Книга - The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Александр Сергеевич Пушкин


Русская классическая литература на иностранных языках (Каро)
Предлагаем вниманию читателей сборник произведений А. С. Пушкина в переводе на английский язык. В книгу вошли поэмы «Медный всадник», «Руслан и Людмила» и «Бахчисарайский фонтан».





Alexander Pushkin / Александр Пушкин

The Bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. книга для чтения на английском языке





© КАРО, 2018





The Bronze Horseman

(A Petersburg Tale)








Foreword


‘The occurrence related in this tale is based on fact. The details of the flood are taken from the journals of the day. The curious may consult the information collected by V. I. Berkh’.




Introduction


There, by the billows desolate, He stood, with mighty thoughts elate, And gazed, but in the distance only
A sorry skiff on the broad spate Of Neva drifted seaward, lonely.
The moss-grown miry bank with rare
Hovels were dotted here and there
Where wretched Finns for shelter crowded;
The murmuring woodlands had no share
Of sunshine, all in mist beshrouded.
And thus
He mused: “From here, indeed
Shall we strike terror in the Swede?
And here a city by our labor
Founded, shall gall our haughty neighbor;
“Here cut” – so Nature gives command —
“Your window[1 - Algarotti has somewhere said: “Petersburg est la fenê-tre, par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe” (Pushkin’s note).] through on Europe; stand
Firm-footed by the sea, unchanging!
Ay, ships of every flag shall come
By waters they had never swum,
And we shall revel, freely ranging.”

A century – and that city young,
Gem of the Northern world, amazing,
From gloomy wood and swamp upspring,
Had risen, in pride and splendor blazing.
Where once, by that low-lying shore,
In waters never known before
The Finnish fisherman, sole creature,
And left forlorn by stepdame Nature,
Cast ragged nets, – today, along
Those shores, astir with life and motion,
Vast shapely palaces in throng
And towers are seen: from every ocean,
From the world’s end, the ships come fast,
To reach the loaded quays at last.
The Neva now is clad in granite
With many a bridge to overspan it;
The islands lie beneath a screen
Of gardens deep in dusky green.
To that young capital is drooping
The crest of Moscow on the ground,
A dowager in purple, stooping
Before an empress newly crowned.

I love thee, city of Peter’s making;
I love thy harmonies austere,
And Neva’s sovran waters breaking
Along her banks of granite sheer;
Thy tracery iron gates; thy sparkling,
Yet moonless, meditative gloom
And thy transparent twilight darkling;
And when I write within my room
Or, lampless, read, – then, sunk in slumber,
The empty thoroughfares, past number,

Are piled, stand clear upon the night;
The Admiralty spire is bright;
Nor may the darkness mount, to smother
The golden cloudland of the light,
For soon one dawn succeeds another
With barely half-an-hour of night.
I love thy ruthless winter, lowering
With bitter frost and windless air;
The sledges along Neva scouring;
Girls’ cheeks – no roses so bright and fair!
The flash and noise of balls, the chatter;
The bachelor’s hour of feasting, too;
The cups that foam and hiss and spatter,
The punch that in the bowl burns blue.
I love the warlike animation
On playing-fields of Mars; to see
The troops of foot and horse in station,
And their superb monotony;
Their ordered, undulating muster;
Flags, tattered on the glorious day;
Those brazen helmets in their luster
Shot through and riddled in the fray.
I love thee, city of soldiers, blowing
Smoke from thy forts: thy booming gun;
– A Northern empress is bestowing
Upon the royal house a son!
Or when, another battle won,
Proud Russia holds her celebration;
Or when the Neva breaking free
Her dark blue ice bears out to sea
And scents the spring, in exultation.

Now, city of Peter, stand thou fast,
Foursquare, like Russia, vaunt thy splendor!
The very element shall surrender
And make her peace with thee at last.
Their ancient bondage and their rancorous
The Finnish waves shall bury deep
Now vex with idle spite that cankers
Our Peter’s everlasting sleep!

There was a dreadful time, we keep
Still freshly on our memories painted;
And you, my friends, shall be acquainted
By me, with all that history:
A grievous record it will be.




