capricious temper.

Many orders and titles have been granted to her,
And she remains in the hope
That her beauty is destined to shine forever
In this house, as once before.

Here are paintings, portraits, albums, wreaths,
Here is the breath of southern plants,
And they will preserve her image, in spite of the years,
For other generations.

And it does not matter, does not matter, that in a distant corner,
In a half-dark and low basement,
A forsaken girl sleeps on the floor,
On her ragged blanket!

Here, out of charity, her aunt, the actress,
Has now granted her a place to live.
Here she beats the rugs by the doors,
Wipes dust and mold from the Empire.

And when her old aunt scolds her
And counts and hides her coins,—
Oh, with what amazement the child gazes
At these beautiful portraits!

Can the girl ever fully understand
Why, striking our feelings,
Such hearts are lifted above the world
By the unreasonable power of art!

1956