Зинаида Николаевна Гиппиус.
Перевод стихотворения Дьяволёнок на английский язык.

Devillet

I happened upon a devillet
with the body of a child.
Thin and scrawny like a gnat;
his face was sharp, and shy, and old.

His body trembled in the rain;
his fur was dark and ruffled.
It was a sorry sight; I feared
this devillet might snuff it.

“Love! Love!” I hear all round me.
But love’s beyond me, out of reach.
Pity, though, can sometimes grip me,
and so I caught the little creature:

“Come, come, come into the warm.
Why hang about here on the street?
No, no, don’t bristle, don’t take fright —
I’ll give you sugar lumps to eat.”

“Sugar,” he roared. “Don’t be a fool.
I’ll have some soup, a plate of veal.
I’m moving in with you for good.
I’ll have a proper meal.”

His voice was rich and resonant —
a masculine, caressing bass.
It was really quite indecent —
so deeply out of place.

His bluster put my back up —
I’d only been trying to help.
So I started to turn my back on
this wretched devil-whelp.

He wrinkled up his little face;
he let out a feeble groan.
I felt another tug of pity —
and dragged the devillet home.

I looked at him in lamplight:
a vile mix, an ancient child.
“I’m sweet, I’m sweet,” I heard him say;
I let him be, grew reconciled.

And soon I felt quite at home,
sharing my home with a devillet.
at noon he frolicked like a goat;
by evening he looked dead.

Now he’d strut about like a man;
now he’d rely on womanly wiles;
and when it rained, he smelt of dog
and licked his fur beside the fire.

For years I’d longed for this or that;
whatever I had, it was never enough.
But now my home almost came to life,
as if growing a coat of fluff.

All was joyless, but all right,
tender and sleepy, in the dark.
Life was dully sweet with a devillet:
child or old man — what did I care?

He was like a decaying mushroom —
ever softer, frailer, sicklier.
Sickly sweet and very tenacious
and stickier, stickier, stickier...

Until we were not two, but one.
Now here I am, part of his heart.
And on rainy days I smell of dog
and lick my fur beside the hearth.

The Little Devil

One night I met, to my surprise,
A puny devil, blue with cold —
No bigger than a child in size,
His feral face was gaunt and old.

He shivered in the icy rain,
Which had soaked through his matted pelt.
“This son of hell feels cold and pain —
We share one fate,” I somehow felt.

They talk of love! What do I know?
Love’s something I don’t understand.
But pity? Yes, it moves me. So
I seized that devil by the hand.

“You’ll surely freeze here on the street.
Come home with me; we’ll get you warm!
I’ll feed you something hot and sweet.
Don’t be afraid, I mean no harm.”

He spoke — his voice a booming bass
As thick, and rich, and smooth as honey–
From his lank throat so out of place
It seemed indecent, even funny.

“Am I a babe, seduced by sweets?
I cannot stand them, never could.
Just feed me soup and fat red meats
And I’ll move in with you for good.”

At his brash words I took offense,
(My own had been much more than kind.)
Disgusted with such insolence
I turned to go, but changed my mind.

He gave a squeal so thin and shrill;
His face contorted pitifully.
He seemed so weak and looked so ill,
I had to drag him home with me.

In lamplight he looked nasty, seedy
A mix of aged imp and baby,
Who kept repeating, “I’m a sweetie.”
“He’ll grow on me,” I thought, “just maybe.”

So I got used to all his ways;
And he soon made himself at home;
Days, like a child, he romps and plays;
At dusk reverts to senile gnome.

At times his walk’s a manly stride;
At times a prancing girlish step.
Before the hearth he licks his hide
And stinks of dog when weather’s wet.

I used to worry, fret and strive;
I dreamed and longed for foolish stuff…
He gave my home, if not new life,
At least a coat of fuzzy fluff.

Devoid of woe, devoid of joy,
Our life’s a dark, dull, drowsy song.
A senile devil, babe, or boy —
What do I care — we get along.

He is so funny, soft and flimsy,
A rotting mushroom past its prime,
He is so sweetly sticky, clingy;
He stuck to me and now he’s mine.

Now he and I have grown together.
Not just united; we’re the same.
I stink of dog in rainy weather,
And lick my fur before the flame.

Дьяволёнок

Мне повстречался дьяволенок,
Худой и щуплый - как комар.
Он телом был совсем ребенок,
Лицом же дик: остер и стар.

Шел дождь... Дрожит, темнеет тело,
Намокла всклоченная шерсть...
И я подумал: эко дело!
Ведь тоже мерзнет. Тоже персть.

Твердят: любовь, любовь! Не знаю.
Не слышно что-то. Не видал.
Вот жалость... Жалость понимаю.
И дьяволенка я поймал.

Пойдем, детеныш! Хочешь греться?
Не бойся, шерстку не ерошь.
Что тут на улице тереться?
Дам детке сахару... Пойдешь?

А он вдруг эдак сочно, зычно,
Мужским, ласкающим баском
(Признаться - даже неприлично
И жутко было это в нем) -

Пророкотал: "Что сахар? Глупо.
Я, сладкий, сахару не ем.
Давай телятинки да супа...
Уж я пойду к тебе - совсем".

Он разозлил меня бахвальством...
А я хотел еще помочь!
Да ну тебя с твоим нахальством!
И не спеша пошел я прочь.

Но он заморщился и тонко
Захрюкал... Смотрит, как больной...
Опять мне жаль... И дьяволенка
Тащу, трудясь, к себе домой.

Смотрю при лампе: дохлый, гадкий,
Не то дитя, не то старик.
И все твердит: "Я сладкий, сладкий..."
Оставил я его. Привык.

И даже как-то с дьяволенком
Совсем сжился я наконец.
Он в полдень прыгает козленком,
Под вечер - темен, как мертвец.

То ходит гоголем-мужчиной,
То вьется бабой вкруг меня,
А если дождик - пахнет псиной
И шерстку лижет у огня.

Я прежде всем себя тревожил:
Хотел того, мечтал о том...
А с ним мой дом... не то, что ожил,
Но затянулся, как пушком.

Безрадостно-благополучно,
И нежно-сонно, и темно...
Мне с дьяволенком сладко-скучно...
Дитя, старик,- не все ль равно?

Такой смешной он, мягкий, хлипкий,
Как разлагающийся гриб.
Такой он цепкий, сладкий, липкий,
Все липнул, липнул - и прилип.

И оба стали мы - едины.
Уж я не с ним - я в нем, я в нем!
Я сам в ненастье пахну псиной
И шерсть лижу перед огнем...

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