During the last night of the Summer School Igor Gornyi performed the Alexander Vertinsky's songs. Here we publish the lyrics* by Igor's kind permission: The Lyrics Femme Raffinee To expect from a woman too much is ridiculous. You are dancing so nicely and you are chic. People know your behaviour's rather ambiguous, no one cares for your husband, he's old and sick. Don't be pretending that you are mysterious, don't make your life be like "le vin triste" -- this is rubbish. Your decency isn't quite serious, it is just a coquettish fig leaf, I insist. You've got a prominent latent potential, three-four bankruptcies render your record rich. You were brought up, however, a little bit strangely -- all you needed was foxtrots as well as the beach! And I do understand you, I am so compassionate... that I nearly get torn in one hundred parts. It's another small death of the beautiful fashion plate, it's my eighteenth occasion to watch your arts. I have learned word for word what is said in your testament and I can reproduce it for you again: your Lu-Lu (fox terrier) should be sent to the best of men -- to your lover... a student... who lives in Spain. We'll dispense all your dresses and hats through the Colleges, your "dessous" will appear in the art-museum... And your husband, as usual, he warmly acknowledges my assistance in building your mausoleum. To expect from a woman too much is ridiculous. Where foolishness reigns, wit is nothing at all! Yellow Angel In nightclubs and in restaurants, at cheapest Paris fairgrounds, in this obscene electric paradise, all night I'm sadly singing, with fury and hand-wringing, and people laugh at how I agonize. Jazz bands go jingle-jangle, and vicious monkeys scramble to show me their crippled mouths again. I'm cockeyed, drunk, obnoxious, I ask them to the oceans and strew the faded blooms on their champagne. When the morning comes around, I will trudge through sleepy towns. Even children, they will frown, they will run away in fright. I'm an old and tired clown, swinging toy swords up and down, but the bright rays of my crown force the daylight torch to die. Jazz bands go jingle-jangle. The monkeys dance and gambol, they shout "Merry Christmas!" and "Come on!" I'm drunk in my nirvana, asleep at the piano, despite this crazy celebration drone. The tower clock is striking and footmen douse the lighting, all candles on the Christmas tree are out. Musicians they are leaving, here comes the end of evening, but can I even raise my face I doubt. In the dark, a yellow angel quietly jumps off green fir branches. And he tells me: "Poor Maestro, you are tired, you are bad. In the brothels, dens, and night streets, you are said to sing the tango. Even here, in good old Heaven, we are all surprised by that." And I hark to cruel speeches, and conceal my wistful features, wiping tears with my old tailcoat, tears of shame and tears of pain. And above, in blue high heavens, God extinguishes holy candles. And the sorrowful yellow angel gently flickers on the wane. No Women No Cries How nice this is: no women and no cries, no bitter words and phrases that they tell us. You've got no kisses, no too honest eyes, that sweetly lie to you while always being jealous. How nice to live with no dramatic scenes: you've got no lengthy "noble" explanations and no hysterical adulteries, which means: you've got no late regrets and no frustrations. And how ridiculous to play this stupid game: your loss is big, your prize is always trifling. Your partners are all cardsharps with no shame, this game is tough and permanently stifling! How nice to wake up in the bed alone, in cosy, cheerful bachelor's apartments. It's nice to know for certain that you won't report yourself to any of your partners. How nice to sit together with a friend and slowly drink his simple old Scotch whisky, recalling that until the very end the intimacy with that woman was so risky. And to win back your loss, your self-esteem, you can devise an innocent flirtation. A friend of hers, she'd serve the best, I deem, just to insure your manly reputation. Tango "Magnolia". Banana-lemon Singapore is purely spurious: the ocean cries and sings without words, in dazzling azure skies the storm is furious, pursuing strings of birds. Banana-lemon Singapore is purely spurious, the silence on your heart is like a stone, the frowning of your eyebrows is injurious, you're always sad, alone. And tenderly reviving another May empyrean, my caresses, my words, my eyes and mouth, Yvetta, you are crying, for our song is dying, your heart's no longer flying with no flame of love. A parrot shouts, frightening, you're standing still and sighing - a lonely wild magnolia in bloom - Yvetta, you are crying, for our song is dying, for somewhere summer's soughing, gone with dreams of doom. Your opal-moonlight Singapore is purely spurious, when storms tear off bananas in your dreams. The tiger skin you sleep on is luxurious amid the monkeys' screams. Banana-lemon Singapore is purely spurious. A tropical magnolia in bloom, you jingle with your rings and try to cure us, you love me still, in gloom. * all songs are translated from Russian by Igor Gornyi.