I


O’er darkened Petrograd there rolled
November’s breath of autumn cold,
And Neva with her boisterous billow
Splashed on her shapely bounding wall
And tossed in restless rise and fall
Like a sick man upon his pillow.
Twas late, and dark had fallen; the rain
Beat fiercely on the window-pane;
A wind that howled and wailed was blowing.
Twas then that young Evgeny came
Home from a party – I am going
To call our hero by that name,
For it sounds pleasing, and moreover
My pen once liked it; why discover
The needless surname? – True, it may
Have been illustrious in past ages,
– Rung, through tradition, in the pages
Of Karamzin; and yet, today
That name is never recollected,
By Rumour and the World rejected.
Our hero – somewhere – served the State;
He shunned the presence of the great;
Lived in Kolomna; for the fate
Cared not of forbears dead and rotten,
Or antique matters long forgotten.
So, home Evgeny came, and tossed
His cloak aside; undressed; and sinking
Sleepless upon his bed, was lost
In sundry meditations – thinking
Of what? – How poor he was; how pain
And toil might some day hope to gain
An honored, free, assured position;
How God, it might be, in addition
Would grant him better brains and pay.
Such idle folk there were, and they,
Lucky and lazy, not too brightly
Gifted, lived easily and lightly;
And he – was only in his second
Year at the desk.
He further reckoned
Those still the ugly weather held;
That still the river swelled and swelled;
That almost now from Neva’s eddy
The bridges had been moved already;
That from Parasha he must be
Parted for some two days, or three.
And all that night he lay, so dreaming,
And wishing sadly that the gale
Would bate its melancholy screaming
And that the rain would not assail
The glass so fiercely… But sleep closes
His eyes at last, and he reposes,

But see, the mists of that rough night
Thin out, and the pale day grows bright;
That dreadful day! – For Neva, leaping
Seaward all night against the blast
Was beaten in the strife at last,
Against the frantic tempest sweeping;
And on her banks at break of day
The people swarmed and crowded, curious,
And reveled in the towering spray
That spattered where the waves were furious.
But the wind driving from the bay
Dammed Neva back, and she receding
Came up, in wrath and riot speeding;
And soon the islands flooded lay.

Madder the weather grew, and ever
Higher upswelled the roaring river
And bubbled like a kettle, and whirled
And like a maddened beast was hurled
Swift on the city. And things routed
Fled from its path, and all about it
A sudden space was cleared; the flow
Dashed in the cellars down below;
Canals above their borders spouted.
Behold Petropol floating lie
Like Triton in the deep, waist-high!

A siege! The wicked waves, attacking
Climb thief-like through the windows;
backing,
The boats sternforemost smite the glass;
Trays with their soaking wrappage pass;
And timbers, roofs, and huts all shattered,
The wares of thrifty traders scattered,
And the pale beggar’s chattels small,
Coffins from sodden graveyards – all
Swim in the streets!
And contemplating
God’s wrath, the folk their doom are waiting.
All will be lost; ah, where shall they
Find food and shelter for today?
The glorious emperor, now departed,
In that grim year was sovereign
Of Russia still. He came, sick-hearted,
Out on his balcony, and in pain
He said: “No Tsar, with God, is master
Over God’s elements!” In thought
He sat, and gazed on the disaster
Sad-eyed, and on the evil wrought;
For now the squares with lakes
were studded,
Their torrents broad the streets
had flooded,
And now forlorn and islander
The palace seemed. The emperor said
One word: – and see, along the highways
His generals[2 - Count Miloradovich and Adjutant-General Benckendorff (Pushkin’s note).] hurrying, through the byways!
From city’s end to end they sped
Through storm and peril, bent on saving
The people, now in panic raving
And drowning in their houses there.

New-built, high up in Peter’s Square
A corner mansion then ascended;
And where its lofty perron ended
Two sentry lions stood at guard
Like living things, and kept their ward
With paw uplifted. Here, bare-headed,
Pale, rigid, arms across his breast,
Upon the creature’s marble crest
Sat poor Evgeny. But he dreaded
Nought for himself; he did not hear
The hungry rollers rising near
And on his very footsoles plashing,
Feel on his face the rainstorm lashing,
Or how the riotous, moaning blast
Had snatched his hat. His eyes were fast
Fixt on one spot in desperation
Where from the deeps in agitation
The wicked waves like mountains rose,
Where the storm howled, and round were driven
Fragments of wreck… There,
God in Heaven!
Hard by the bay should stand,
and close,
Alas, too close to the wild water,
A painless fence, a willow-tree,
And there a frail old house should be
Where dwelt a widow, with a daughter
Parasha – and his dream was she!
His dream – or was it but a vision,
All that he saw? Was life also
An idle dream which in derision
Fate sends to mock us here below?

And he, as though a man enchanted
And on the marble pinned and planted
Cannot descend, and round him lie
Only the waters. There, on high,
With Neva still beneath him churning,
Unshaken, on Evgeny turning
His back, and with an arm flung wide,
Behold the Image sit, and ride
Upon his brazen horse astride!




