The image above is a postcard of Marburg, Germany from 1916.
"Марбург" (Marburg) was written by Boris Pasternak in 1916. Below is the original Russian text, followed by an English translation directly underneath. Since this is a longer poem than what is usually reviewed on this website, it may take slightly more time to scroll through it, but rest assured the analysis is below the English translation.
Я вздрагивал. Я загорался и гас. Я трясся. Я сделал сейчас предложенье, — Но поздно, я сдрейфил, и вот мне — отказ. Как жаль ее слез! Я святого блаженней.
Я вышел на площадь. Я мог быть сочтен Вторично родившимся. Каждая малость Жила и, не ставя меня ни во что, В прощальном значеньи своем подымалась.
Плитняк раскалялся, и улицы лоб Был смугл, и на небо глядел исподлобья Булыжник, и ветер, как лодочник, греб По лицам. И все это были подобья.
Но как бы то ни было, я избегал Их взглядов. Я не замечал их приветствий. Я знать ничего не хотел из богатств. Я вон вырывался, чтоб не разреветься.
Инстинкт прирожденный, старик-подхалим, Был невыносим мне. Он крался бок о бок И думал: «Ребячья зазноба. За ним, К несчастью, придется присматривать в оба».
«Шагни, и еще раз«, — тверди мне инстинкт, И вел меня мудро, как старый схоластик, Чрез девственный, непроходимый тростник, Нагретых деревьев, сирени и страсти.
«Научишься шагом, а после хоть в бег», — Твердил он, и новое солнце с зенита Смотрело, как сызнова учат ходьбе Туземца планеты на новой планиде.
Одних это все ослепляло. Другим — Той тьмою казалось, что глаз хоть выколи. Копались цыплята в кустах георгин, Сверчки и стрекозы, как часики, тикали.
Плыла черепица, и полдень смотрел, Не смаргивая, на кровли. А в Марбурге Кто, громко свища, мастерил самострел, Кто молча готовился к Троицкой ярмарке.
Желтел, облака пожирая, песок. Предгрозье играло бровями кустарника, И небо спекалось, упав на кусок Кровоостанавливающей арники.
В тот день всю тебя от гребенок до ног, Как трагик в провинции драму Шекспирову, Носил я с собою и знал назубок, Шатался по городу и репетировал.
Когда я упал пред тобой, охватив Туман этот, лед этот, эту поверхность (Как ты хороша!) — этот вихрь духоты — О чем ты? Опомнись! Пропало. Отвергнут.
Тут жил Мартин Лютер. Там — братья Гримм. Когтистые крыши. Деревья. Надгробья. И все это помнит и тянется к ним. Все — живо. И все это тоже — подобья.»
О, нити любви! Улови, перейми. Но как ты громаден, обезьяний, Когда под надмирными жизни дверьми, Как равный, читаешь свое описанье!
Когда-то под рыцарским этим гнездом Чума полыхала. А нынешний жупел — Насупленный лязг и полет поездов Из жарко, как ульи, курящихся дупел.
Нет, я не пойду туда завтра. Отказ — Полнее прощанья. Все ясно. Мы квиты. Да и оторвусь ли от газа, от касс, — Что будет со мною, старинные плиты?
Повсюду портпледы разложит туман, И в обе оконницы вставят по месяцу. Тоска пассажиркой скользнет по томам И с книжкою на оттоманке поместится.
Чего же я трушу? Ведь я, как грамматику, Бессонницу знаю. Стрясется — спасут. Рассудок? Но он — как луна для лунатика. Мы в дружбе, но я не его сосуд.
Ведь ночи играть садятся в шахматы Со мной на лунном паркетном полу. Акацией пахнет, и окна распахнуты, И страсть, как свидетель, седеет в углу.
И тополь — король. Я играю с бессонницей. И ферзь — соловей. Я тянусь к соловью. И ночь побеждает, фигуры сторонятся, Я белое утро в лицо узнаю.
I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished.
I shook. I had made a proposal - but late,
Too late. I was scared, and she had refused me.
I pity her tears, am more blessed than a saint.
I went out on the square. It seemed I was born
for a second time. Each insignificant particle
lived, and looking me over with scorn,
was raised in importance by the power of parting.
The flagstones burned hot; the dark brow of the street Frowned at the sky, and the cobbles looked sullen. The wind, like a boatman, rowed over the lime trees. Each thing was a likeness, and all was symbolic.
Be it as it may, I avoided their eyes, Ignoring their greetings and cheers. For all their abundance I could not care less. I tore myself free, lest I burst into tears.
My natural instinct, lickspittle old man, was unbearable to me. He slunk by my side and thought: “Lady love, an old childish prank... The boy must be watched... I shall need both my eyes.”
“Take a step, and another,” instructed my instinct, and led me with wisdom, like an ancient scholastic, through the maze of primeval, impassable thickets of sun-heated pine trees, lilac, and passion.
“First learn to walk slowly, then run as you choose.” — And a new sun in zenith watched with attention how lessons in walking were given anew to a native of Earth in some other dimension.
To some this was blindingly dazzling. To others — blindingly black. In the bushes of asters chickens were scratching. There was buzzing of insects, and, like miniature watches, the ticking of crickets.
A tile floated by, the burning noon stared unblinking at cables and roofs. And in Marburg someone, whistling loudly, was making a crossbow: others, silent, prepared for the Pentecost Fair.
Devouring the clouds, the sand yellowed and dried. The gathering storm brushed the brows of the shrubbery. From the airless expanses, the waterless sky fell down on some blood-stilling arnica.
Like any rep Romeo hugging his tragic part, I reeled through the city rehearsing you. I carried you all that day, knew you by heart From the comb in your hair to the foot in your shoe.
