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

  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

  The vision burst upon thy soul,

  The tongue long silent uttered praise,

  The heart throbs high, but sin’s control

  Cannot escape, ‘tis passion, passion sways!

  The Princess in a maid’s repose

  Slumbered, her cheek, tinged like the rose,

  By feverish thought, in beauty blooms,

  And the fresh tear that stains her face

  A smile of tenderness illumes.

  Thus cheers the moon fair Flora’s race,

  When by the rain opprest they lie

  The charm and grief of every eye!

  It seemed as though an angel slept

  From heaven descended, who, distressed,

  Vented the feelings of his breast,

  And for the harem’s inmates wept!

  Alas! poor Zarem, wretched fair,

  By anguish urged to mere despair,

  On bended knee, in tone subdued

  And melting strain, for pity sued.

  “Oh! spurn not such a suppliant’s prayer!”

  Her tones so sad, her sighs so deep,

  Startled the Princess in her sleep;

  Wond’ring, she views with dread before her

  The stranger beauty, frighted hears

  For mercy her soft voice implore her,

  Raises her up with trembling hand,

  And makes of her the quick demand,

  “Who speaks? in night’s still hour alone,

  Wherefore art here?” “A wretched one,

  To thee I come,” the fair replied,

  “A suitor not to be denied;

  Hope, hope alone my soul sustains;

  Long have I happiness enjoyed,

  And lived from sorrow free and care,

  But now, alas! a prey to pains

  And terrors, Princess hear my prayer,

  Oh! listen, or I am destroyed!

  Not here beheld I first the light,

  Far hence my native land, but yet

  Alas! I never can forget

  Objects once precious to my sight;

  Well I remember towering mountains,

  Snow-ridged, replete with boiling fountains,

  Woods pervious scarce to wolf or deer,

  Nor faith, nor manners such as here;

  But, by what cruel fate o’ercome,

  How I was snatched, or when, from home

  I know not,--well the heaving ocean

  Do I remember, and its roar,

  But, ah! my heart such wild commotion

  As shakes it now ne’er felt before.

  I in the harem’s quiet bloomed,

  Tranquil myself, waiting, alas!

  With willing heart what love had doomed;

  Its secret wishes came to pass:

  Giray his peaceful harem sought,

  For feats of war no longer burned,

  Nor, pleased, upon its horrors thought,

  To these fair scenes again returned.

  “Before the Khan with bosoms beating

  We stood, timid my eyes I raised,

  When suddenly our glances meeting,

  I drank in rapture as I gazed;

  He called me to him,--from that hour

  We lived in bliss beyond the power

  Of evil thought or wicked word,

  The tongue of calumny unheard,

  Suspicion, doubt, or jealous fear,

  Of weariness alike unknown,

  Princess, thou comest a captive here,

  And all my joys are overthrown,

  Giray with sinful passion burns,

  His soul possessed of thee alone,

  My tears and sighs the traitor spurns;

  No more his former thoughts, nor feeling

  For me now cherishes Giray,

  Scarce his disgust, alas! concealing,

  He from my presence hastes away.

  Princess, I know the fault not thine

  That Giray loves thee, oh! then hear

  A suppliant wretch, nor spurn her prayer!

  Throughout the harem none but thou

  Could rival beauties such as mine

  Nor make him violate his vow;

  Yet, Princess! in thy bosom cold

  The heart to mine left thus forlorn,

  The love I feel cannot be told,

  For passion, Princess, was I born.

  Yield me Giray then; with these tresses

  Oft have his wandering fingers played,

  My lips still glow with his caresses,

  Snatched as he sighed, and swore, and prayed,

  Oaths broken now so often plighted!

  Hearts mingled once now disunited!

  His treason I cannot survive;

  Thou seest I weep, I bend my knee,

  Ah! if to pity thou’rt alive,

  My former love restore to me.

  Reply not! thee I do not blame,

  Thy beauties have bewitched Giray,

  Blinded his heart to love and fame,

  Then yield him up to me, I pray,

  Or by contempt, repulse, or grief,

  Turn from thy love th’ungenerous chief!

  Swear by thy faith, for what though mine

  Conform now to the Koran’s laws,

  Acknowledged here within the harem,

  Princess, my mother’s faith was thine,

  By that faith swear to give to Zarem

  Giray unaltered, as he was!

  But listen! the sad prey to scorn

  If I must live, Princess, have care,

  A dagger still doth Zarem wear,--

  I near the Caucasus was born!”

  She spake, then sudden disappeared,

  And left the Princess in dismay,

  Who scarce knew what or why she feared;

  Such words of passion till that day

  She ne’er had heard. Alas! was she

  To be the ruthless chieftain’s prey?