II


But now, with rack and ruin sated
And weary of her insolence
And uproar, Neva, still elated
With her rebellious turbulence,
Stole back, and left her booty stranded
And unregarded. So a bandit
Bursts with his horde upon a village
To smash an slay, destroy and pillage;
Whence yells, and violence, and alarms,
Gritting of teeth, and grievous harms
And wailing’s; then the evildoers
Rush home; but dreading the pursuers
And sagging with the stolen load
They drop their plunder on the road.

Meanwhile the water had abated
And pavements now uncovered lay;
And our Evgeny, by dismay
And hope and longing agitated,
Sore-hearted to the river sped.
But still it lay disquieted
And still the wicked waves were seething
In pride of victory, as though
A flame was smoldering below;
And heavily was Neva breathing
Like to a horse besprent with foam
Who gallops from the battle home.

Evgeny watches, and descrying
By happy chance a boat, goes bluing
To hail the ferryman; and he,
Unhired and idle, willingly
Convoys him for a threepence, plying
Through that intimidating sea.
The old tried oarsman long contended
With the wild waters, hour by hour,
Sunk in the trough, the skiff descended
Mid rollers, ready to devour
Rash crew and all – at last contriving
To make the farther shore.
Arriving,
Evgeny – evil is his lot! —
Runs to the old street, – and knows it not.
All, to his horror, is demolished,
Leveled or ruined or abolished.
Houses are twisted all awry,
And some are altogether shattered,
Some shifted by the seas; and scattered
Are bodies, flung as bodies lie
On battlefields. Unthinkingly,
Half-fainting, and excruciated,
Evgeny rushes on, awaited
By destiny with unrevealed
Tidings, as in a letter sealed.

He scours the suburb; and discerning
The bay, he knows the house is near;
And then stops short, ah, what is here?
Retreating, and again returning,
He looks – advances – look again.
‘Tis there they dwelt, the marks are plain;
There is the willow. Surely yonder
The gate was standing, in the past;
Now, washt away! No house! – O’ercast
With care, behold Evgeny wander
Forever rounds and rounds the place,
And talk aloud, and strike his face
With his bare hand. A moment after,
He breaks into a roar of laughter.

The vapors of the night came down
Upon the terror-stricken town,
But all the people long debated
The doings of the day, and waited
And could not sleep. The morning light
From pale and weary clouds gleamed bright
On the still capital; no traces
Now of the woes of yesternight!
With royal purple it effaces
The mischief; all things are proceeding
In form and order as of old;
The people are already treading,
Impassive, in their fashion, cold,
Through the cleared thoroughfares, inheeding;
And now official folk forsake
Their last night’s refuge, as they make
Their way to duty. Greatly daring,
The huckster now takes heart, unbarring
His cellar, late the prey and sack
Of Neva, – hoping to get back
His heavy loss and wasted labor
Out of the pockets of his neighbor.
The drifted boats from each courtyard
Are carried.
To a certain bard,
A count, a favorite of heaven
To one Khvostov, the theme was given
To chant in his immortal song
How Neva’s shores had suffered wrong.

But my Evgeny, poor, sick fellow! —
Alas, the tumult in his brain
Had left him powerless to sustain
Those shocks of terror. For the bellow
Of riotous winds and Neva near
Resounded always in his ear;
A host of hideous thoughts attacked him,
A kind of nightmare rent and racked him,
And on he wandered silently;
And as the week, the month, went by,
Never came home. His habitation,
As time ran out, the landlord took,
And leased the now deserted nook
For a poor poet’s occupation.

Nor ever came Evgeny home
For his belongings; he would roam,
A stranger to the world; his ration
A morsel tendered in compassion
Out of a window; he would tramp
All day, and on the quay would camp
To sleep; his garments, old and fraying,
Were all in tatters and decaying.
And the malicious boys would pelt
The man with stones; and of the felt
The cabman’s whiplash on him flicking;
For he had lost the skill of picking
His footsteps, – deafened, it may be,
By fears that clamored inwardly.
So, dragging out his days, ill-fated,
He seemed like something mistreated,
No beast, nor yet of human birth,
Neither a denizen of earth
Nor phantom of the dead.
Belated
One night, on Neva wharf he slept.
Now summer days toward autumn crept;
A wet and stormy wind was blowing,
And Neva’s sullen waters flowing
Plashed on the wharf and muttered there
Complaining – beat the slippery stair
As suitors beat in supplication
Unheeded at a judge’s door.
In gloom and rain, amid the roar
Of winds, – a sound of desolation
With cries of watchmen interchanged
Afar, who through the darkness ranged, —
Our poor Evgeny woke; and dounted,
By well-remembered terrors haunted,
He started sharply, rose in haste,
And forth upon his wanderings paced;
– And halted on a sudden, staring
About him silently, and wearing
A look of wild alarm and awe.
Where had he come? For now he saw
The pillars of that lofty dwelling
Where, on the perron sentinelling,
Two lion-figures stand at guard
Like living things, keep watch and ward
With lifted paw. Upright and glooming,
Above the stony barrier looming,
The Image, with arm flung wide,
Sat on his brazen horse astride.[3 - See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban, as Mickiewicz himself observes (Pushkin’s note).]

