Drainpipes

Novella Matveyeva

About Novella Matveyeva

Novella Matveyeva (Новелла Николаевна Матвеева, 1934 - 2016) was a Russian poet, prose writer, and singer-songwriter whose work occupied a distinctive place in the culture of the Soviet 1960s. Even her rare, literary first name—Novella, meaning “novella” or “short novel”—seemed to suit a writer whose poetry was lyrical, imaginative, and quietly romantic, filled with nature, fantasy, wit, and a strong sense of inner freedom.

She began writing as a child during the Second World War, and her path to literature was shaped by illness, poverty, and little formal schooling. By the early 1960s, she had become widely known not only as a poet but also as a performer, setting her own verses to music and singing them to the seven-string guitar. Her small, untrained voice had none of the power of a professional singer’s, but its childlike innocence and wistful, romantic sadness gave her songs their singular intimacy. Her songs became part of the flourishing Soviet bard tradition, often circulating through home recordings. In Matveyeva’s work, poetry and song seem to belong to the same realm: intimate, playful, romantic, and unmistakably her own.

About This Song

In this song, Novella Matveyeva imagines the drainpipes of a rainy city as gossiping voices that reveal the hidden sorrows of the people who live behind its walls. The speaker deliberately chooses not to surrender to that knowledge. Even in the black evening rain, she continues to see a beautiful city through a white mist of hope.

Near the end comes a lovely paradox. The pipes, she says, are still old, their mold no more than the first fuzz on a boy's lip, while we have already grown young, even though we have come to know the oldest pain of all. Innocence here is not something we start with but something we arrive at.

Video Performance

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Дождь, дождь вече́рний сквозь водосто́чные тру́бы.
Мо́крые сте́ны, зелёная пле́сень да мох...
Ах, э́ти тру́бы! Сде́лали тру́бочкой гу́бы,
Что́бы прохо́жим вы́болтать та́йны домо́в.

Тру́бы вы, тру́бы, – я ва́шим та́йнам не ра́да.
Ржа́вые тру́бы, вы бро́сьте про та́йны труби́ть!
Я вас не зна́ю, мне ва́ших секре́тов не на́до:
Зна́я секре́ты, тру́дно мечта́ть и люби́ть.

Ве́рю, ах, ве́рю тому́, что за э́тою две́рью
И в том око́шке изме́на, оби́да, обма́н...
Ве́рю, ах, ве́рю! – но почему́-то...не ве́рю.
И улыба́юсь ка́менным э́тим дома́м.

Ве́рю наде́жде, да́же как бу́дто напра́сной,
Да́же напра́сной, совсе́м невозмо́жной мечте́...
Ви́жу я го́род, ви́жу я го́род прекра́сный
В бе́лом тума́не, в чёрном вече́рнем дожде́.

Тру́бы вы, тру́бы, – Бе́дные! – Вы ещё стары.
Вся ва́ша пле́сень – лишь пе́рвый пушо́к над губо́й.
Вы ещё стары́, а мы уже́ ю́ными ста́ли,
Хоть мы узна́ли са́мую ста́рую боль.

...Дождь, дождь вече́рний сквозь водосто́чные тру́бы;
Мо́крые сте́ны, зелёная пле́сень да мох...
Ах, э́ти тру́бы! Сде́лали тру́бочкой гу́бы,
Что́бы прохо́жим вы́болтать та́йны домо́в.

Rain, evening rain, through the drainpipes.
Wet walls, green mold and moss...
Ah, these pipes! They've pursed their lips into little tubes,
As if eager to blurt out the secrets of the houses to passersby.

You pipes, you pipes—I take no pleasure in your secrets.
Rusty pipes, stop trumpeting about secrets!
I do not know you; I have no need of your secrets:
When you know secrets, it is hard to dream and to love.

I believe, ah, I believe that behind this door,
And in that window, there are betrayal, hurt, deceit...
I believe, ah, I believe!—and yet, somehow... I do not believe.
And I smile at these stone houses.

I believe in hope, even when it seems in vain,
Even in a vain, utterly impossible dream...
I see the city, I see the beautiful city
In the white mist, in the black evening rain.

You pipes, you pipes—poor things!—you are still old.
All your mold is only the first down above the lip.
You are still old, while we have already become young,
Though we have come to know the oldest pain.

...Rain, evening rain, through the drainpipes;
Wet walls, green mold and moss...
Ah, these pipes! They have pursed their lips into little tubes,
As though eager to blurt out the secrets of the houses to passersby.

Do You Want?

Humans Will Return to Human