  Vain was all hope his grasp to flee.

  Oh! God, that in some dungeon’s gloom

  Remote, forgotten, she had lain,

  Or that it were her blessed doom

  To ‘scape dishonour, life, and pain!

  How would Maria with delight

  This world of wretchedness resign;

  Vanished of youth her visions bright,

  Abandoned she to fates malign!

  Sinless she to the world was given,

  And so remains, thus pure and fair,

  Her soul is called again to heaven,

  And angel joys await it there!

  Days passed away; Maria slept

  Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now,--

  From earth the orphan maid was swept.

  But who knew when, or where, or how?

  If prey to grief or pain she fell,

  If slain or heaven-struck, who can tell?

  She sleeps; he
r loss the chieftain grieves,

  And his neglected harem leaves,

  Flies from its tranquil precincts far,

  And with his Tartars takes the field,

  Fierce rushes mid the din of war,

  And brave the foe that does not yield,

  For mad despair hath nerved his arm,

  Though in his heart is grief concealed,

  With passion’s hopeless transports warm.

  His blade he swings aloft in air

  And wildly brandishes, then low

  It falls, whilst he with pallid stare

  Gazes, and tears in torrents flow.

  His harem by the chief deserted,

  In foreign lands he warring roved,

  Long nor in wish nor thought reverted

  To scene once cherished and beloved.

  His women to the eunuch’s rage

  Abandoned, pined and sank in age;

  The fair Grusinian now no more

  Yielded her soul to passion’s power,

  Her fate was with Maria’s blended,

  On the same night their sorrows ended;

  Seized by mute guards the hapless fair

  Into a deep abyss they threw,--

  If vast her crime, through love’s despair,

  Her punishment was dreadful too!

  At length th’exhausted Khan returned,

  Enough of waste his sword had dealt,

  The Russian cot no longer burned,

  Nor Caucasus his fury felt.

  In token of Maria’s loss

  A marble fountain he upreared

  In spot recluse;--the Christian’s cross

  Upon the monument appeared,

  (Surmounting it a crescent bright,

  Emblem of ignorance and night!)

  Th’inscription mid the silent waste

  Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced,

  Still do the gurgling waters pour

  Their streams dispensing sadness round,

  As mothers weep for sons no more,

  In never-ending sorrows drowned.

  In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,)

  Roam where this monument appears,

  And pitying poor Maria’s fate

  Entitle it the FOUNT OF TEARS!

  My native land abandoned long,

  I sought this realm of love and song.

  Through Bakchesaria’s palace wandered,

  Upon its vanished greatness pondered;

  All silent now those spacious halls,

  And courts deserted, once so gay

  With feasters thronged within their walls,

  Carousing after battle fray.

  Even now each desolated room

  And ruined garden luxury breathes,

  The fountains play, the roses bloom,

  The vine unnoticed twines its wreaths,

  Gold glistens, shrubs exhale perfume.

  The shattered casements still are there

  Within which once, in days gone by,

  Their beads of amber chose the fair,

  And heaved the unregarded sigh;

  The cemetery there I found,

  Of conquering khans the last abode,

  Columns with marble turbans crowned

  Their resting-place the traveller showed,

  And seemed to speak fate’s stern decree,

  “As they are now such all shall be!”

  Where now those chiefs? the harem where?

  Alas! how sad scene once so fair!

  Now breathless silence chains the air!

  But not of this my mind was full,

  The roses’ breath, the fountains flowing,

  The sun’s last beam its radiance throwing

  Around, all served my heart to lull

  Into forgetfulness, when lo!

  A maiden’s shade, fairer than snow,

  Across the court swift winged its flight;--

  Whose shade, oh friends! then struck my sight?

  Whose beauteous image hovering near

  Filled me with wonder and with fear?

  Maria’s form beheld I then?

  Or was it the unhappy Zarem,

  Who jealous thither came again

  To roam through the deserted harem?

  That tender look I cannot flee,

  Those charms still earthly still I see!

  He who the muse and peace adores,

  Forgetting glory, love, and gold,

  Again thy ever flowery shores

  Soon, Salgir! joyful shall behold;

  The bard shall wind thy rocky ways

  Filled with fond sympathies, shall view

  Tauride’s bright skies and waves of blue

  With greedy and enraptured gaze.

  Enchanting region! full of life

  Thy hills, thy woods, thy leaping streams,

  Ambered and rubied vines, all rife

  With pleasure, spot of fairy dreams!

  Valleys of verdure, fruits, and flowers,

  Cool waterfalls and fragrant bowers!

