Кот Жан – театральных дверей ветеран,
И полное имя его – Баклажан,
Вот только давно все – актер ли, пацан –
Приветствуя, кличут его просто Жан.
Он тощий как щепка, в потертом пальто,
От дряхлости лапы трясутся, - не то
Что когда-то. В былые года
Не знали ловчей и проворней кота,
Он крыс и мышей повсеместно душил
И был знаменит, элегантен и мил.
Теперь, коротая подчас вечера
В трактире, где вход для него – со двора,
Он любит поведать тому, кто нальет,
О том, что и славу имел, и почет,
Что сэр Генри Ирвинг и сэр Три порой
Пленялись его бесподобной игрой,
Отбила галерка все лапы, на бис
Его вызывая семь раз из кулис.
Ах, как он играл, злую зависть презрев,
"Хладострастный напев, или дьявольский гнев"!
"Играл, - вспоминал он, - веселье и грусть,
И сто монологов знавал наизусть,
Я импровизировал, в скетчах блистал,
От шуток моих хохотал полный зал,
Держал напряжение в зале – спиной
И шел на прогон даже еле живой.
И в главной, и в маленькой роли без слов –
Всегда приносили мне море цветов.
Я был подле бедной больной Крошки Нелл,
К Вечернему Звону я ставней скрипел;
Во всех пантомимах имел я успех,
Играть на подменах считал не за грех.
Но главное в жизни, скажу, поседев, -
"Хладострастный напев, или дьявольский гнев"!
Потом, если кто-нибудь джина плеснёт,
Взгрустнет: "У Шекспира был надобен кот,
Понятно, я взял эту трудную роль,
Где гладил меня этот мерзкий Король;
В "Индийском Полковнике" тигра играл –
Рычал и кусался, хотя ростом мал,
Я там по сюжету попал в западню…
В "Ист-Линне" играл по три раза на дню,
И, кровь леденя, я спасал малыша
Из пламени, - зал замирал не дыша".
Добавил потом: "Да, не те времена,
Теперь не актеры, - простите, шпана!
Ну, мог ли в эпоху Виктории кот
Испанского гранда играть без ботфорт!"
Разгладив усы, чуть хлебнув, продолжал:
"А новые пьесы – ну просто скандал!
Я вовсе не против, и всё же – пся крев! –
Высоты! – Кончал он, вконец захмелев. –
И я их достиг!
Исторический миг:
"Хладострастный напев, или дьявольский гнев".
17.01.11
GUS: THE THEATRE CAT
T.S.Eliot
Gus is the cat of the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats –
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drown from his palmist days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree –
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
'I have played', so he says, 'every possible part,
And I use to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'
Then, if someone will give a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger – could do it again –
Which an Indian Colonel pursued down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: 'Now, these kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never gat drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.'
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
'Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'