And now Evgeny, with a shiver
Of terror, felt his reason clear.
He knew the place, for it was here
The flood had gamboled, here the river
Had surged; here, rioting in their wrath,
The wicked waves had swept a path
And with their tumult had surrounded
Evgeny, lions, square, – and Him
Who, moveless and aloft and dim,
Our city by the sea had founded,
Whose will was Fate. Appalling there
He sat begirt with and air.
What thoughts engrave his blow! What hidden
Power and authority he claims!
What fire in yonder charger flames!
Proud charger, whither art thou ridden,
Where leanest thou? And where, on whom,
Wilt plants thy hoof? – Ah, lord of doom
And potentate, ‘twas thus, appearing
Above the void, and in thy hold
A curb of iron, thou sat’st of old
O’er Russian, on her haunches rearing!

About the Image, at its base,
Poor mad Evgeny circled, straining
His wild gaze upward at the face
That once o’er half the world was reigning.
His eye was dimmed, cramped was his breast,
His brow on the cold grill was pressed,
While through his heart a flame was creeping
And in his veins the blood was leaping.
He halted sullenly beneath
The haughty Image, clenched his teeth
And clasped his hands, as though some devil
Possessed him, some dark, power of evil,
And shuddered, whispering angrily,
“Ay, architect, with thy creation
Of marvels… Ah, beware of me!”
And then, in wild precipitation
He fled.
For now he seemed to see
The awful Emperor, quietly,
With momentary anger burning,
His visage to Evgeny turning!
And rushing through the empty square,
He hears behind him as it were
Thunders that rattle in a chorus,
A gallop ponderous, sonorous,
That shakes the pavement. At full height,
Illumined by the pale moonlight,
With arm outflung, behind him riding
See, the bronze horseman comes, bestriding
The charger, clanging in his flight.
All night the madman flees; no matter
Where he may wander at his will,
Hard on his track with heavy clatter
There the bronze horseman gallops still.

Thereafter, whensoever straying
Across that square Evgeny went
By chance, his face was still betraying
Disturbance and bewilderment.
As though to ease a heart tormented
His hand upon it he would clap
In haste, put off his shabby cap,
And never raise his eyes demented,
And seek some byway unfrequented.

A little island lies in view
Along the shore; and here, belated,
Sometimes with nets a fisher-crew
Will moor and cook their long awaited
And meagre supper. Hither too
Some civil servant, idly floating,
Will come upon a Sunday, boating.
That isle is desolate and bare;
No blade of grass springs anywhere.
Once the great flood has sported, driving
The frail hut thither. Long surviving,
It floated on the water there
Like some black bush. A vessel plying
Bore it, last spring, upon her deck.
They found it empty, all the wreck;
And also, cold and dead and lying
Upon the threshold, they had found
My crazy hero. In the ground
His poor cold body there they hurried,
And left it to God’s mercy, buried.




Ruslan and Ludmila





Dedication


For you, queens of my soul, my treasured
Young beauties, for your sake did I
Devote my golden hours of leisure
To writing down, I’ll not deny,
With faithful hand of long past ages
The whispered fables… Take them, pray,
Accept these playful lines, these pages
For which I ask no praise… But stay!
For my reward – I need not seek it —
Is hope: Oh, that some girl should scan,
As only one who’s lovesick can,
These naughty songs of mine in secret!




