Works of Alexander Pushkin Read online

  ZEMPHIRE.

  Darling, run, escape!

  ALEKO.

  Stay, sir, stay!

  Whither, fair gipsy, wilt thou run?

  Die!

  (He kills him with a dagger.)

  ZEMPHIRE.

  What hast thou done?

  YOUNG GIPSY.

  I die! Farewell!

  ZEMPHIRE.

  Aleko, thou hast slain my friend!

  And, see, thou art all stained with blood!.

  Oh, what hast thou done?

  ALEKO.

  I? Nothing!

  His love, once thy breath, breathe it now!

  ZEMPHIRE.

  Enough! I have no fear of thee!

  Thine empty threats, I hold in scorn!

  Thee and thy bloody crime, I curse!

  ALEKO.

  Follow!

  (He stabs Zemphire).

  ZEMPHIRE

  And, loving, I will die!

  Night’s clouds were streaked with red of dawn.

  Beyond the hills Aleko sate

  Alone on ancient burial mound,

  With blood-stained dagger in his hand.

  Near him lay two lifeless bodies;

  His face was fixed and motionless,

  And vacant stared at gipsy crowd,

  Who fearsome stood around and gazed.

  In farther field they dug a grave;

  With solemn step the women moved,

  And kissed the eyelids of the dead.

  Apart the old man stood and looked,

  In silent helplessness of grief,

  Upon the dead girl’s rigid form.

  Lightly they raised the bodies twain,

  And slowly bore them to the grave,

  And laid the youthful erring pair

  In the cold, bosom of the, earth.

  Aleko from afar watched all,

  But when the last handful of dust

  Over the sleeping dead was cast,

  In silence low he bent his head,

  And prone on grass fell from the mound.

  The old man then approached and said:

  “Go, leave us now, thou haughty man!

  We wild folk have no law to bind.

  To torture or to punish men;

  We need no sinner’s blood, or groans,

  Nor can we with a murd’rer five.

  Thou art not born for wild free will,

  Thou wouldst thyself alone be free;

  Thy voice will strike but terror here

  Among the good and free in soul;

  Harsh thou art and rash: so, leave us!

  Farewell, and peace abide with thee!”

  He spake, and now the busy crowd

  The nomad camp begin to raise:

  They hasten forth, and soon are lost

  To view. One van alone, with roof

  Of canvas torn, remains behind,

  And stands upon the fatal field.

  As when, before cold winter conies,

  At early hour, on misty morn,

  A flock of cranes will from the field

  Rise up on high with eager cry,

  And quick begin their southern flight,

  One wretched bird, the sportsman prey,

  With wounded wing that helpless hangs,

  Is left behind to pine and die.

  Though night came on, within the van

  None cared to kindle light or fire,

  And none beneath the tattered roof

  Sought rest or sleep till morning broke.

  EPILOGUE.

  The magic charm of song divine

  Brings back to lite the olden days,

  Writes anew on memory’s page

  The record of past joys and griefs.

  In the land where centuries long

  The din of war not once was hushed;

  Where Russian arms supremely marked

  The lawful bounds of Stamboul’s sway;

  And where the mighty eagle shook

  His proud, wide wings o’er triumphs won;

  ‘Twas there, the wild steppe stretching round,

  On borders of our ancient rule,

  I met the gipsy waggon-vans,

  The sons of freedom uncontrolled.

  I long in idle whim pursued

  Through barren waste and forest wild

  The gay and lawless gipsy band.

  Their modest, simple fare I shared,

  And slept before their flaming fires.

  I loved the noise of their loud songs.

  And still the name of fair Marie

  Haunts and startles my restless sleep.

  And yet, with you, free nature’s sons.

  True happiness can ne’er be found;

  And humblest tents are oft the haunt

  Of troubled dreams and hopes destroyed;

  And nomad camps, though pitched in wilds,

  From nature ravin give no shield;

  There, too, will human passions rage,

  And naught protect men from their-fate.

  POLTAVA

  A POEM IN THREE CANTOS.

  Translated by Charles Edward Turner

  This narrative poem was written in 1828 and concerns Ivan Mazepa’s actions in the Battle of Poltava between Sweden and Russia. The poem intertwines a love plot between Mazepa and the beautiful Maria, with an account of Mazepa’s betrayal of Peter I and the Tsar’s ultimate victory. The poem is celebrated for its depth of characterisation and employs the use of several different genres, inspiring the composer Tchaikovsky to compose the 1884 opera Mazeppa.

  Poltava opens with an epigraph from Byron’s 1819 ballad Mazeppa, which depicts the Hetman as a Romantic hero, exiled from Poland for his love affair with a married noblewoman. Pushkin follows this epigraph with a passionate dedication to an anonymous lover. The poem is divided into three cantos of equal length. The first canto opens on the estate of the nobleman Vasily Kochubei and describes Kochubei’s beautiful daughter Maria, who has fallen in love with the Hetman Mazepa. As he is her godfather and much older than her, they decide to keep their love for each other secret. However, they are soon discovered and are forced to elope…

  Ivan Stepanovych Mazepa (1639 – 1709), the protagonist of the poem

  CONTENTS

  POLTAVA. CANTO THE FIRST.

