Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 13

  His eyes were soft with kindest love,

  His words were fair and gracious,

  His beard was whiter than the snow:

  But thine is clotted with dry blood!”

  And with a shriek of laughter mad,

  And swifter than the hunted deer,

  She wildly burst his hold, ran forth,

  And in the silent waste was lost.

  The last thin shades of night disperse,

  The east begins to redden bright;

  In Cossack tents the fires burn clear,

  And busy hands the meal prepare.

  Along the banks the body guards

  The steeds unbridled lead to drink,

  And Charles awakes. “‘Tis time!” he cries,

  “Arise, Mazeppa, dawn is near!”

  But long the Hetman has not slept;

  His heart is drear, the choking grief

  Mounts high, his breath comes thick and hard:

  Silent he sets the saddle right,

  And he and Charles pursue their flight.

  At last they cross the border-point;

  The Hetman’s eyes are dimmed with tears,

  As home and country fade from view.

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN

  A POEM IN TWO CANTOS.

  Translated by Charles Edward Turner

  Written in 1833 while Pushkin was staying on his family’s estate at Boldino, this famous ballad concerns the equestrian statue of Peter the Great in Saint Petersburg. It is widely considered to be the poet’s most successful narrative poem, having a lasting impact on Russian literature. Due solely to the influence of the poem, the statue is now simply known as the ‘Bronze Horseman’.

  Owing to censorship, only the Prologue was allowed to be published during the poet’s lifetime, appearing in 1834 under the title Petersburg. An extract from a poem. The narrative poem was first published in full in 1837, immediately following Pushkin’s death. The Bronze Horseman was printed in the journal Sovremennik, which Pushkin had established the year before. Even then, the censors demanded certain alterations to the text.

  Divided into three sections, with a short introduction and two cantos, The Bronze Horseman opens with a part-fictional history of Saint Petersburg. In the first two stanzas, Peter the Great stands at the edge of the River Neva in an uninhabited area, where he conceives the idea of a city that will threaten the Swedes and open a ‘window to the West’.

  The Bronze Horseman, Saint Petersburg

  CONTENTS

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. PROLOGUE.

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE FIRST.

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE SECOND.

  Peter the Great envisioning Saint Petersburg by the River Neva

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. PROLOGUE.

  On the waste shore of raving waves

  He stood, with high and dread thoughts filled,

  And gazed afar. Before him rolled

  The river wide, a fragile bark

  Its tortuous path slow making.

  Upon the moss-grown banks and swamps

  Stood far asunder smoky huts,

  The homes of Finnish fishers poor;

  Whilst all around, a forest wild,

  Unpierced by misty-circled sun,

  Murmured loud.

  Gazing far, he thought:

  From hence we can the Swede best threat;

  Here must I found a city strong,

  That shall our haughty foe bring ill;

  It is by nature’s law decreed,

  That here we break a window through,

  And boldly into Europe look,

  And on the sea with sure foot stand;

  By water path as yet unknown,

  Shall ships from distant ports arrive,

  And far and wide our reign extend.

  A hundred years have passed, and now,

  In place of forests dark and swamps,

  A city new, in pomp unmatched,

  Of Northern lands the pride and gem.

  Where Finnish fisher once at eve,

  Harsh nature’s poor abandoned child,

  From low-sunk boat was wont his net

  With patient toil to cast, and drag

  The stream, now stretch long lines of quays,

  Of richest granite formed, and rows

  Of buildings huge and lordly domes

  The river front; whilst laden ships

  From distant quarters of the world

  Our hungry wharfs fresh spoils supply;

  And needful bridge its span extends,

  To join the stream’s opposing shores;

  And islets gay, in verdure clad,

  Beneath the shade of gardens laugh.

  Before the youthful city’s charms

  Her head proud Moscow jealous bends,

  As when the new Tsaitza young

  The widowed Empress lowly greets.

  I love thee, work of Peter’s hand!

  I love thy stern, symmetric form;

  The Neva’s calm and aueenly flow

  Betwixt her quays of granite-stone,

  With iron tracings richly wrought;

  Thy nights so soft with pensive thought,

  Their moonless glow, in bright obscure.

  When I alone, in cosy room,

  Or write or read, night’s lamp unlit;

  The sleeping piles that clear stand out

  In lonely streets, and needle bright,

  That crowns the Admiralty’s spire;

  When, chasing far the shades of night,

  In cloudless sky of golden pure,

  Dawn quick usurps the pale twilight,

  And brings to end her half-hour reign.

  I love thy winters bleak and harsh;

  Thy stirless air fast bound by frosts;

  The flight of sledge o’er Neva wide,

  That glows the cheeks of maidens gay.

  I love the noise and chat of balls;

  A banquet free from wife’s control,

  Where goblets foam, and bright blue flame

  Darts round the brimming punch-bowl’s edge.

