Works of Alexander Pushkin Read online

  To-morrow morn he’s doomed to die

  For him the scaffold has no dread,

  And life has naught he need regret;

  Nor fears he death, the wished-for sleep,

  The sleep that rests the worried flesh.

  But, righteous God! to be thus gagged,

  And crushed beneath a villain’s feet,

  Like some brute beast to slaughter led!

  The Tsar to make him Hetman’s game,

  That he, false traitor to the Tsar,

  May boast and triumph in his fall!

  To lose his life, and with it fame!

  To bring his friend to shame and death,

  And hear him, guiltless, curse his name!

  To meet his foe’s triumphant look,

  As when he lays his head on block!

  Be thrown into the arms of death,

  Ere he bequeath to kinsman sure

  The sacred task of vengeance keen!

  Poltava dear in dream he sees;

  Its wonted group of household friends,

  The happy days of wealth and ease,

  The songs his daughter loved to sing,

  The ancient home where he was born,

  The friendly scene of all his joys,

  Where he had known hard toil and sleep,

  And all that he had cast away,

  For what?

  In rusty lock is heard

  The grating key, and, roused from dreams,

  The wretched captive thinks: ‘Tis he,

  My guide, along the path of blood,

  To hold up high the cross divine,

  Tho bearer of the keys of heaven,

  The healer of the wounded soul,

  The minister serene of Christ,

  Who suffered death and ransomed us;

  The sacred gifts immaculate

  He brings, that, strengthened and confirmed,

  I may the bolder march to death,

  Nor fail to reach immortal bliss.

  With softened heart old Kotzubei

  Before the Ruler of the world

  Prepares to pour his heart in prayer;

  But’ tis no gentle anchorite

  Has come with words of pardon free:

  The hated Orlick stands before him.

  And o’er his face a loathing comes,

  As he demands with proudful scorn:

  “What wilt thou here, oh man of crime?

  What moves Mazeppa to disturb

  The last remains of my sad life?”

  ORLICK.

  One secret more thou must divulge.

  KOTZUBEI.

  I have replied: and so, depart,

  Leave me in peace! —

  ORLICK.

  One answer more

  Our lord demands.

  KOTZUBEI.

  And what demand?

  I have revealed, acknowledged all

  That thou wouldst know. The charges made

  Were all a lie. I’m skilled and sly

  In weaving plots. The Hetman’s right

  What more canst thou require?

  ORLICK.

  We know,

  Riches thou hadst and stores untold:

  These stores in slily chosen spots,

  In thy village of Dianka,

  Thou hast concealed and hidden kept.

  This wealth, in forfeit of thy crime,

  Is due to Cossack’s common fund.

  Such is the law. That law obey.

  No more delay, but tell us quick

  Where are the treasures thou hast hid?

  KOTZUBEI.

  Well, thou art right! Three treasures were

  The pride and joy of my whole life.

  The first of these my honour was,

  And this the rack hath robbed me of.

  The second none can give me back,

  The unstained name of daughter dear,

  That day and night I, tending, watched;

  Mazeppa hath that name defouled.

  The third and last I guard mine own,

  My third and last is... vengeance just;

  And that I take with me to God!

  ORLICK.

  Cease, old man, these idle ravings!

  Think, on verge of life thou standest,

  Proud defiance ill befits thee,

  No time to trifle. Answer give,

  Or else thou feelst the torture sharp!

  Thy moneys, where?

  KOTZUBEI.

  Recreant slave!

  Cease, I pray, thy questionings vain.

  And when I lie within my grave,

  Then go, thy lord Mazeppa seek,

  And with grim fingers steeped in blood

  Count o’er my treasures and my wealth,

  Break ope my unprotected vaults,

  My plundered home with fire destroy!

  Methinks, ‘twere well to take Marie,

  She will my secrets all betray,

  And show you where each treasure lies.

  Do what thou wilt, but in God’s name

  Leave me, and let me die in peace!

  ORLICK.

  Thy moneys, where are they? Say, quick

  Thou wilt not speak? Thy moneys, where?

  Or bitter shall thy tortures be!

  Think well, the hidden wealth disclose!

  Say, where; or rack shall make thee tell!

  Once more, speak, or else... What ho, there!

  The headsman crossed the cell.

  This night,

  Where is the Hetman? What does he?

  How sting of conscience hope to still?

  In the chamber of the happy maid,

  Blest in her ignorance of ill,

  Beside his sleeping godchild’s couch,

  Mazeppa sits with head bent low,

  A prey to care that gives no rest.

  Dark thoughts flit chasing through his mind,

  Still darker than the thoughts they chase.

  “This self-willed, dotard fool must die!

  The hour of our success draws near,

  And stern must be the Hetman’s power

  Wherewith he should invest himself;

  Remorseless must the Hetman crush

  Who would oppose. Without appeal

  The bold informer and his tool

  Must die!” By hap, he casts his glance

  On Marie’s couch. “Oh God! and what

  Will be with her when first she learns

  The sentence dread has been fulfilled?