Prologue


On seashore far a green oak towers,
And to it with a gold chain bound,
A learned cat whiles away the hours
By walking slowly round and round.
To right he walks, and sings a ditty;
To left he walks, and tells a tale…

What marvels there! A mermaid sitting
High in a tree, a sprite, a trail
Where unknown beasts move never seen by
Man’s eyes, a hut on chicken feet,
Without doors, without windows,
An evil witch’s lone retreat;
The woods and valleys there are teeming
With strange things… Dawn brings waves that, gleaming,
Over the sandy beaches creep,
And from the clear and shining water
Step thirty goodly knights escorted
By their Old Guardian, of the deep
An ancient dweller… There a dreaded
And hated tsar is captive ta’en;
There, as all watch, for cloud banks headed,
Across the sea and o’er a plain,
A warlock bears a knight. There, weeping,
A princess sits locked in a cell,
And Grey Wolf serves her very well;
There, in a mortar, onward sweeping
All of itself, beneath the skies
The wicked Baba-Yaga flies;
There pines Koshchei and lusts for gold…
All breathes of Russ, the Russ of old
There once was I, friends, and the сat
As near him ’neath the oak I sat
And drank of sweet mead at my leisure,
Recounted tales to me… With pleasure
One that I liked do I recall
And here and now will share with all…




Canto the First


The ways and deeds of days gone by,
A narrative on legend founded…

In princely banquet chamber high,
By doughty sons and guests surrounded,
Vladimir-Bright Sun holds a fete;
His daughter is the chosen mate
Of Prince Ruslan, and these two linking
In marriage, old Vladimir’s drinking
Their health, a handsome cup and great
To his lips held and fond thoughts thinking.
Our fathers ate ’thout haste-indeed,
Passed slowly round the groaning tables
The silver beakers were and ladles
With frothing ale filled and with mead.

Into the heart cheer poured they, truly…
The bearers, bowing, solemn-faced,
Before the feasters tankards placed;
High rose the foam and hissed, unruly…
The hum of talk is loud, unceasing;
Abuzz the guests: a merry round.
Then through the hubbub, all ears pleasing,
There comes the gusli’s rippling sound.
A hush. In dulcet song and ringing
Bayan, the bard – all hark him well —
Of bride and groom the praise is singing;
He lauds their union, gift of Lel[4 - Lel – the Slavic god of love (Translator’s note).].

Ruslan, o’ercome by fiery feeling,
Of food partakes not; from Ludmila
He cannot tear away his eyes;
He flames with love, he frowns, he sighs,
At his moustache plucks, filled with torment
And, all impatience, counts each moment.
Amid the noisy feasters brood
Three youthful knights. In doleful mood
They sit there, their great tankards empty
With downcast eyes, the fare, though tempting,
Untouched; the goblets past them sail;
They do not seem to hear the tale
Of wisdom chanted by Bayan…
The luckless rivals of Ruslan,
Of love and hate a deadly brew
In their hearts hid, the three are too
O’erwrought for speech. The first of these
Is bold Rogdai of battle fame
(’Twas he who Kiev’s boundaries
Stretched with his blade); the next, the vain,
Loud-voiced Farlaf, by none defeated
At festal board, but tame, most tame
Mid flashing swords and tempers heated;
The last, the Khazar Khan Ratmir,
A reckless spirit, aye, and ardent.
All three are pale-browed, glum, despondent:

The feast’s no feast, the cheer’s no cheer.
It’s over, and the teasiers rise
And flock together. Noise. All eyes
Are smiling, all are on the two
Young newly-weds… Ludmila, tearful,
Looks shyly down: her groom is cheerful,
He beams… Now do the shades anew
Embrace the earth, e’er nearer creeping,
The murk of midnight veils the dome…
The boyars, by sweet mead made sleepy,
Bow to their hosts and make for home.
Ruslan’s all rapture, all elation…
What bliss! In his imagination
His bride caresses he. But there
Is sadness in the warmth of feeling
With which, their happy union sealing,
The old prince blesses our young pair.

The bridal couch has long been ready;
The maid is led to it… It’s night.
The torches dim, but Lel already
His own bright lamp has set alight.
Love offers – see – its gifts most tender,
Its fondest wish at last comes true,
On carpets of Byzantine splendour
The jealous covers fall… Do you
The sound of kisses, love’s sweet token,
And its soft, whispered words not hear?
Does not – come, say – the murmur broken
Of shy reluctance reach your ear?
Anticipation fires the spirit,
O’erjoyed the groom… But lo! – the air
Is rent by thunder, ever nearer
It comes. A flash! The lamp goes out,
The room sways, darkness all about,
Smoke pours… Fear grips Ruslan, defeating
His native pluck: his heart stops beating…
All’s silence, grim and threatening.
An eerie voice sounds twice. There rises
Up through the haze a menacing
Black figure… Coiling smoke disguises
Its shape… It vanishes… Now our
Poor groom, on his brow drops of sweat,
Starts up. By sudden dread beset,
And for his bride – O fateful hour! —
With trembling hand gropes anxiously…
On emptiness he seizes, she
Has by some strange and evil power
Been borne away… He’s overcome…

Ah, if to be love’s martyr some
Unfortunate young swain is fated,
His days may well be filled with gloom,
But life can still be tolerated.
But if in your arms, after years
Of longing, of desire, of tears,
Your bride of but one minute lies
And then becomes another’s prize,
’Tis much too much… Quite frankly, I,
Were such my case, would choose to die!

