The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Read online

  THE WORKS OF

  ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

  (1799-1837)

  Contents

  The Poetry

  SHORT POEMS

  THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY

  THE GIPSIES

  POLTAVA

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Verse Novel

  EUGENE ONEGIN

  The Short Stories and Unfinished Novels

  PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO

  MARIE

  THE SHOT

  THE SNOWSTORM

  THE UNDERTAKER

  THE POSTMASTER

  MISTRESS INTO MAID

  THE QUEEN OF SPADES

  KIRDJALI

  THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

  EGYPTIAN NIGHTS

  DUBROVSKY

  The Plays

  BORIS GODUNOV

  THE STONE GUEST

  MOZART AND SALIERI

  The Criticism

  THE ROMANTIC POETS: POUSHKIN by Rosa Newmarch

  POUSHKIN: HIS WORKS by Rosa Newmarch

  LECTURES ON RUSSIAN LITERATURE: PUSHKIN by Ivan Panin

  The Biography

  A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN by Henry Spalding

  © Delphi Classics 2012

  Version 1

  THE WORKS OF

  ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

  By Delphi Classics, 2012

  The Poetry

  Baumanskaya Ulitsa, Moscow, Pushkin’s birthplace

  A memorial bust marking Pushkin’s birthplace; the house has been demolished and a school now stands in its place.

  Pushkin’s father, Sergei Lvovich Pushkin (1767–1848), was from a distinguished family of the Russian nobility, tracing its ancestry back to the 12th century.

  Pushkin’s mother, Nadezhda Ossipovna Gannibal (1775–1836), was descended from German and Scandinavian nobility.

  SHORT POEMS

  Translated by Charles Edward Turner, George Borrow and Ivan Panin

  Universally revered as the greatest of all the Russian poets and the founder of his country’s modern literature, Pushkin was born into the nobility in Moscow in 1799. Although destined to have a tragically short life, Pushkin had published his first poem at the age of fifteen and he was already widely recognised as being a poetic genius at the time of his graduation from the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum.

  For much of his literary career, Pushkin was censored under the strict surveillance of the Tsar’s political police and he was often unable to publish his works. His political poems led to an interrogation by the Petersburg governor-general and the great poet even endured exile to his mother’s rural estate in Mikhailovskoe from 1824 to 1826.

  Pushkin is celebrated for having developed a highly nuanced level of language that went on to influence the course of Russia literature. He is also credited for augmenting the Russian lexicon, much like how Shakespeare influenced the English language. Pushkin’s fashioning of new words, his use of rich vocabulary and his highly sensitive handling of style all laid the foundations for what we now consider to be modern Russian literature. In spite of his brief life, Pushkin bequeathed to posterity works of almost every literary genre, spanning lyric poetry, narrative poetry, unfinished novels, short stories, plays, critical essays and literary epistles.

  In this section, readers can explore a selection of some of the poet’s finest lyrical poems, including To K —— , now widely regarded as being the most famous Russian poem. Pushkin’s short poems feature a large variety of themes, with personal, humorous and political works, as well as some of the most beauty love poetry ever written.

  The Epiphany Cathedral, Moscow, where Pushkin was christened

  Pushkin, c.1801

  CONTENTS

  TO —— (KERN)

  К ***

  TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON

  Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow

  THE DREAMER

  THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH

  I HAVE OUTLIVED MY EVERY WISH

  TO THE SEA

  ELEGY

  VAIN GIFT, GIFT OF CHANCE

  DROWNED

  THE UNWASHED

  A WINTER MORNING

  THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT

  A STUDY

  TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA

  GOD GRANT, MY REASON NE’ER BETRAY ME

  THE TALISMAN

  THE MERMAID

  ANCIENT RUSSIAN SONG

  Poems Translated by Ivan Panin

  POEMS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL

  MON PORTRAIT

  MY PEDIGREE

  MY MONUMENT

  MY MUSE

  POEMS OF LOVE

  THE STORM-MAID

  THE BARD

  SPANISH LOVE-SONG

  LOVE

  JEALOUSY

  IN AN ALBUM

  THE AWAKING

  ELEGY: HAPPY WHO TO HIMSELF CONFESS

  FIRST LOVE

  ELEGY: HUSHED I SOON SHALL BE

  THE BURNT LETTER

  SING NOT, BEAUTY

  SIGNS

  A PRESENTIMENT

  IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND

  LOVE’S DEBT

  INVOCATION

  ELEGY: THE EXTINGUISHED JOY OF CRAZY YEARS

  SORROW

  DESPAIR

  A WISH

  RESIGNED LOVE

  LOVE AND FREEDOM

  NOT AT ALL

  INSPIRING LOVE

  THE GRACES

  POEMS MISCELLANEOUS

  THE BIRDLET

  THE NIGHTINGALE

  THE FLOWERET

  THE HORSE

  TO A BABE

  THE POET

  SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!