  As yet her soul is undisturbed,

  But it no longer can be kept

  From her. The headsman’s fatal blow

  Like thunder-stroke will echo loud

  Throughout the whole Ukraine. The talk

  Of prating world will reach her ears.

  Alas, I see, the man, ordained

  By fate to lead the world s big strife,

  Alone should face the raging storm,

  -Unhampered by a woman’s love.

  The restive steed and timid deer

  Must ne’er be harnessed to one car.

  This I incautiously forgot,

  And now must pay the heavy price

  Of my mad fault. For, all that has

  Worth, all that lends to life a charm,

  The blameless maiden brought to me,

  To me, a stern old man... and I,

  In what can I reward her love?”

  Fondly he gazes where she lies,

  Cradled and stilled in softest dream.

  How sweet her sleep of trusting faith!

  A happy smile her lips half part,

  With fullest life her white breasts heave

  But to-morrow?... And with a groan

  He rose, and, with quick muffled steps,

  Reeled blindly forth into the air.

  Calm and soft is the Ukraine night.

  No cloud to dull the wide expanse:

  The stars are shining full and bright;

  No breeze to wake the drowsy dream,

>   Nor scarce a breath that cares to fret

  The sleep of silver-poplar leaves.

  Mazeppa’s soul is filled with strange

  Conflicting thoughts. The stars of night

  Look down like keen accusing eyes,

  And haunt him with their mocking glance.

  The poplars hug their branches close,

  And shake their tops, and whisper low

  To list ning boughs their sentence stern.

  The balmy air of summer night

  Chokes him, like damp of prison cell.

  Sudden, as from the castle near,

  He hears a cry... a speechless moan.

  Is it the coinage of mad brain,

  The owlet’s hoot, or wild beast’s growl,

  Or tortured groan? He cannot tell.

  But he is powerless, the slave

  Of some strong will, and in reply

  Shouts back the wail... his fierce, loud cry

  He raised when in the battle’s din,

  With Zabel, or with Hamelei,

  Or oft with him... with Kotzubei,

  He rushed to meet the foe’s wild charge.

  The first faint streaks of russet dawn

  Have bathed the sky in new-born light;

  I ne vales, and hills, and meadows gleam;

  ! be tufted groves and rippling streams

  Awake to sing their morning hymn,

  And summon men to daily toil.

  Still lying on her couch, Marie

  In slumber dozing, thinks she hears

  In her light sleep some one approach,

  And touch her foot with timid hand.

  She wakes, bat quickly with a smile

  Her eyes are closed, as from the glare

  Of day they shrink. And in her sleep

  She stretches and puts out her hand,

  As languidly she murmurs low,

  “Mazeppa!” But a voice, not his,

  Replies, and, trembling, she looks up,

  And what is it she gazes on?

  Before her stands her mother.

  MOTHER.

  Hush!

  Or else we are undone! This night

  I’ve hither stolen, and am come

  With one, last, sad, beseeching prayer.

  To-day he dies. And thou alone

  Canst touch or turn their cruel hearts.

  Thy father save!

  MARIE.

  Whose father save?

  Who dies?

  MOTHER.

  Or can it be, till now

  Thou hast been ignorant?... But no!

  Thou livst with him, art in the world,

  Must know how dread the Hetman’s sway,

  How all his foes before him fall,

  And how the Tsar puts trust in him..

  I see too well, thy ruined home

  Thou hast forgot for Hetman’s love!

  The sentence dread hath been pronounced,

  The death-decree is being read,

  The axe is raised above his head,

  And thou art sleeping at thy ease!

  I see, we are but strangers now.

  Marie, arise, run, kiss his feet,

  Our angel be, thy father save!

  One look from thee will stay the wretch,

  And turn aside the falling axe.

  Be earnest, urgent in thy prayers!

  Thinkst thou the Hetman will refuse?

  It is for him thou hast renounced

  The claims of honour, home, and God!

  MARIE.

  Alas, what do I see and hear?

  Mazeppa... father... death... and here

  My mother, praying, kneels before me!...

  Nay, nay, my fancy plays me false,

  I must be mad!

  MOTHER.

  God be with thee!

  ‘Tis neither madness nor a dream!

  It cannot be, thou dost not know;

  Thy father, wounded in his pride,

  Unused to bear a daughter’s shame,

  And thirsting quick and sharp revenge,

  Betrayed the Hetman to the Tsar.

  Knowst thou not that, racked with pain,

  He hath accused himself of false

  Intrigues ‘gainst innocence and truth?

  That he, the prey of justice blind,

  Lies at the mercy of his foe?

  This day, before the Cossack troops,

  Unless just God should intervene,

  He dies the death of public shame.

  Within this castle’s prison-tower

  Bound and chained he lies.

  MARIE.

  Oh God! oh God!

  Tis true?... this day... my father dies?