  POLTAVA. CANTO THE SECOND.

  POLTAVA. CANTO THE THIRD.

  The Battle of Poltava, 27 June 1709

  POLTAVA. CANTO THE FIRST.

  Rich and famed is Kotzubei.

  Boundless and large his spacious fields,

  Whereon his droves of horses graze

  At their free will and all unwatched.

  Around Poltava’s fairest plains

  Stretch far his gardens and his parks;

  And in his house are treasures rare

  Satins, furs and dishes silver,

  Exposed to view or safely locked.

  But Kotzubei, rich and proud,

  Cares little for his long-maned steeds,

  The tribute paid by Tartar horde,

  Or lands bequeathed him by his sires;

  But in Marie, his daughter fair,

  The old man finds his dearest pride.

  In vain you’ll seek Poltava through

  Her peer in loveliness and grace.

  Fresh as primal flower of spring,

  Warm-nurtured in the forest’s shade;

  As Kieff poplar tall and stately;

  Her every motion like the course

  Of floating swan on lonely lake,

  Or deer’s quick flight across the mead:

  Her breasts as white as foam of sea;

  Around her forehead high and broad,

  Thick clustered lie her jet-black locks,

  Veiling her eyes that gleam like stars;

  Her lips as red as full-blown rose.

  But not the charm of beauty rare,

  That blooms a moment and then fades,

  Had made Marie beloved by all;

  But fame had crowned h
er with the name

  Of maiden modest, pure and wise.

  And rival suitors sought her hand,

  The youths of Russia and Ukraine;

  But from the marriage-crown, as from

  The fetters of a slave she shrank.

  And all had been repulsed.... but now

  His messengers the Hetman sends.

  No longer young, and worn with years,

  With toils of war and cares of state,

  But young and warm in heart, once more

  Mazeppa feels the force of love.

  A boyish love will fiercely burn,

  Its fierceness spent, as quickly die;

  The passion cools, to be renewed,

  And finds each day some fancy fresh.

  An old man’s heart disdains to burn

  With such obedient, lightsome ease,

  The victim of a moment s whim:

  But dulled and dimmed with thoughtful years,

  The fire of passion tempered flames;

  The heart is proof against its force,

  And slow to burn; but once ‘tis stirred,

  The love born late can ne’er grow cold,

  And only dies with parting breath.

  It is no deer that seeks a refuge sure,

  Alarmed by eagle’s heavy flight;

  It is a bride her chamber roams,

  And, trembling, waits her parents’ word.

  All filled with angry discontent,

  The mother comes, as one distraught,

  Seizes her hand, and sharply cries:

  “Now, shame befall the godless wretch!

  Can such things be? No, whilst we live,

  He ne’er shall wreak his foul desire!

  Well fit to play the father, or

  The friend to god-child young and pure,

  The senseless fool, in dotage years,

  Forsooth would ape the husband’s part!”

  Naught spake Marie. But o’er her face

  A creeping pallor slowly flushed;

  And cold and stiff, like lifeless corpse,

  Prone on the floor the maiden fell.

  She woke to life, and then once more

  Her eyes were closed, nor did she speak

  One single word. With busy care,

  They seek to ease and cheer her soul,

  To drive away her fears and grief,

  To peace bring back her unhinged mind;

  But all in vain. For two whole days,

  Now weeping sad, now choked with sobs,

  She neither spake, nor eat, nor drank,

  But pale and sleepless, like a ghost

  Compelled to walk, sne knew no rest.

  The third morn they went to seek her,

  But found her chamber bare and lone.

  None knew, or when, or how, Marie

  Had fled. That night, a fisher said,

  He heard the tramp of swiftest steeds,

  The Cossack speech, and woman’s voice:

  Next morn the marks of eight horse-hoofs

  Were traced along the dew-wet mead.

  ‘Tis not alone the first soft down,

  The curling, wavy locks of youth.

  But oft the look serene of age,

  The deep-streaked brow, and snowy hairs.

  That win a maiden’s fancy free.

  And light her soul with dreams of love.

  Too soon the hateful tale of shame

  Assailed the ear of Kotzubei:

  She had forgot disgrace and fame,

  To wanton in a wretch’s arms!

  Nor he nor wife dared comprehend

  The whispered hints of common talk.

  Ere long the story was confirmed,

  Made true n all its vilest shame.

  Only then was bared the secret

  That long had stained the maiden’s soul:

  Only then they learned and understood

  Why wilfully she had rebelled

  Against the curb of married life,

  And, lonely grieving, pined away;

  Or why the love of noble youths

  Had been repulsed with silent scorn;

  Or why at table Hetman’s speech

  She would drink in with greedy ear,

  And when the noisy chat grew gay,

  And foaming goblets flowed with wine,

  And she was asked to sing, she chose

  No songs save those himself had made,

  When he was young, unknown to fame;

  Or why, with passion strange to maid,

  She loved to watch the rangèd troops,

  And hear the kettledrum and shouts

  That hailed the golden staff and mace,

  The Hetman’s signs of rule and sway.

