<p>438–439. FROM «MOZART AND SALIERI»
<a l:href="#c_468"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p>SCENE I. A ROOMSalieriThey say there is no justice on the earth.I know now there is none in Heaven. Plainas seven simple notes! I have loved the artfrom birth; when I was but a little childin our old church and the organ boomed sublimely,I listened and was lost — shedding deliciousinvoluntary tears. I turned awayfrom foolish pastimes early; found repellentall studies foreign to my music — ay,from all I turned with obstinate disdain,determined thence to dedicate myselfto music, music only. The start is hard,the first steps make dull going. I surmountedthe initial obstacles; I grounded firmlythat craft that makes the pedestal for art;a craftsman I became: I trained my fingersto dry obedient proficiency,brought sureness to my ear. Stunning the sounds,I cut up music like a corpse; I testedthe laws of harmony by mathematics.Then only, rich in learning, dared I yieldto blandishments of sweet creative fancy.I dared compose — but silently, in secret,nor could I venture yet to dream of glory.How often, in my solitary cell,having toiled for days, having sat unbroken hours,forgetting food and sleep, and having tastedthe rapture and the tears of inspiration,I'd burn my work and coldly watch the flameas my own melodies and meditationsflared up and smoked a little and were gone.Nay, even more: when the great Gluck appeared,when he unveiled to us new marvels, deepenchanting marvels — did I not forsakeall I had known, and loved so well and trusted?Did I not follow him with eager stride,obedient as one who'd lost his wayand met a passerby who knew the turning?By dint of stubborn steadfast perseveranceupon the endless mountainside of artI reached at last a lofty level. Famesmiled on me; and I found in others' heartsresponses to the sounds I had assembled.Came happy days: in quiet I enjoyedWork and success and fame — enjoying alsothe works and the successes of my friends,my comrades in that art divine we served.Oh, never did I envy know. Nay, never!Not even when Piccini found a wayto captivate the ears of savage Paris —not even when I heard for the first timethe plangent opening strains of «Iphigenia».Is there a man alive who'll say Salierihas ever stooped to envy — played the snakethat, trampled underfoot, still writhes and bitesthe gravel and the dust in helpless spite?Not one!.. Yet now — I needs must say it — nowI am an envious man. I envy — deeply,to agony, I envy. — Tell me, Heaven!where now is justice when the holiest gift,when genius and its immortality,come not as a reward for fervent love,for abnegation, prayer and dogged labor —but lights its radiance in the head of folly,of idle wantonness? …Oh, Mozart, Mozart!Mozart enters.MozartAha! you saw me! I was just preparingto take you by surprise — a little joke.SalieriYou here? — When did you come?Mozart This very minute. Iwas on my way to you to show you somethingwhen, passing near a tavern, all at onceI heard a fiddle.... Oh, my dear Salieri!You never in your life heard anythingso funny.... Than blind fiddler in a pothouseplaying
Voi сhe sapete.Marvelous!I simply had to bring him here to have youenjoy his art. — Step in!Enters a blind old man with a violin. Some Mozart, please!The old man plays the aria from «Don Giovanni»;Mozart roars with laughter.SalieriAnd you can laugh?Mozart Oh, come, can't you?Salieri I cannot.I am not amused by miserable dauberswho make a mess of Raphael's Madonna;I am not amused by despicable zanieswhose parodies dishonor Alighieri.Be off, old man.Mozart Wait; here's some money for you —you'll drink my health.The old man goes out. It seems to me, Salieri,You're out of sorts to-day. I'll come to see yousome other time.Salieri What have you brought?Mozart Oh, nothing —a trifle. My insomnia last nightwas troubling me, and one or two ideasentered my head. Today I dashed them down.I wanted your opinion; but just nowyou're in no mood for me.Salieri Ah, Mozart! Mozart!When is my mood averse to you? Sit down.I'm listening.Mozart
(at the piano) I want you to imagine…Whom shall we say?… well, let's suppose myselfa little younger — and in love — not deeply,but just a little — sitting with a damselor with a bosom friend — yourself, let's say —I am merry.... All at once: a ghostly vision,a sudden gloom, or something of the sort....Well, this is how it goes.He plays.Salieri You were bringing this,and you could stop to linger at a tavernand listen to a blind man with a fiddle!Ah, Mozart, you are unworthy of yourself.MozartYou like it, do you?Salieri What profoundity!What daring and what grace! Why, you're a god,and do not know it; but
Iknow,
Iknow.MozartWhat, really? Maybe so… If so His Godheadis getting to be hungry.Salieri Listen, Mozart:Let's dine together at the Golden Lion.MozartA capital idea. But let me firstgo home a moment: I must tell my wifeshe's not to wait for me.He goesSalieri Don't fail me now.— Nay, now can I no longer fight with fate:my destiny's to stop him — else we perish,we all, the priests, the ministers of music,not I alone with my dull-sounding fame....What worth are we if Mozart lives and reachesnew summits still? Will this exalt our art?Nay: art will sink so soon as he departs:he will leave us no successor — will have servedno useful purpose. Like a seraph swooping,he brought us certain songs from Paradise,only to stab us, children of the dust,with helpless wingless longing, and fly off!— So fly away! — the sooner now, the better.Here's poison: the last gift of my Isora.For eighteen years I've kept it, let it season —and often life would seem to me a woundtoo bitter to be borne — I have often satwith some unwary enemy at table,yet never did that inward whisper win me;though I'm no coward and feel insult deeply,and care not much for life. Still did I tarry,tormented by the thirst for death, yet brooding:why should I die? Perchance the future yetholds unexpected benefits; perchanceI may be visited by Orphic rapture,my night of inspiration and creation;perchance another Haydn may achievesome great new thing — and I shall live in him…While I was feasting with some hated guest,perchance, I'd muse, I'll find an enemymore hateful still; perchance a sharper insultmay come to blast me from a prouder eminence—
thenyou will not be lost, Isora's gift!And I was right! At last I have encounteredmy perfect enemy: another Haydnhas made me taste divine delight!. The hourdraws nigh at last. Most sacred gift of love:You'll pass to-night into the cup of friendship.<12 декабря 1940>