  And on her couch the maid down drooped,

  And backward fell, like some cold corpse.

  The gay caps mingle in the sun;

  The spears shine bright; the drums beat loud;

  The Hetman’s well-trained troops march forth

  To take their rank in ordered file.

  With throbbing hearts the crowds swarm round.

  The road, that winds like serpent’s tail,

  Is filled with teeming, surging throngs.

  Aloft in square the scaffold glooms,

  And on its boards the headsman struts,

  Rubbing his hands, his victim waits;

  As ‘twere a toy, from time to time,

  Plays with his heavy sharp-edged axe,

  Or with the mob exchanges jest.

  A noise confused is heard around

  Of laughter, railing, murmurs, cries.

  A sudden shout is raised, and all

  Are hushed, and through the silence deep

  Is heard the tramp of horses’ hoofs.

  By body-guards surrounded close,

  The Hetman on his rampant steed,

  With gay and gallant suite, appears.

  Along the road to Kieff straight

  Slow trails a cart. All eyes are turned,

  And eager watch its slow approach.

  Within it sits old Kotzubei,

  At peace with God and erring man,

  Full strong in faith that makes men bold.

  Resigned and pale sits Iskra near,

  Like lamb that is led forth to die.

  The cart draws up. The full-voiced quire

  With hymn of prayer the calm air fills.

  Thick clouds of incense mount on high,

  As silent all, with head uncovered,

  Pray for those condemned to die.

  And they about to suffer pray

  Their foes may pardoned be, and, slow

  Descending, climb the fatal steps.

  With sign of cross and prayer for all

  He leaves behind, the old man lays

  His snow-white head upon the block.

  A silence dead creeps o’er the crowd;

  The axe is raised; a moment’s flash,

  And severed falls the head below:

  A smothered groan the silence breaks.

  With gruesome thud a second falls,

  And stains the thirsty grass with blood.

  Proud of his work, the headsman grim,

  Seizing the still wet tufts of hair,

  With arm all bared and far outstretched,

  Dangles the heads before the mob.

  And all is done. The fickle crowds

  Break up, and to their homes disperse;

  In groups discuss among themselves

  The petty cares of daily life;

  And soon the square is emptied quite.

  Along the road with gay crowds covered,

  Two women quickly push their way.

  Foot-sore, thick stained with clinging dust,

  Possessed with fear, they hurry on,

  Eager to reach the fated spot.

  “You are too late”, a peasant cries,

  And points with finger to the place,

  Where now half-torn the scaffold yawns.

  Robed in black a priest is praying,


  And two Cossacks have piled a truck

  With coffins made of roughest oak.

  Alone, Mazeppa, grim and stern,

  Aloof from his bold troopers rides.

  An unfilled void torments his heart,

  And earth and heaven alike are dull.

  Not one so rash to dare come near,

  Not one who cares a word exchange.

  All in foam his black steed bears him,

  And, reaching home, Marie he calls.

  His serfs are summoned. In reply,

  Unmeaning words they stammer forth.

  Against his will a prey to fear,

  He hastens to her room, but finds

  The maiden’s chamber lone and bare.

  Madly he roams the garden’s length,

  Searches each bush and beats each brake,

  Around the lake each crevice pries:

  But all in vain; no trace he finds.

  And now he calls his troopers sure,

  Picked men who long have served him well;

  They hurry forth on panting steeds,

  The wild chase-cry resounds afar.

  As here and there the brave youths rush,

  Nor leave a hidden nook unsearched.

  A hundred roads are quickly scoured:

  But no Marie, alas, returns!

  No one has known, and none can tell,

  The secret of her hurried flight.

  In silent rage Mazeppa grieves;

  His vassals shrink from him in fear;

  His poisoned breast within him burns;

  And closely locked he bars his room,

  And, staring at the vacant couch,

  Speechless he sits the whole night long,

  Stung with pains that are not of this world.

  Next morn, the slaves he had despatched

  Return, their errand unfulfilled.

  Their tired steeds can scarcely move. Girths.

  Bridle and hoofs, and housings gay,

  Are drenched in foam, or stained with blood,

  Broken, or lost upon the road.

  But none has brought his master stern

  Of maiden news. No trace they found,

  And she, it seemed, had disappeared,

  As though the world had ne’er known her.

  The mother fled her house of woe,

  And begged her bread from stranger hands.

  POLTAVA. CANTO THE THIRD.

  Though plunged in griefs that are his own,

  Not less the ruler of Ukraine

  His bold and daring scheme pursues.

  True to his plans he stands resolved,

  And with the Swedish King concludes

  A secret pact against the Tsar.

  Meanwhile, the better to deceive

  The watchful eyes of hostile spies,

  Some leeches wise he quickly calls,

  As on the bed of sickness feigned

  He groans and whines for instant help.

  The passions, toils and cares of war,

  The woes and weakness of old age,

  Death’s harbingers, have laid him low.

  But he, no more the dupe of life,

  The passing world is glad to leave.