When a harp rings out boldly… (excerpt, Pyatigorsk July 2019)

Excerpt from ‘When a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame’ , English version of Lermontov’s early poem 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ, translated and performed at the 2019 ‘Sail of Destiny’ festival, in Pyatigorsk by Thomas Beavitt. The soundtrack was written by composer Nikita Nikitin and recorded by producer Andrei Bokovikov in Ekaterinburg in 2019. Live sand painting by Ekaterina Sheffer.

Musical interpretation of Lermontov’s poems ‘Ossian’s Tomb’ and ‘Yearning’ (in original Russian)

Thomas Beavitt performing his musical arrangements of Lermontov’s poems Ossian’s Tomb (Гроб Оссиана) and Yearning (Желание) at the door of the little house where the famous Russian poet slept his last night. The performance was part of the Sail of Destiny festival, which took place in July 2019 in Pyatigorsk. Photographer-videographer Valery Shilov, (Pyatigorsk).

When a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame

Lermontov’s early poem 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ, translated and read by Thomas Beavitt. The soundtrack was written by composer Nikita Nikitin and recorded by producer Andrei Bokovikov in Ekaterinburg in 2019.

Part of the poem was also featured in the recent film The Scottish Wind of Lermontov by Maxim Privezentsev, who also originally commissioned the translation.

According to the translator, the poem written by Lermontov in one day at the age of 17 is one of the most outstanding achievements of Russian literature. In its harmonious combination of a large number of metaphysical and psychological themes against the natural background of the Caucasus Mountains, it achieves rhythmic complexity and consistency. Despite initially seeming to be based on early romantic cliches, the language of the poem is quite modern in its perceptions. Moreover, this is perhaps the first major poetic work in which Lermontov begins to develop the dual forces of prophecy and psychological understanding for which he is so justly famous.

The Scottish Wind of Lermontov

This film by Maxim Priventsev, which was shot on location last year in Russia and Scotland, features a specially commissioned translation of Lermontov’s poem 1831-go IYUNYA 11 DNYA read by Thomas Beavitt.

Rhyming Thomas & the Faery Queen

Contemporary Scots-English retelling of Thomas the Rhymer’s meeting with the Faery Queen

My mother and I were just talking in the kitchen about something the Uist writer Angus Peter Campbell had said when talking recently at the Ullapool Book Festival. Discussing his book Memory and Straw, Campbell mentioned that he had been on Tomnahurich hill in Inverness, a place that is associated with the 13th century Scottish bard Thomas the Rhymer.

It’s very interesting that the figure of Thomas the Rhymer – whose family name was Learmonth and who was therefore descended from Norman barons (at least on his father’s side) – should be so deeply embedded in Gaelic mythology. I suppose that Thomas had Gaelic-speaking family on his mother’s side.

At any rate, it is almost certain that such a prominent bard would have performed at the court of the last Gaelic-speaking king of Scotland, Alexander III.

The text with which Thomas is most strongly associated is that in which he immortalises himself through an encounter with the Celtic muse in the form of the Faery Queen. In my view, however, this tale is almost certain to have been a reworking of an earlier mythic text having its origins in Brythonic Celtic culture. It is known that a now extinct Brythonic language was being spoken in the neighbouring Kingdom of Strathclyde that still existed at Thomas’ time.

Winter Journeyman (audio playlist)

Winter Journeyman sheet music

Contemporary English translation of Schubert’s Winterreise song cycle set to piano. Transposed for low voice (baritone). PDF

When the Lion lies down with the Lamb

Die Schöne Müllerin at Dom Muzyki 19/04/2019

Performance of Schubert’s song cycle Die Schöne Müllerin by singer Thomas Beavitt and pianist Alexander Polyakov at Ekaterinburg’s Dom Muzyki on 19th April 2019

Смерть поэта | The Bard is Dead!

Смерть поэта (М.Ю. Лермонтов)

Погиб поэт! — невольник чести, —
Пал, оклеветанный молвой,
С свинцом в груди и жаждой мести,
Поникнув гордой головой!..
Не вынесла душа поэта
Позора мелочных обид,
Восстал он против мнений света
Один, как прежде… и убит!

Убит!.. К чему теперь рыданья,
Пустых похвал ненужный хор
И жалкий лепет оправданья?
Судьбы свершился приговор!
Не вы ль сперва так злобно гнали
Его свободный, смелый дар
И для потехи раздували
Чуть затаившийся пожар?

Что ж? Веселитесь… он мучений
Последних вынести не мог:
Угас, как светоч, дивный гений,
Увял торжественный венок.
Его убийца хладнокровно
Навел удар… спасенья нет:
Пустое сердце бьётся ровно,
В руке не дрогнул пистолет.

