Works of Alexander Pushkin Read online

  THE ANGEL

  At the gates of Eden a tender Angel

  With drooping head was shining;

  A demon gloomy and rebellious

  Over the abyss of hell was flying.

  The spirit of Denial, the spirit of Doubt,

  The spirit of purity espied;

  And unwittingly the warmth of tenderness

  He for the first time learned to know.

  Adieu, he spake. Thee I saw;

  Not in vain hast thou shone before me.

  Not all in the world have I hated,

  Not all in the world have I scorned.

  THE PROPHET

  Tormented by the thirst for the Spirit,

  I was dragging myself in a sombre desert,

  And a six-winged seraph appeared

  Unto me on the parting of the roads;

  With fingers as light as a dream

  He touched mine eyes;

  And mine eyes opened wise,

  Like unto the eyes of a frightened eagle.

  He touched mine ears,

  And they filled with din and ringing.

  And I heard the trembling of the heavens,

  And the flight of the angels’ wings,

  And the creeping of the polyps in the sea,

  And the growth of the vine in the valley.

  And he took hold of my lips,

  And out he tore my sinful tongue,

  With its empty and false speech.

  And the fang of the wise serpent

  Between my terrified lips he placed

  With bloody hand.

  And ope he cut my breast with a sword,

  And out he took my trembling heart,

  And a coal blazing with flame

  He shoved into the open breast.

  Like a corpse I lay in the desert;

  And the voice of the Lord called unto me:

  “Arise! O prophet and guide, and listen, —

  Be thou filled with my will,

  And going over land and sea,

  Burn with the Word the hearts of men!”

  THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY

  Translated by William D. Lewis

  Published in 1824, this narrative poem was written in the spring of 1821, after Pushkin had visited The Fountain of Tears at the Khan Palace in Bakhchisaray. The poem has since inspired several musical compositions, including Boris Asafyev’s 1934 ballet and Alexander Ilyinsky’s 1911 opera of the same name.

  The title page of the poem’s first edition

  CONTENTS

  THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI

  TARTAR SONG.

  ‘Pushkin in Bakhchisaray Palace’ by Grigory Chernetsov

  THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI

  A Tale of the Tauride

  Mute sat Giray, with downcast eye,

  As though some spell in sorrow bound him,

  His slavish courtiers thronging nigh,

  In sad expectance stood around him.

  The lips of all had silence sealed,

  Whilst, bent on him, each look observant,

  Saw grief’s deep trace and passion fervent

  Upon his gloomy brow revealed.

  But the proud Khan his dark eye raising,

  And on the courtiers fiercely gazing,

  Gave signal to them to begone!

  The chief, unwitnessed and alone,

  Now yields him to his bosom’s smart,

  Deeper upon his brow severe

  Is traced the anguish of his heart;

  As full fraught clouds on mirrors clear

  Reflected terrible appear!

  What fills that haughty soul with pain?

  What thoughts such madd’ning tumults cause?

  With Russia plots he war again?

  Would he to Poland dictate laws?

  Say, is the sword of vengeance glancing?

  Does bold revolt claim nature’s right?

  Do realms oppressed alarm excite?

  Or sabres of fierce foes advancing?

  Ah no! no more his proud steed prancing

  Beneath him guides the Khan to war,--

  Such thoughts his mind has banished far.

  Has treason scaled the harem’s wall,

  Whose height might treason’s self appal,

  And slavery’s daughter fled his power,

  To yield her to the daring Giaour?

  No! pining in his harem sadly,

  No wife of his would act so madly;

  To wish or think they scarcely dare;

  By wretches, cold and heartless, guarded,

  Hope from each breast so long discarded;

  Treason could never enter there.

  Their beauties unto none revealed,

  They bloom within the harem’s towers,

  As in a hot-house bloom the flowers

  Which erst perfumed Arabia’s field.

  To them the days in sameness dreary,

  And months and years pass slow away,

  In solitude, of life grown weary,

  Well pleased they see their charms decay.

  Each day, alas! the past resembling,

  Time loiters through their halls and bowers;

  In idleness, and fear, and trembling,

  The captives pass their joyless hours.

  The youngest seek, indeed, reprieve

  Their hearts in striving to deceive

  Into oblivion of distress,

  By vain amusements, gorgeous dress,

  Or by the noise of living streams,

  In soft translucency meand’ring,

  To lose their thoughts in fancy’s dreams,

  Through shady groves together wand’ring.

  But the vile eunuch too is there,

  In his base duty ever zealous,

  Escape is hopeless to the fair

  From ear so keen and eye so jealous.

  He ruled the harem, order reigned

  Eternal there; the trusted treasure

  He watched with loyalty unfeigned,

  His only law his chieftain’s pleasure,

  Which as the Koran he maintained.

  His soul love’s gentle flame derides,

  And like a statue he abides

  Hatred, contempt, reproaches, jests,

  Nor prayers relax his temper rigid,

  Nor timid sighs from tender breasts,

  To all alike the wretch is frigid.