  I love to watch the martial troops

  The spacious Field of Mars fast scour;

  The squadrons spruce of foot and horse;

  The nicely chosen race of steeds,

  As gaily housed they stand in line,

  Whilst o’er them float the tattered flags;

  The gleaming helmets of the men

  That bear the marks of battle-shot.

  I love thee, when with pomp of war

  The cannons roar from fortress-tower;

  When Empress-Queen of all the North

  Hath given birth to royal heir;

  Or when the people celebrate

  Some conquest fresh on battle-field;

  Or when her bonds of ice once more

  The Neva, rushing free, upheaves,

  The herald sure of spring’s rebirth.

  Fair city of the hero, hail!

  Like Russia, stand unmoved and firm!

  And let the elements subdued

  Make lasting peace with thee and thine.

  Let angry Finnish waves forget

  Their bondage ancient and their feud;

  Nor let them with their idle hate

  Disturb great Peter’s deathless sleep!

  It was a day of fear and dread,

  In book of memory still writ.

  And now, for you, my friends, the tale

  Of that day’s woe 1 will begin;

  And mournful will my story be.

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE FIRST.

  O er Peter’s cloud-wrapt city hung

  November’s autumn cold and mist.

  With noisy splash of angry wave

  The Neva chafed her granite fence,

  As one, confined to bed with pain,

  Will peevish toss from side to side.

  The hour was late, and it was dark,

  The rain beat hard on window-pane,

  The wind with mournful
howl roared loud,

  When young Evjenie bade his friends

  Adieu, and homeward turned his steps.

  Evjenie is our hero’s name,

  A name that lightly falls in verse,

  And one my pen is used to write.

  No interest his surname has,

  Though in the olden times gone by,

  May be, it was in high repute;

  We meet with it in Karamsin,

  Like other once familiar names;

  But now ‘tis lost and all unknown.

  In district called Kolumna lived

  Our hero, who in office served.

  His chiefs he feared, but patient bore

  Death of relations dear and near,

  Or world s neglect of service past.

  Evjenie reached his home, uphung

  His cloak, undressed, and went to bed.

  But long it was before he slept;

  A host of cares possessed his brain.

  He thought... of what? That he was poor

  And hard must toil, if he would bare

  Existence get, in freedom live,

  Or have his neighbour’s good repute.

  Wished that God had but endowed him

  With greater wit, or better, wealth;

  For in our world are those who have

  No wit, and never think to work,

  And still contrive to live in ease;

  Whilst he must drudge and slave, or starve.

  And then, our hero heard the storm,

  With fury lashed, still louder rage,

  And thought the bridges soon across

  The Neva wide would be removed.

  And he for two or three whole days

  Could of Parasha have no news.

  Such were his thoughts. And all that night

  His heart within him ached. He prayed

  he dreary wind would cease to howl,

  The rain not beat on window-pane

  So angrily.

  At length sleep closed

  His heavy eyes. And now, the last

  Dark scattered clouds of night began

  To pale, as dawned the day of doom

  And woe.

  All night the Neva wild

  Had sought escape in open sea,

  Till ‘gainst the storm’s mad rage to strive

  She ceased, her strength completely broke.

  At morn, along the river’s shores,

  The people thronged and watched with awe

  The angrily splash, the high-tossed foam,

  And crested tops of heaving waves.

  But stronger roared, with scream and wail,

  The furious blast that river forced

  Retreat, and break its confines low,

  And drown the isles beneath its waves.

  More fiercely still the storm-winds raged,

  Insulted Neva shrieked with pain,

  Its waters boiled and thundered high,

  And, like wild beast escaped from cage.

  Its ruin wide o’er city spread.

  Before it fled the crowds, and all

  Was one waste sea. The waters poured,

  And forced their way through cellar-caves,

  Beat down the rails of each canal,

  Till Petropol, like Triton, stood

  Plunged deep, breast-high, in ocean’s storm.

  As in a leaguered town, the waves,

  Like thieves, through windows burst, and sterns

  Of boats in shivers broke the panes;

  The awnings frail of fish-barks drenched,

  The roofs and wreck of ruined homes,

  The shopman’s unsold stores and stock,

  The year’s hard savings of the poor,

  The bridges from their moorings wrenched,

  And coffins loose from churchyards torn,

  Swam down the streets.

  The maddened folk

  In ruin’s work God’s wrath beheld,

  And, trembling, ills yet greater waited,

  For all was lost, nor could they hope

  Fresh homes, or food, or help to find.

  In that year of woe and horror,

  Tsar Alexander ruled in fame.

  From palace window, sick at heart

  And grieved, he looked, and muttered low:

  “Before dread Nature, might of Tsars

  Is naught and vain!” And long he sate,

  And, sobbing, watched the ruin spread.