And then, when I fell on my knees and embraced the whole of that fog, of that ice, of that surface — (How splendid you are!) — of that storm, suffocating... Please don’t! Be yourself! It is hopeless. Rejected.
Here lived Martin Luther. There — the brothers Grimm. Gables like talons. Lime trees. And gravestones. And all this remembers and hungers for them. Everything lives. And is likeness and symbols.
No, I won’t go there tomorrow. Rejection is more than farewell. All is clear. We are quits. Not for us is the hustle of platforms and stations. O time-honored stones, what will happen with me?
Hold-alls will be placed on the racks. And a moon will be put in each window of every compartment. Anguish, having selected a book, will be silently reading, as one of the passengers.
Why am I frightened? As well as my grammar I know my insomnia. We two are allied. Then why do I dread, like a call from a madman, My usual thoughts, so long known and well tried?
For the nights do sit down to play chess with me often on the moonlight checkered parquetry flooring. There is scent of acacia, the windows are open, and passion, as a witness, goes gray in the corner.
And a poplar is king. I play with insomnia. And queen is a nightingale. I long for the nightingale. The night wins the game. Each piece moves aside. A white morning advances and is recognized.
Born in 1890, Boris Pasternak was a Jewish-Russian writer from Moscow that became one of the most prominent Russian Silver Age writers. His most notable work is a book titled "Dr. Zhivago" which was published in 1957/58. He was also friends with other Silver Age poets, such as Osip Mandelstam and Anna Akhmatova (who have both had some of their work reviewed on this website). Pasternak’s childhood was deeply exposed to the arts. Pasternak's parents were both artists – his father was a professor and painter, while his mother was a concert pianist. His parents also knew the world-renowned writer, Leo Tolstoy. Pasternak's upbringing led him to pursue a life in the arts.
Pasternak studied musical composition between 1904 and 1910 at Moscow University, but soon after abandoned life in music. In 1912, Pasternak decided to enroll in the University of Marburg in Germany to study Philosophy. In Marburg, a town just north of Frankfurt, Pasternak met a woman named Ida Wissotzkaya. Pasternak fell in love with Wissotzkaya and asked her to marry him. Unfortunately, Wissotzkaya rejected his proposal. In 1916, Boris Pasternak wrote this piece, "Marburg" (Марбург), in response to this rejection. This was not Pasternak's only broken love affair; he went on to publish a collection of poems about such broken affairs in a book entitled, "My Sister, Life." "Marburg" (Марбург) also contains a somber tone which can be frequently seen in Silver Age writing. This poem originally contains 20, four-line, stanzas, but in the English adaptation, there are only 18. Pasternak begins the poem by introducing his unfortunate proposal rejection, "I had made a proposal ... she had refused me." In the second stanza, he explains his feelings following the rejection. He feels as though he knows nothing like a newborn and is looked down upon by even the most insignificant inanimate objects: "Each insignificant particle lived and looking me over with scorn, was raised in importance by the power of parting." In other words, Pasternak had become so insignificant that every insignificant particle became more important as soon as they moved away from him. In the third stanza, he projects his own despair onto his surroundings, referring to the cobblestones on his street as “sullen”... In the fourth stanza, he describes himself avoiding shame and embarrassment by avoiding his surroundings and people; "I tore myself free, lest I burst into tears." Pasternak continues the narrative of insignificance in the fifth stanza by calling himself a "lickspittle." A lickspittle is a person who behaves obsequiously to those in power.
Pasternak then changes his emotional state and attempts to pick himself up in the following three stanzas, the sixth to the eighth. Pasternak shows the reader his first steps after his rebirth (from the second stanza). He states, "'Take a step, and another,' instructed my instinct," and "'First learn to walk slowly, then run as you choose'." In the ninth and tenth stanzas, Boris Pasternak returns to his setting and describes what he sees in Marburg. He goes into detail about the "brows of the shrubbery," and the "waterless sky." In the eleventh and twelfth stanzas, Pasternak reminisces about his loved one. Pasternak states that he, "reeled through the city rehearsing you,” referring to Ida Wissotzkaya. He refers to himself as "Romeo hugging his tragic part," which is a reference to Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. He concludes the twelfth stanza with a one-word sentence, "Rejected." This choice adds a lot more weight to the word "rejected," and gives this moment in the poem power. In the thirteenth stanza, Pasternak references famous Germans who had done work in Marburg, Germany. He references Martin Luther, a religious reformer who was a catalyst for the 16th-century protestant reformation, and the Brothers Grimm, who both attended Marburg University and led to the birth of the modern study of folklore. In the final five stanzas, Pasternak expresses his depressive thoughts, and battle with depression. He informs the reader that he dreads his own thoughts, "Then why do I dread, like a call from a madman, My usual thoughts, so long known and well tired?" In summary, "Marburg" (Марбург) is a poem about Pasternak's rejection, his feeling of his life being over because of the rejection, and his battle with sadness and depression after the rejection.
While the poem may have been written over 100 years ago, it provides evidence that some of the same social struggles remain today. Throughout the poem, Pasternak exemplifies a hopeless romantic. He has just been faced with rejection and is coming to terms with it. The poem highlights that the human condition has remained the same. People have an endless need for relationships and love, often having their lives consumed by this pursuit. People are also deeply affected when expectations are not met. In Pasternak’s case, he expected to have his proposal accepted and to live happily ever after with Ida Wissotzkaya. Instead, Pasternak’s proposal was rejected, and he walks down the street with his mind racing, trying to come to terms with the heartbreak. He looks around at his surroundings, trying to make sense of his situation. Pasternak looks at the cobblestone which dominated the town’s architecture. While cobblestone streets may be something of the past, if Pasternak was alive today, he would have instead looked on his phone or another piece of technology to find solace.
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