  He knows how woman’s sighs can melt,

  Freeman and bondman he had felt

  Her art in days when he was younger;

  Her silent tear, her suppliant look,

  Which once his heart confiding shook,

  Now move not,--he believes no longer!

  When, to relieve the noontide heat,

  The captives go their limbs to lave,

  And in sequestered, cool retreat

  Yield all their beauties to the wave,

  No stranger eye their charms may greet,

  But their strict guard is ever nigh,

  Viewing with unimpassioned eye

  These beauteous daughters of delight;

  He constant, even in gloom of night,

  Through the still harem cautious stealing,

  Silent, o’er carpet-covered floors,

  And gliding through half-opened doors,

  From couch to couch his pathway feeling,

  With envious and unwearied care

  Watching the unsuspecting fair;

  And whilst in sleep unguarded lying,

  Their slightest movement, breathing, sighing,

  He catches with devouring ear.

  O! curst that moment inauspicious

  Should some loved name in dreams be sighed,

  Or youth her unpermitted wishes

  To friendship venture to confide.

  What pang is Giray’s bosom tearing?

  Extinguished is his loved chubouk,

  Whilst or to move or breathe scarce daring,

  The eunuch watches every look;

  Quick as the chi
ef, approaching near him,

  Beckons, the door is open thrown,

  And Giray wanders through his harem

  Where joy to him no more is known.

  Near to a fountain’s lucid waters

  Captivity’s unhappy daughters

  The Khan await, in fair array,

  Around on silken carpets crowded,

  Viewing, beneath a heaven unclouded,

  With childish joy the fishes play

  And o’er the marble cleave their way,

  Whose golden scales are brightly glancing,

  And on the mimic billows dancing.

  Now female slaves in rich attire

  Serve sherbet to the beauteous fair,

  Whilst plaintive strains from viewless choir

  Float sudden on the ambient air.

  TARTAR SONG.

  I.

  Heaven visits man with days of sadness,

  Embitters oft his nights with tears;

  Blest is the Fakir who with gladness

  Views Mecca in declining years.

  II.

  Blest he who sees pale Death await him

  On Danube’s ever glorious shore;

  The girls of Paradise shall greet him,

  And sorrows ne’er afflict him more.

  III.

  But he more blest, O beauteous Zarem!

  Who quits the world and all its woes,

  To clasp thy charms within the harem,

  Thou lovelier than the unplucked rose!

  They sing, but-where, alas! is Zarem,

  Love’s star, the glory of the harem?

  Pallid and sad no praise she hears,

  Deaf to all sounds of joy her ears,

  Downcast with grief, her youthful form

  Yields like the palm tree to the storm,

  Fair Zarem’s dreams of bliss are o’er,

  Her loved Giray loves her no more!

  He leaves thee! yet whose charms divine

  Can equal, fair Grusinian! thine?

  Shading thy brow, thy raven hair

  Its lily fairness makes more fair;

  Thine eyes of love appear more bright

  Than noonday’s beam, more dark than night;

  Whose voice like thine can breathe of blisses,

  Filling the heart with soft desire?

  Like thine, ah! whose inflaming kisses

  Can kindle passion’s wildest fire?

  Who that has felt thy twining arms

  Could quit them for another’s charms?

  Yet cold, and passionless, and cruel,

  Giray can thy vast love despise,

  Passing the lonesome night in sighs

  Heaved for another; fiercer fuel

  Burns in his heart since the fair Pole

  Is placed within the chief’s control.

  The young Maria recent war

  Had borne in conquest from afar;

  Not long her love-enkindling eyes

  Had gazed upon these foreign skies;

  Her aged father’s boast and pride,

  She bloomed in beauty by his side;

  Each wish was granted ere expressed.

  She to his heart the object dearest,

  His sole desire to see her blessed;

  As when the skies from clouds are clearest,

  Still from her youthful heart to chase

  Her childish sorrows his endeavour,

  Hoping in after life that never

  Her woman’s duties might efface

  Remembrance of her earlier hours,

  But oft that fancy would retrace

  Life’s blissful spring-time decked in flowers.

  Her form a thousand charms unfolded,

  Her face by beauty’s self was moulded,

  Her dark blue eyes were full of fire,--

  All nature’s stores on her were lavished;

  The magic harp with soft desire,

  When touched by her, the senses ravished.

  Warriors and knights had sought in vain

  Maria’s virgin heart to move,

  And many a youth in secret pain

  Pined for her in despairing love.

  But love she knew not, in her breast

  Tranquil it had not yet intruded,

  Her days in mirth, her nights in rest,

  In her paternal halls secluded,

  Passed heedless, peace her bosom’s guest.