  The city squares were changed to lakes,

  The streets in broad streams swam, and like

  Abandoned isle the palace stood.

  I then spake the Tsar.... From point to point,

  Along the near and distant streets

  Two tried and trusty lords, in boat

  Began to make their dang’rous way

  To save the wretches lost in fear,

  And drowning in their battered homes.

  Meanwhile in Petroff’s gloomy square,

  Where the new, huge building rises,

  And where, on either side of porch,

  There stands, on pedestal high reared,

  With upraised paw, as large as life,

  A lion guardian, on the watch:

  Upon the brute’s wide marble back,

  Without a cap, hands clasped round mane,

  Evjenie sate, all pale and still.

  And if his cheeks were wan with fright,

  It was not l’or himself he feared.

  He had not seen the thirsty waves

  Loud howling rise above his feet;

  Nor felt the torrents lash his face;

  Nor heard the sharp, grim shriek of wind,

  That caught and tossed his cap away.

  His eyes despairingly were fixed

  On one far spot, where mountain-high

  From deep abyss the waters climbed,

  And, dashing down, before them bore

  The floating wrecks of waste and spoil.

  Great God! ‘twas where they strove most fierce,

  The central point of their blind force,

  On brink of widely swollen gulf,

  An old house stood, with willow-tree

  Before and wooden fence, the home

  Of widow poor and daughter fair,

  His life’s one hope.... Or did he rave,

  And was it all mere fancy’s trick?

  Or is our life an empty dream,

  The toy and sport of jesting fate?...

  And there, as bound by some strong spell,

  Or chained to marbled lion’s back,

  He sate, and could not stir. Around

  Was water, water, nothing else.

  And all the while, face turned from him,

  Supreme on safe, defiant height,

  Above the stir of troubled waves,

  Sate, with his royal hand outstretched,

  The giant on his steed of bronze.

  THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE SECOND.

  At length, with work of ruin tired,

  Her mutiny the Neva ceased,

  And to her former course returned,

  In mere revolt her pleasure found,

  And careless left her prey behind.

  As on an unprotected town

  Armed brigands fall, and rob and kill,

  And naught is heard but cries of grief

  And rage, vain threats, and panic shrieks,

  Whilst havoc uncontrolled prevails,

  Till glut of spoil and fear of law

  Disarm the thieves, who home retreat

  And half their booty leave in fright.

  The waters fell, the vanished roads

  Once more appeared. With sinking heart,

  Evjenie, half in hope, in fear

  And anguish, neared the scarce calmed gulf.

  Proud of their strength, its sullen waves

  Muttered and surged, as f beneath

  Some angry fire still smouldered deep;

  And fast they rolled in foaming rage,

  And
heavily the Neva breathed,

  Like panting steed that flies the field.

  Evjenie looks, and boat discerns,

  And runs as to a treasure found;

  In haste he calls the boatman near,

  Who, bargaining, consents to bring

  Our hero o’er the storm-tossed stream.

  And long with tempest-driven waves

  The skilful oarsman battling strove,

  And oft the boat is sinking lost,

  And hurled beneath the cloud-capped crests,

  As oft upbounds... until at length

  It toucned the shore.

  The well-known street

  And friendly spot are eager sought.

  But dazed he looks, for all is changed,

  And awful is the sight revealed.

  A mass of ruins lies before,

  In part thrown down, in part waste blank,

  Houses falling, or laid quite prone,

  Whilst some are scattered by the waves,

  Like corpses left on battle-field

  To rot. Headlong, Evjenie sped,

  Scarce knowing why or where he rushed,

  And ill forebodings weighed his heart.

  And now he comes where fate awaits,

  As with sealed letter n her hand.

  The intervening space is passed,

  With hastened step he nears the house:

  But what is this he sees?

  He stopped...

  Retreated... and once more returned..

  Bewildered gazed... went on... looked back.

  Here is the place their house once stood,

  And there the willow-tree. The gates

  Here entrance barred. But where the house?

  Thoughts of horror now possessed him,

  As round and round he marched and stared.

  While whirling words broke from his lips,

  And with clenched fist his forehead struck,

  And sudden shrieked with laughter loud.

  Once more, the friendly shades of night

  The city fearsome shroud, but few

  Their couches sought, and long discussed

  Among themselves, with bated breath,

  That day of woe.

  Clear morning’s ray

  From out the pale and wearied clouds

  The fated city gleamed to cheer.

  But few the traces were it found

  Of past night’s wreck. With purple pall

  The ugly work of ill was hid,

  And life resumed its wonted ways.

  Again the free and open streets

  Were thronged with crowds intent on self,

  And none to give the dead a thought.

  The sleek-dressed clerk for office left

  His home. The tradesman, unabashed,

  His courage kept and oped his vaults

  The Neva had despoiled, and schemed