  All serve the traveller’s heart to fill

  With joy as he in hour of morn

  By his accustomed steed is borne

  In safety o’er dell, rock, and hill,

  Whilst the rich herbage, bent with dews,

  Sparkles and rustles on the ground,

  As he his venturous path pursues

  Where AYOUDAHGA’S crags surround!

  THE GIPSIES

  Translated by Charles Edward Turner

  This narrative poem was originally written in 1824 and published in 1827. Composed during Pushkin’s exile in the south of the Russian Empire, The Gipsies is one of his most popular poems, which has been praised for its originality and handling of psychological and moral issues, serving to inspire many operas and ballets, as well as other contemporary poets.

  The Gipsies opens in Bessarabia, modern day Romania, with a colourful and lively description of a gipsy camp’s activities. Written almost entirely in iambic tetrameter, the narrative poem introduces an old man waiting for his daughter Zemfira to return home, while his dinner grows cold. When she arrives, she announces that she has brought Aleko with her, an exile who has fled the city, because the law is pursuing him.

  Bessarabia, at the time of the poem’s setting

  THE GIPSIES

  I.

  In noisy crowds the gipsies bold

  Their way through Bessarabia tramp;

  To-day they pitch their camp and set

  Their tattered tents by river-side.

  As free as bird, they choose their haunt,

  And peaceful sleep ‘neath open sky.

  From midst the wheels of waggon-vans,

  Half-covered with thick canvas roofs,

  Curls high the flame, and round the fire

  Within their tent the family group

  Prepare with care the evening meal.

  In open field the horses graze;

  Beyond the tent the tamed bear lies;

  And all is gay along the steppe

  With busy cares of household life,

  With women’s songs, and children’s laugh,

  And measured beat of blacksmith’s stroke,

  As they prepare for morrow’s march.

  And now, o’er all the nomad camp

  Unbroken silence calmly reigns,

  And naught is heard on tranquil steppe,

  Save bark of hound or neighing steed.

  Throughout the camp the fires are quenched,

  . And all is peace. The moon, sole queen

  In heaven’s expanse, sheds forth her rays,

  And bathes the sleeping camp in light.

  All sleep, save one old man who sits

  Before the half-extinguished fire

  And warms himself with its last heat.

  And oft he scans the fields remote,

  Enwrapt in evening’s soft, white mist.

  His daughter young and fair is wont

  In all to have her way, and now
<
br />   Has gone to stroll the lonely fields.

  She will come back; but it is late,

  And o’er the moon the clouds or night

  Already gather thick and fast.

  But no Zemphire returns: meanwhile,

  The old man’s modest meal grows cold.

  At last she comes, and close behind

  Follows along her path a youth,

  A stranger to the gipsy sire.

  “See, father mine”, the maiden said,

  “I bring a guest; beyond the mounds

  I found him lost on the wild steppe,

  And refuge in our camp I offered.

  He lies beneath the ban of law,

  But Ï have sworn to be his friend;

  Aleko is his name, and he,

  Where’er I go, will follow me.”

  OLD MAN.

  I welcome thee. Remain the night

  Beneath the shelter of our tent;

  Or, if thou wilt, stay longer here,

  As thou thinkst fit, for I consent

  Our board and roof with thee to share.

  Be one of us, and learn our fate

  To bear, the fate of vagrants poor,

  But free, and with the early dawn

  Shalt find a place with us in van,

  And prove what trade art skilled to ply:

  The iron forge.... or sing a song,

  And show the villagers our bear.

  ALEKO.

  I will remain.

  ZEMPHIRE.

  He shall be mine:

  And who shall chase him from my side?

  But it grows late; the crescent moon

  Has set; the fields drink in the mist;

  And heavy sleep weighs down mine eyes.

  II.

  Tis dawn. Around the sleepy tent

  With watchful steps the old man strolls.

  “Arise, Zemphire, the sun is up;

  Awake, my. guest, ‘tis time to march:

  Quick, children, quit the couch of ease!

  With busy haste they all start up;

  The tents are raised; the waggon-vans

  Stand ready for the long day’s inarch.

  At given sign the swarming crowds

  Begin to make their slow descent

  Through steep defiles precipitous.

  In hand tilt-carts the asses draw

  Their close-packed loads of children gay;

  And mingling groups of old and young

  In orderly disorder move.

  Loud cries, and shouts, and gipsy songs;

  The bear’s low growl, and frequent creak

  Of his impatient, irksome chain;

  The particoloured, tattered robes;

  Shoeless men half-clad and children;

  The angry bark and howl of dogs;

  The noisy bagpipe’s piercing notes;

  The grating harsh of turning wheels.

  A picture wild and dissonant,

  But all alert and full of soul;

  Unlike our world’s benumbing ease,