И что за диво?.. Издалёка,
Подобный сотням беглецов,
На ловлю счастья и чинов
Заброшен к нам по воле рока.
Смеясь, он дерзко презирал
Земли чужой язык и нравы;
Не мог щадить он нашей славы,
Не мог понять в сей миг кровавый,
На что он руку поднимал!..

И он убит — и взят могилой,
Как тот певец, неведомый, но милый,
Добыча ревности глухой,
Воспетый им с такою чудной силой,
Сражённый, как и он, безжалостной рукой.

Зачем от мирных нег и дружбы простодушной
Вступил он в этот свет завистливый и душный
Для сердца вольного и пламенных страстей?
Зачем он руку дал клеветникам ничтожным,
Зачем поверил он словам и ласкам ложным,
Он, с юных лет постигнувший людей?..

И, прежний сняв венок, — они венец терновый,
Увитый лаврами, надели на него,
Но иглы тайные сурово
Язвили славное чело.
Отравлены его последние мгновенья
Коварным шёпотом насмешливых невежд,
И умер он — с напрасной жаждой мщенья,
С досадой тайною обманутых надежд.

Замолкли звуки чудных песен,
Не раздаваться им опять:
Приют певца угрюм и тесен,
И на устах его печать.

А вы, надменные потомки
Известной подлостью прославленных отцов,
Пятою рабскою поправшие обломки
Игрою счастия обиженных родов!
Вы, жадною толпой стоящие у трона,
Свободы, Гения и Славы палачи!
Таитесь вы под сению закона,
Пред вами суд и правда — всё молчи!..

Но есть и божий суд, наперсники разврата!
Есть грозный суд: он ждёт;
Он недоступен звону злата,
И мысли и дела он знает наперёд.
Тогда напрасно вы прибегнете к злословью —
Оно вам не поможет вновь,
И вы не смоете всей вашей чёрной кровью
Поэта праведную кровь!

The Bard is Dead! (tr. T. Beavitt)

The bard is dead! – conscience of our age –
Felled by lies and foul canard,
Lead-choked chest that bursts with rage
Lifts, at last, the proud regard
Of one whose soul could not consent
To yield to mean indignity,
Who railed against this world and went
Alone to face eternity!

Eternity! Spare your crocodile tears…
Your empty praise – a surplus choir,
A token of your petty fears:
The order came from much, much higher!
Was it not you who cruelly mocked
The music from his golden lyre?
For entertainment, did concoct
A little, sly, tormenting fire?

Well? Enjoy the show! He burned
Until he could not stand beneath
But puttered out, expunged, and earned
His wilted laurel wreath.
His vicious killer, unbelieving,
Dealt the blow; gave not an inch;
Empty heart beat, cool and even;
Gun-hand did not flinch.

Occidental – quelle surprise! –
Bequeathed to us by will of fate,
His wealth and rank to cultivate,
Like hundreds of such refugees.
The native customs of our land –
Dismissed in terms derogatory;
Ridiculed our national glory;
Misconstrued this blood-soaked story;
And with that he raised his hand!…

And so he was slain, and his body taken,
Like the nightingale, whose dulcet songs awaken
The envy and resentment of the deaf.
Exalted them till all tunes were forsaken;
Dumfounded, as was he, by the callous hand of death.

Why, from calm obscurity and artless geniality,
Did he step into the light, the glaring, harsh reality –
To sate a heart of free and ardent passion?
Why did he ever give his hand to rogues and fake princesses?
Why did he never countermand the false words and caresses?
He, who, from an early age, discerned life’s meagre ration…

Then, replacing with a crown of thorns, his wreath,
Intertwined with laurel, they thus contrived – and how! –
Clandestine needles sticking in beneath
That pricked his glorious brow,
Embittering his final days with stress
And the subtle whispering of cretins…
And so he died, with vain thoughts of redress:
The intimate annoyance of mislaid expectations.

The mellifluous tones of our tragic nation
No more to be pealed
As, taking up his cramped accommodation,
The singer’s lips were sealed.

And you, O arrogant descendants,
In whom are amplified the faults of your ancestors,
With slavish heels that trample on the fragments –
Isn’t it a jolly game for their malign successors!
A greedy crowd with drooling, gaping maw;
Vapid executioners of freedom, wit and glory!
Cowards, taking refuge in the law:
For you, are truth and honour just a story?

But there is a sacred court, O intimates of vice!
There is an awful trial – there He sits and waits.
There’ll be no church bells chiming to entice;
Thoughts and deeds already known behind those final gates…
Then in vain will you recall the time before the flood,
With hearts already hard:
For you will never wash away the blood,
The righteous blood of the bard!