Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 14

  How best he could his neighbour make

  Redeem his loss. The cumoered yards

  Of boats were cleared:

  And Count Chvostoff,

  Poet inspired by heavenly muse,

  In verse immortal, though unread,

  Failed not to sing of Neptune’s wrath.

  But poor Evjenie, what of him?

  His mind was tender, easy touched,

  Nor proof against these griefful woes.

  The horrid noise of rebel waves

  And winds loud echoed in his ears.

  Aimless, he wandered here and there,

  Strange thougnts revolving in his mind,

  He ne’er could solve. A demon dream

  Haunted, followed, and possessed him.

  A week, a month went by, and he

  Still heedless roamed, nor home returned;

  The term elapsed, his room was let

  To tenant new, poor as himseif,

  Nor did he come his goods to fetch,

  But soon was lost to world and men.

  All day the streets he idly strayed,

  And slept at night in wharf or shed,

  His food, the crust of bread he begged.

  His well-worn cloak in tatters hung

  Each day more loose. And wanton boys

  Their play would cease, to hurl sharp stones,

  As he passed by, and coachmen rude

  With whip aroused him from his daze,

  As in mid-road he puzzled stood;

  And on he moved without complaint:

  A voice within, unheard of men,

  Had deafened him to outer noise.

  And so he lived, like one that is

  Nor beast nor man, nor live nor dead,

  Nor denizen of earth, nor ghost

  Of other world.

  By river-side,

  He once was sleeping in a wharf;

  The trees had cast their summer dress,

  And autumn winds begun to blow.

  The angry surge beat on the wharf,

  Nor ceased to dash against its steps;

  As widow knocked importunate

  At the unrighteous judge’s door.

  He woke. But all was dark and dull;

  The rain fell fast; the shrill blasts wailed;

  And in the distance he could hear

  The echo low of sentry’s voice.

  Up leaped Evjenie; he recalled

  The horrors of the past, and rose,

  His aimless roamings to resume.

  But suddenly he paused, and with

  Large eyes of fear he slowly scanned

  The dreary space that stretched around.

  He found himself beneath the porch

  Of spacious house. And on the steps,

  With upraised paws, as large as life,

  Two lions stood, both keeping guard:

  Whilst in the darkness, tow’ring high,

  On pedestal of granite rock,

  Sate, with his royal hand outstretched,

  The giant on his steed of bronze.

  Evjenie shuddered, and his thoughts

  Grew strangely clear. Again he saw

  The place where seas had wildly played,

  Where waves of prey had shrieking roared,

  And round him dashed with angry whirl:

  He saw the lions, square, and him,

  Who with bronze head, and motionless,

  In the darkness proudly towered,

  As ever, with his hand outstretched,

  He watched the city he had built.

  The poor mad creature wildly roamed

  Around the rock with aching limbs.

  And read the words clear cut in stone;

  And, crushed with grief, his bleeding heart

  Grew dead within him. And he pressed

  His burning brow against the rail;

  A blinding mist came o’er his eyes,

  And through his frame a shudder ran,

  As he stood trembling, lost in gloom,

  Before great Russia’s giant Tsar.

  With finger raised in dumb reproach,

  He thought’ to speak. But no word came.

  And quick he took to headlong flight

  It seemed, his face with angry glow

  Aflame, the all-dread Tsar had turned,

  And fixed on him his searching gaze:

  He fled, and, flying, heard behind.

  Like roll of thunder, loud and sharp,

  The heavy measured tread of feet.

  That shook the ground beneath their march

  And in the pale moon’s silver light,

  With hand majestic, far outstretched,

  The Statue Knight of Bronze pursued,

  High mounted on his lordly steed.

  And all that night the crazed wretch heard,

  Where’er he sped his flying steps,

  In close pursuit the Knight of Bronze,

  And measured tramp of prancing steed.

  And from that day, if e’er he chanced

  To cross the square where statue stood,

  A troubled stare came o’er his face,

  And quick he pressed to heart his hand,

  As if to quell some sharpest pain,

  And well-worn cap from head removed,

  Nor daring raise his fear-struck eyes.

  In stealth slunk by.

  Close to the beach,

  An island small is seen. And there

  Belated fisher anchor casts,

  And frugal evening meal prepares;

  Or spruce-dressed citizen in boat,

  Decked out for Sunday trip, will touch

  The lone abandoned isle, where not

  A blade of grass redeems the waste.

  Twas there the waters, when they fell,

  The widow’s house had stranded left;

  And like black bush it rose above

  Their surface, till in early spring

  Men came and carted it away.

  It was all bare, nor found they aught,

  Save our friend, poor mad Evjenie,

  On the threshold fallen. And there.

  With friendly hands, his corpse they laid.

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA

  Anonymous translation

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FIRST

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE SECOND

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE THIRD

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FOURTH

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FIFTH

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE SIXTH

  EPILOGUE

  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 wave
s 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...

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: 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.*

  Lel -the Slavic god of love.

  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 torme

  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

  Younff newlv-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 bovars. by sweet mead made sleepy,

  Bow to their hosts and make for home.

  Ruslan’s all rapture, all elation....

  AVhat 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 Lei 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 sw^ays, 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!

  Wby 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. “W^e are leaving

  Straightway, and pray believe us, sire,

  We’ll ride around the world entir
e

  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; sadhearted,

  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 w^ell-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,

  Now7 does he make his stallion fly,

  Now7 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 sullenlv 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;