  THE THREE SPRINGS

  THE TASK

  SLEEPLESSNESS

  QUESTIONINGS

  CONSOLATION

  FRIENDSHIP

  FAME

  HOME-SICKNESS

  INSANITY

  DEATH-THOUGHTS

  RIGHTS

  THE GYPSIES

  THE DELIBASH

  HYMN TO FORCE

  THE BLACK SHAWL

  THE OUTCAST

  THE CLOUD

  THE ANGEL

  THE PROPHET

  Pushkin, aged 20

  TO —— (KERN)

  This poem was written in July 1825 and dedicated to Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879). It has the distinction of being labelled the most famous poem in the Russian language. This anonymous translation is followed by the original Russian text and then a comparison of the two texts.

  I still recall the marvellous moment:

  When you appeared before my gaze

  Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,

  Like soul of the purest grace.

  In torturing fruitless melancholy,

  In vanity and loud chaos

  I’ve always heard your gentle voice

  And glimpsed your features in my dreams.

  As years passed and winds scattered

  My long-past hopes, and in those days,

  I lacked your voice’s divine spell

  And the bless’d features of your face.

  Held in darkness and separation,

  My days dragged in strife.

  Lacking faith and inspiration,

  Lacking tears and love and life.

  But the time arrives; my soul awakens,

  And again you appear before me

  Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,

  Like the soul of purest grace.

  Again
my heart beats in rapture,

  Again everything awakens:

  My long-past faith and inspiration,

  And the tears and life and love.

  1825

  Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879), a socialite, memoirist and the poet’s married lover

  К ***

  Я помню чудное мгновенье:

  Передо мной явилась ты,

  Как мимолетное виденье,

  Как гений чистой красоты.

  В томленьх грусти безнадежной

  В тревогах шумной суеты

  Звучал мне долго голос нежный

  И снились милые черты.

  Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной

  Рассеял прежние мечты,

  И я забыл твой голос нежный,

  Твой небесные черты.

  В глуши, во мраке заточенья

  Тянулись тихо дни мои

  Без божества, без вдохновенья,

  Без слез, без жизни, без любви.

  Душе настало пробужденье:

  И вот опять явилась ты,

  Как милолетное виденье,

  Как гений чистой красоты.

  И сердце бьется в упоенье,

  И для него воскресли вновь

  И божество, и вдохновенье,

  И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.

  TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON

  Я помню чудное мгновенье:

  I still recall the marvellous moment:

  Передо мной явилась ты,

  When you appeared before my gaze

  Как мимолетное виденье,

  Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,

  Как гений чистой красоты.

  Like soul of the purest grace.

  В томленьх грусти безнадежной

  In torturing fruitless melancholy,

  В тревогах шумной суеты

  In vanity and loud chaos

  Звучал мне долго голос нежный

  I’ve always heard your gentle voice

  И снились милые черты.

  And glimpsed your features in my dreams.

  Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной

  As years passed and winds scattered

  Рассеял прежние мечты,

  My long-past hopes, and in those days,

  И я забыл твой голос нежный,

  I lacked your voice’s divine spell

  Твой небесные черты.

  And the bless’d features of your face.

  В глуши, во мраке заточенья

  Held in darkness and separation,

  Тянулись тихо дни мои

  My days dragged in strife.

  Без божества, без вдохновенья,

  Lacking faith and inspiration,

  Без слез, без жизни, без любви.

  Lacking tears and love and life.

  Душе настало пробужденье:

  But the time arrives; my soul awakens,

  И вот опять явилась ты,

  And again you appear before me

  Как милолетное виденье,

  Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,

  Как гений чистой красоты.

  Like the soul of purest grace.

  И сердце бьется в упоенье,

  Again my heart beats in rapture,

  И для него воскресли вновь

  Again everything awakens:

  И божество, и вдохновенье,

  My long-past faith and inspiration,

  И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.

  And the tears and life and love.

  Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow

  THE DREAMER

  The moon pursues her stealthy course,

  The shades grow gray upon the hill,

  Silence has fallen on the stream,

  Fresh from the valley blows the wind;

  The songster of spring days has hushed

  His notes in waste of gloomy groves,

  The herds are couched along the fields,

  And calm the flight of midnight hour.

  And night the peaceful ingle-nook

  Has with her misty livery clad;

  In stove the flames have ceased to dart,

  And candle down to socket burned;

  The saintly face of household gods

  Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,

  And taper pale in dimness burns

  Before the guardians of home.

  With head in hand bent lowly down,

  In sweet forgetfulness deep plunged,

  I lose myself in fancy dreams,

  And lie awake on lonely couch;

  As with the weird dark shades of night,

  Illumined by the soft moon’s rays,

  Wingèd dreams, in hurrying crowds,

  Flock down and strongly seize my soul.

  And now flows forth a soft, soft voice,

  The golden chords in music tremble;

  And in the hour when all is still,

  The dreamer young begins his song,

  With secret ache of soul possessed

  And dreams that come from God alone,

  With flying hand he boldly smites

  The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.

  Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,

  Prays not for fortune or for wealth;

  From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,

  Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;

  At eve, on lotos flowers couched,

  He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;

  Nor harshest sound of warrior’s trump

  Has power to stir him from his dream.

  Let glory, with her daring front,

  Strike loudly on her noisy shield;

  In vain she tempts me from afar,

  With skinny finger red in blood;

  In vain war’s gaudy banners float,

  Or battle-ranks their pomp display;

  Peace has higher charms for gentle heart, -

  Nor do I care for glory’s prize.

  In solitude my blood is tamed,

  And tranquilly the days pass by:

  From God I have the gift of song,

  Of gifts the rarest, most divine;

  And never has the Muse betrayed me:

  Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,

  The vilest home or desert wild

  Shall have a beauty of their own.

  In dusky dawn of golden days

  The untried singer thou hast blessed,

  As with a wreath of myrtle fresh

  Thou didst encrown his childish brow,

  And, bringing with thee light from heaven,

  Radiant made his humble cell;

  And, gently breathing, thou didst lean

  O’er his cradle with blessing sweet.

  For ever be my friend and guide

  Even to the threshold of the grave!

  O’er me hover with gentlest dreams,

  And shroud me with thy shielding wings!

  Banish far all doubt and sorrow,

  Possess the mind with fond deceit,

  A glory shed o’er my far life,

  And scatter wide its darkest gloom!

  Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,

  The genius of Deat
h shall come,

  And whisper, knocking at the door,

  “The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!”

  E’en so, on winter eve sweet sleep

  Frequents with joy the home of peace,

  With lotos crowned, and lowly bent

  On restful staff of languid ease

  THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH

  The world he fled,

  Of love and pleasure once the nursling,

  And is as one who lies in sleep.

  Or cold of nameless tomb, forgot.

  Time was, he loved our village games,

  When as the girls beneath the shade

  Of trees would loot the meadow free;-

  But now in village song and dance

  No more is heard his greeting light.

  His elders had with envy marked

  His easy gait and bearing gay,

  And, smiling sadly, ‘mongst themselves

  Oft shook their hoary heads, and said:

  “We too once loved the choral dance,

  And shone as wits and jesters keen:

  But wait: the years will make their round.

  And thou shalt be what we are now.

  Be taught by us, life’s jocund guest,

  The world to thee will soon prove cold:

  Thou now mayst dance!”.... The elders live,

  Whilst he, in ripest bloom of youth,

  Has, fading, perished ere his time.

  Wild the feast, and loud the song-,

  Although his voice is ever mute;

  New friends now lill the vacant seat;

  Seldom, seldom, when maidens chat,

  And talk of love, his name is spoke;

  Of all, whose hearts his words made flame,

  It may be, one will shed a tear,

  As memory recalls some scene

  Of joy long buried in his grave —

  And wherefore weep?

  Bathed by a stream,

  In calm array, the lines of tombs,

  Each guarded by its wooden cross,

  Lie hidden in the antique grove,

  There, close beside the highroad’s edge,

  Where old beech-trees their branches wave,

  His heart at peace and free from care,

  Sleeps his last sleep the gentle youth.

  In vain, the light of day pours down,

  Or morn from mid-sky shines full bright,

  Or, splashing round the senseless tomb,

  The river purls, or forest wails;

  In vain, at early morn, in quest