But poor Ruslan’s alive and tortured
In mind and heart… O’erwhelmed by news,
Just then arrived, of the misfortune,
The Prince, enraged, turns on the youth.
The whole court summoning, “Ludmila…
Where is Ludmila?” thunders he.
Ruslan does not respond. “My children!
Your merits past high hold I… Free,
I beg, my daughter from the clutches
Of evil. I am helpless; such is
Old age’s piteous frailty.
But though I am too old to do it,
Not so are you. Go forth and save
My poor Ludmila, you’ll not rue it:
He who succeeds, shall – writhe, you knave!
Why did you not, wretch, base tormentor,
Know how to guard your young wife better?
Shall have Ludmila for a bride
And half my fathers’ realm beside!…
Who’ll heed my plea?” “I!” says the grieving,
Unhappy groom. “I!” shouts Rogdai,
And echoed by Farlaf his cry
And by Ratmir is. “We are leaving
Straightway, and pray believe us, sire,
We’ll ride around the world entire
If need be. From your daughter parted
Not long will you be, never fear.”
The old prince cannot speak for tears;
His gratitude is mute; sad-hearted,
A broken man, at door he stands
And to them stretches out his hands.

All four the palace leave together;
Ruslan is ashen-faced, half-dead.
Thoughts of his kidnapped bride, of whether
He’ll ever find the maid, with dread
And pain his heart fill. Now the foursome
Get on their restless, chafing horses,
And leaving dust clouds in their wake,
Away along the Dnieper make…
They’re lost to sight, but Prince Vladimir
Stands gazing at the road and tries
To span the distance ever-dimming
As after them in thought he flies.

Ruslan, his mind and memory hazy,
Is mute, lost in a kind of trance;
Behind him, o’er his shoulder gazing,
The picture of young arrogance,
Farlaf rides, hand on hip, defiant.
Says he: “At last! The taste is sweet
Of freedom, friends… When will we meet —
The prospect likes me well – a giant?
Then will blood pour as passions seethe
And victims offer to the sabre.
Rejoice, my blade! Rejoice, my steed,
And lightly, freely prance and caper!”

The Khazar Khan, his pulses racing,
In saddle dances, for in thought
He is the fair young maid embracing
Whose love he has for so long sought.
The light of hope is in his eye,
Now does he make his stallion fly,
Now forces him, the good steed teasing,
To rear, now gallops him uphill,
Now lets him prance about at will.

Rogdai is silent; with increasing
Unease his heart fills; dark thoughts chill
And burden him; he is tormented
By jealousy, and, all calm gone,
With hate-glazed eye, like one demented,
Stares sullenly at Prince Ruslan.

Along a single road the rivals
Rode on all through the day until
From east poured shades that night’s arrival
Bespoke… The Dnieper, cold and still,
Is wrapt in folds of mist… The horses
Have need of rest… Not far away
A track lies that another crosses.
“’Tis time to part,” the riders say.
“Let us chance fate.” So ’tis decided;
Each horse is given now its head,
And, by the touch of spur unguided,
Starts off and moves where ’twill ahead.

What do you in the hush of desert
Alone, Ruslan? Sad is your plight.
Was’t all a dream – the bride you treasured,
The terrors of your wedding night?
Your helmet pushed down to your brow
Your strong hands limp, the reins let loose,
O’er woods and fields astride your steed
You ride, while faith and hope recede
And leave you well-nigh dead of spirit.

A cave shows ’fore the knight; he nears
And sees a light there. His feet lead
Him straight inside. The dark and broad
Vaults seem as old as nature. Moody,
Distraught Ruslan is… In the cave
A bearded ancient, his mien grave
And quiet, sits. A lamp is burning
Near him, a book lies on his knee;
Engrossed in it, its pages he
With careful hand is slowly turning.
“I bid you welcome, knight! At last!”
Says he in greeting, smiling warmly.
“Here have I twenty long years passed
Of my old age, and grim and lonely
They’ve been… But now has come the day
For which, foreseeing it, I waited.
To meet, we two, my son, were fated,
Now sit and hear me out, I pray…
Ludmila from you has been taken;
You flag, you droop, by hope forsaken
And faith itself… ’Tis wrong! For brief
With evil and its partner, grief,
Will be, I promise, your encounter.
Take heart; with strong, sound spirit counter
The blows of fortune, banish woe,
And, sword aloft held, northward go!