  That time is past! The Tartar’s force

  Rushed like a torrent o’er her nation,--

  Rages less fierce the conflagration

  Devouring harvests in its course,--

  Poland it swept with devastation,

  Involving all in equal fate,

  The villages, once mirthful, vanished,

  From their red ruins joy was banished,

  The gorgeous palace desolate!

  Maria is the victor’s prize;--

  Within the palace chapel laid,

  Slumb’ring among th’illustrious dead,

  In recent tomb her father lies;

  His ancestors repose around,

  Long freed from life and its alarms;

  With coronets and princely arms

  Bedecked their monuments abound!

  A base successor now holds sway,--

  Maria’s natal halls his hand

  Tyrannic rules, and strikes dismay

  And wo throughout the ravaged land.

  Alas! the Princess sorrow’s chalice

  Is fated to the dregs to drain,

  Immured in Bakchesaria’s palace

  She sighs for liberty in vain;

  The Khan observes the maiden’s pain,

  His heart is at her grief afflicted,

  His bosom strange emotions fill,

  And least of all Maria’s will

  Is by the harem’s laws restricted.

  The hateful guard, of all the dread,

  Learns silent to respect and fear her,

  His eye ne’er violates her bed,

  Nor day nor night he ventures near her;

  To her he dares not speak rebuke,

  Nor on her cast suspecting look.

  Her bath she sought by none attended,

  Except her chosen female slave,

  The Khan to her such freedom gave;

  But rarely he himself offended

  By visits, the desponding fair,

  Remotely lodged, none else intruded;

  It seemed as though some jewel rare,

  Something unearthly were secluded,

  And careful kept untroubled there.

  Within her chamber thus secure,

  By virtue guarded, chaste and pure,

  The lamp of faith, incessant burning,

  The VIRGIN’S image blest illumed,

  The comfort of the spirit mourning

  And trust of those to sorrow doomed.

  The holy symbol’s face reflected

  The rays of hope in splendour bright,

  And the rapt soul by faith directed

  To regions of eternal light.

  Maria, near the VIRGIN kneeling,

  In silence gave her anguish way,

  Unnoticed by the crowd unfeeling,

  And whilst the rest, or sad or gay,

  Wasted in idleness the day,

  The sacred image still concealing,

  Before it pouring forth her prayer,

  She watched with ever jealous care;

  Even as our hearts to error given,

  Yet lighted by a spark from heaven,

  Howe’er from virtue’s paths we swerve,

  One holy feeling still preserve.

  Now night invests with black apparel

  Luxurious Tauride’s verdant fields,

  Whilst her sweet notes from groves of laurel

  The plaintive Philomela yields.

  But soon night’s glorious queen, advancing

  Through cloudless skies to the stars’ song,

  Scatters the hills and dales along,

  The lustr
e of her rays entrancing.

  In Bakchesaria’s streets roamed free

  The Tartars’ wives in garb befitting,

  They like unprisoned shades were flitting

  From house to house their friends to see,

  And while the evening hours away

  In harmless sports or converse gay.

  The inmates of the harem slept;--

  Still was the palace, night impending

  O’er all her silent empire kept;

  The eunuch guard, no more offending

  The fair ones by his presence, now

  Slumbered, but fear his soul attending

  Troubled his rest and knit his brow;

  Suspicion kept his fancy waking,

  And on his mind incessant preyed,

  The air the slightest murmur breaking

  Assailed his ear with sounds of dread.

  Now, by some noise deceitful cheated,

  Starts from his sleep the timid slave,

  Listens to hear the noise repeated,

  But all is silent as the grave,

  Save where the fountains softly sounding

  Break from their marble prisons free,

  Or night’s sweet birds the scene surrounding

  Pour forth their notes of melody:

  Long does he hearken to the strain,

  Then sinks fatigued in sleep again.

  Luxurious East! how soft thy nights,

  What magic through the soul they pour!

  How fruitful they of fond delights

  To those who Mahomet adore!

  What splendour in each house is found,

  Each garden seems enchanted ground;

  Within the harem’s precincts quiet

  Beneath fair Luna’s placid ray,

  When angry feelings cease to riot

  There love inspires with softer sway!

  The women sleep;--but one is there

  Who sleeps not; goaded by despair

  Her couch she quits with dread intent,

  On awful errand is she bent;

  Breathless she through the door swift flying

  Passes unseen; her timid feet

  Scarce touch the floor, she glides so fleet.

  In doubtful slumber restless lying

  The eunuch thwarts the fair one’s path,

  Ah! who can speak his bosom’s wrath?

  False is the quiet sleep would throw

  Around that gray and care-worn brow;

  She like a spirit vanished by

  Viewless, unheard as her own sigh!

  The door she reaches, trembling opes,

  Enters, and looks around with awe,

  What sorrows, anguish, terrors, hopes,

  Rushed through her heart at what she saw!

  The image of the sacred maid,

  The Christian’s matron, reigning there,

  And cross attracted first the fair,

  By the dim lamp-light scarce displayed!

  Oh! Grusinka, of earlier days