  Lordly and rich is Kotzubei,

  Has hosts of friends to serve his will;

  Can wash away in blood this shame,

  And rouse Poltava to revolt;

  With sudden blow his palace storm,

  And wreak a father’s vengeance deep;

  With sure and fatal aim can pierce —

  With other thoughts his soul is stirred.

  The times were ripe with troubled broil:

  In threatened struggles hard and stern

  The young empire must try her strength

  And slowly reach her full manhood

  Beneath great Peter’s rule. Meanwhile,

  A chast’ner cruel had been sent

  To teach her how to win her fame,

  And more than once the Swedish King

  Had sharp and bloody lesson taught.

  But, trained in durance and hard toil,

  She bore the harshest blows of fate,

  And grew. For thus, the hammer stout

  The glass will break and forge the sword.

  With glory crowned that bore no fruit,

  The Swedish Charles essayed his fate.

  Gainst Moscow’s ancient walls he marched,

  And chased the bravest Russian troops,

  As whirlwind drives the valley’s dust,

  And low bends down the highest grass.

  The route he followed was the same

  By which, in later days, the lord

  Of fate pursued his hurried flight.

  Ukraine was mined with discontent,

  And long the spark had smouldered dull.

  The children of the stormy past

  Nursed hope to fan a people s war;

  With murmurs grim they clamoured loud

  That Hetman burst their slavish chains;

  And with the zeal of untried youth

  Impatiently awaited Charles.

  Around the aged Mazeppa rose

  The rebel cry: “To arms! to arms!”

  But true the Hetman old remained,

  The slave and vassal of the Tsar,

  He ruled as sternly as before,

  And in the Ukraine guarded peace:

  Seemed blind to all that passed around,

  And lived and feasted at his ease.

  “What is this Hetman?” snarled the young,

  “He is too old, he is too weak.

  Unresting years and toil have quenched

  The youthful fire that once flamed bright.

  With trembling hands does he presume

  To wield the lordly staff and mace?

  Now is the time to wage the war

  On hated Moscow, freedom’s foe,

  If Doroschenko, aged in years,

  Or young Samoilovitch, the exile,

  Palaeus brave, or Gordienko, —

  Now ruled the warriors of Ukraine,

  Cossacks would ne’er be left to die

  In snow-wastes of a distant land;

  Our troops no more would be compelled

  To serve the cause of foreign rule.”

  Thus murmuring, the self-willed youths

  The dangers of revolt would court,

  Forgot their country’s thraldom long,

  Forgot Bogdan’s successful rule,

  The t
reaties, and the sacred war,

  And all the fame of ancient times.

  But old men walk with heedful care,

  And calculate with cautious mind

  What they should do, and what forbear,

  Nor will they thoughtlessly decide.

  What man can sound the depth of sea

  Fast bound with massive thick-set ice?

  Who hope with keenest eye to pierce

  The cave profound of cunning heart,

  Whose thoughts are fruit of passion crushed,

  And hidden lie from common view,

  Whilst secretly some cherished dream,

  Perchance, is ripening all unseen?

  Such none can know. The Hetman false

  Was most deceitful, cunning, sly,

  The simpler, more sincere, he seemed.

  The franker and more true in act.

  He knew the art to read, to win,

  To tyrannise the souls of men;

  And, whilst he seemed himself to yield,

  To rule their minds and guide their thoughts.

  With what false faith and simpleness

  Like garrulous old man, he talked

  With those who were his peers in age,

  Regretting happy, olden times!

  With self-willed youths he freedom preached;

  With discontents he darkly spake;

  Shed tears of pity with the wronged;

  With fools was wise and deeply grave.

  A few, it may be, knew full well

  That none could tame his iron will;

  That he, by foul or honest blow,

  Would surely thwart and crush his foe;

  That never to his dying day

  He pardoned or forgot a wrong;

  That love of power heartless stretched

  His crime-stained deeds and selfish schemes;

  That naught was sacred in his eyes;

  That kindness could ne’er touch his heart;

  That ties of love were weak to bind;

  That blood he freely shed unmoved;

  That liberty he scoffed and scorned;

  And that he knew no fatherland.

  Long the traitor, false and cunning,

  Had planned and mused a deadly plot;

  But sharper, keener eyes than his,

  Those of a foe, his scheme had bared.

  “Nay, base kite, breeder foul of shame!”

  The old man cried and gnashed his teeth,

  “Thou needst not fear, I’ll spare thy home,

  My wretched daughter’s prison-house;

  Thou shalt not perish in its flames,

  Nor find release in easy death

  From Cossack blow. Not so, vile one!

  In the hands of Moscow headsman,

  In vain denials of thy guilt,

  In torture, writhing on the rack,

  Thou shalt curse the day, curse the hour,

  When thou wert sponsor to our child;

  The banquet when I filled to thee,