‘‘He who has wronged you, O my daring
Young stalwart, is old Chernomor.
A wizard, he is known to carry
Young maids off to the hills. ’Tis for
Long years he’s reigned there. None has ever
His castle seen, but through its door
You’ll pass, I know, and end forever
The villain’s rule; by your hand he
Will perish – so ’tis meant to be!…
I may not yield to indiscretion
And say aught more; your destiny
Yourself from this day on you fashion.”

Our knight falls at the elder’s feet
And in delight his hand he kisses.
The world a bright place seems, and sweet
Life is again; forgot distress is…
But then the sudden joyful glow
His face leaves, and it pales and darkens.
“Do not despair but to me harken,”
The old man says. “I know what so
Disquiets you: you are in fear of
The warlock’s love, eh, knight?… Be calm
The truth is, o my youthful hero,
That he can do the maid no harm.
From sky the stars he’ll pluck, I’ll wager,
Or shift the moon that sails on high,
But change the law of time and aging
He cannot, hard as he may try.
Though he lets none her chamber enter
And jealous watch keeps at her door,
He is the impotent tormentor
Of his fair captive, nothing more.
While never far from her, he curses
His lot, and soundly – but, my knight,
’Tis time for you to rest: the earth is
Enclosed in shadow; it is night.”

On soft moss lies Ruslan, a flame
Before him flickering. He yearns
For soothing sleep, he twists and turns
And flings about – but no, ’tis plain
That sleep won’t come. He heaves a sigh
And says: “Nay, Father, sick am I
Of soul and cannot sleep for dreary
And troubled thought. Talk to me, do;
With godly speech, I beg of you,
Relieve my heart: it aches, it’s weary…
I make too bold to ask you this;
You, who befriend me, I importune —
Speak! Tell me, confidant of fortune:
Why came you to this wilderness?”

And with a wistful smile replying
To him, the old man says: “Alas,
I have forgot my land!” Then, sighing:
“A Finn am I by birth. It was
My lot to tend the flocks of neighbours,
And I would take them off to graze
In vales on which no stranger’s gaze
E’er rested. Carefree midst my labours
Did I remain, and only knew,
Besides the woods and streams, what few
Joys poverty could offer to me…
Alas! Ahead dark days were looming.

“Near where I lived, a lovely flower,
One named Nahina, bloomed; of our
Young maids none lovelier than she
Was there. One morn, a bagpipe blowing,
My flocks I grazed where grass was growing
In lush profusion. I could see
A brook wind ’fore me; by it, weaving
A garland, sat a dear young lass…
Her beauty – ah, ’twas past believing! —
Drew and enchanted me, and as
I gazed at her I knew I’d seen her
Before… Yes, knight, it was Nahina,
’Twas fate had brought me there. The flame
Of love was my reward for eyeing
The maid thus brazenly; I came
To know a passion self-denying:
All of its bliss, all of its pain.
“Six months sped by… I thought to win her
And opened up my heart. I said:
‘I love thee dearly, sweet Nahina!’
But my shy sadness only bred
Scorn in her who was vain and prideful;
She was indifferent to my lot,
And said, of all my pain unmindful:
‘Well, shepherd mine, I love thee not!’

“I was estranged from all, and gloomy
Life seemed. The shady native wood,
The games of shepherds – nothing could
My hurt soothe and bring comfort to me
I languished… But the far seas drew me;
To leave my homeland sought I then
And with a band of fighting men
To brave the ocean’s winds capricious…
I hoped to win renown and fame
And for my own Nahina claim.
This planned, according to my wishes,
I called upon some boatmen who
Joined with me in a quest for danger
And gold. My land, to war a stranger,
The clash of steel now heard, and knew
The sound of boat with boat colliding…
On, on we sailed, the billows riding,
My men and I, by sweet hope led,
Both snow and water painting red
For ten long years with gore of foes.
As rumour of our prowess spread,
The foreign rulers came to dread
Our forays, and their champions chose
To flee our blades. Yes, fierce and hearted
Our battles were, and merry, too,
And with the men we had defeated
Together feasted we. But through
The din of war and merrymaking
I heard Nahina’s voice, and for
The sight of her in secret aching,
Before me saw my native shore.
‘Come, men!’ I cried. ‘Did we not roam
The world enough? Time to go home!
‘Neath native eaves we’ll hang our mail;
Is’t not, in faith, for this we hanker!’
And leaving in our wake a trail
Of fear, for Finland we set sail
And in her waters soon dropped anchor.

“Fulfilled were all my dreamings past
That set my lone heart faster beating.
O longed-for moment of our meeting,
O blessed hour, you came at last!
There, at the feet of my proud beauty
I laid my sword and, too, the booty
Of war: pearls, corals, gold. ’Fore her,
By jealous womenfolk surrounded,
Her one-time playmates, my unbounded
Love making me her prisoner,
Mute stood I, but Nahina coolly
Turned from me, saying with no sign
That she would e’er relent: ‘Nay, truly,
I do not love thee, hero mine!’

“I do not like to speak of things
It is pure agony to think of.
E’en now, my son, when at the brink of
I am of death, remembrance brings
Fresh sorrow to my long-numb spirit
And gravely wounds my being whole,
And torn by pain, seared by it, wearied,
I feel the tears down my cheeks roll.

“But hark! In parts I call my home,
Amid the northern fishers lone,
The art of magic lives. The shaded,
Thick-growing forests wrapt in deep,
Eternal silence lie and keep
The secrets of the wizards aged
Who dwell there and whose minds to quest
For wisdom of the loftiest
And weirdest kind are given. Awesome
Their powers are: what was and also
What will be they have knowledge of,
Life can they snuff and foster love.

“And I, love’s mad and avid seeker,
In my despair that ne’er grew weaker,
By means of magic thought to start
In proud Nahina’s icy heart
Of love for me at least a flicker.
Toward the murk of woodland free
My steps in hot impatience turning,
The subtle craft of wizardry
I spent unnumbered years in learning.
Then were the fearsome secrets, sought
By me with such despair, such yearning,
Revealed to my enlightened thought;
Of charms and spells I knew the power:
Love’s aim achieved – О happy hour!
‘Nahina, thou art mine!’ I cried.
‘Now shall I have thee for my bride.’
But once again by fate defeated
Was I and of my triumph cheated.

“Enraptured, with young dreams aglow,
Filled with love’s fervour and elation,
I loudly chant an incantation
And on dark spirits call, and lo! —
A flash of light, a crash of thunder,
And magic whirlwinds start awake,
I feel the earth begin to quake,
I hear it hum and rumble under
My feet, and there in front of me,
The picture of senility,
A crone stands. She is bent and shrunken,
Her hair is white, her eye is sunken
And glazed with age, her head is shaking…
And yet, and yet – had I mistaken
Her for another? – Nay, O knight;
Nahina ’twas!… In doubt, in fright
The horrid vision now I measured
With unbelieving gaze, my sight
Mistrusting… ’Thou! Art thou my treasured
Nahina? Speak!’ from me the cry
Burst forth. ‘Where is thy beauty? Why
Have the gods changed thee so? Have I
Long, then, from life and love been parted?’
‘For forty years!’ I heard her say.
‘Indeed, I’m seventy to-day!…
But never mind! So are lives charted
And so they pass. Thy spring has flown
And mine has too. We are, I own,
Old, both, but be thou not disheartened
By fickle youth’s swift passage. True,
I’m grey, a trifle crooked too,
Less lively and perhaps less charming
Than once I was…’ This in disarming
Tones she declared, her voice a squeak.
‘Come, do not look, I beg, so tragic…
I am – in confidence I speak —
Like thee become well versed in magic.’

“A sorceress! What had she said!…
Struck dumb was I by the admission
And felt a fool, a dunderhead
For all my store of erudition.

“But worse by far was that the spell
That I had cast worked far too well.
My shrivelled idol flared with passion;
She loved me – loved me to obsession!
Her grey lips twisted in a smile,
In graveyard tones the old hag muttered
The wildest of avowals, while
I suffered silently, in utter
Disgust and loathing, and upon
The ground my eyes kept. She wheezed on,





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notes


Примечания





1


Algarotti has somewhere said: “Petersburg est la fenê-tre, par laquelle la Russie regarde en Europe” (Pushkin’s note).




2


Count Miloradovich and Adjutant-General Benckendorff (Pushkin’s note).




3


See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban, as Mickiewicz himself observes (Pushkin’s note).




4


Lel – the Slavic god of love (Translator’s note).