Works of Alexander Pushkin (17 page)

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 entire
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;
Each horse is given now its head,
And, by the touch of spur unguided,
Starts off and moves where ‘twill ahead.
 
What do you in the hush of desert
Alone, Ruslan? Sad is your plight.
Was’t all a dream — the bride you treasured,
The terrors of your wedding night?
Your helmet pushed down to your brow
Your strong hands limp, the reins let loose,
O’er woods and fields astride your steed
You ride, while faith and hope recede
And leave you well-nigh dead of spirit..
 
A cave shows Tore the knight; he nears
And sees a light there. His feet lead
Him straight inside. The dark and broo
Vaults seem as old as nature. Moody,
Distraught Ruslan is.... In the cave
A bearded ancient, his mien grave
And quiet, sits. A lamp is burning
Near him, a book lies on his knee;
Engrossed in it, its pages he
With careful hand is slowly turning.
“I bid you welcome, knight! At last!”
Says he in greeting, smiling warmly.
“‘Here have I twenty long years passed
Of my old age, and grim and lonely
They’ve been.... But now has come the day
For which, foreseeing it, I waited.
To meet, we two, my son, were fated,
Now sit and hear me out, I pray....
Ludmila from you has been taken;
You flag, you droop, by hope forsaken
And faith itself.... ‘Tis wrong! For brief
With evil and its partner, grief,
Will be, I promise, your encounter.
Take heart; with strong, sound spirit counter
The blows of fortune, banish woe,
And, sword aloft held, northward go!
 
‘‘He who has wronged you, O my daring
Young stalwart, is old Chernomor.
A wizard, he is known to carry
Young maids off to the hills. ‘Tis for
Long years he’s reigned there. None has ever
His castle seen, but through its door
You’ll pass, I know, and end forever
The villain’s rule; by your hand he
Will perish-so ‘tis meant to be!...
I may not yield to indiscretion
And say aught more; your destiny
Yourself from this day on you fashion.’’
 
Our knight falls at the elder’s feet
And in delight his hand he kisses.
The world a bright place seems, and sweeet
Life is again; forgot distress is....
But then the sudden joyful glow
His face leaves, and it pales and darkens.
“Do not despair but to me harken,”
The old man says. “I know what so
Disquiets you: you are in fear of
The warlock’s love, eh, knight?... Be calm
The truth is, O my youthful hero,
That he can do the maid no harm.
From sky the stars he’ll pluck, I’ll wager,
Or shift the moon that sails on high,
But change the law of time and aging
He cannot, hard as he may try.
Though he lets none her chamber enter
And jealous watch keeps at her door,
He is the impotent tormentor
Of his fair captive, nothing more.
While never far from her, he curses
His lot, and soundly — but, my knight,
‘Tis time for you to rest: the earth is
Enclosed in shadow; it is night.”
 
On soft moss lies Ruslan, a flame
Before him flickering. He yearns
For soothing sleep, he twists and turns
And flings about-but no, ‘tis plain
That sleep won’t come. He heaves a sigh
And says: “Nay, Father, sick am I
Of soul and cannot sleep for dreary
And troubled thought. Talk to me, do;
With godly speech, I beg of you,
Relieve my heart: it aches, it’s weary...
I make too bold to ask you this;
You, who befriend me, I importune-
Speak! Tell me, confidant of fortune:
Wby came you to this wilderness?”
 
And with a wistful smile replying
To him, the old man says: “Alas,
I have forgot my land!” Then, sighing:
“A Finn am I by birth. It was
My lot to tend the flocks of neighbours,
And I would take them off to graze
In vales on which no stranger’s gaze
E’er rested. Carefree midst my labours
Did I remain, and only knew,
Besides the woods and streams, what few
Joys poverty could offer .to me....
Alas! Ahead dark days were looming.
 
“Near where I lived, a lovely flower,
One named Nahina, bloomed; of our
Young maids none lovelier than she
Was there. One morn, a bagpipe blowing,
My flocks I grazed where grass was growing
In lush profusion. I could see
A brook wind ‘fore me; by it, weaving
A garland, sat a dear young lass....
Her beauty — ah, ‘twas past believing!-
Drew and enchanted me, and as
I gazed at her I knew I’d seen her
Before.... Yes, knight, it was Nahina,
‘Twas fate had brought me there. The flame
Of love was my reward for eyeing
The maid thus brazenly; I came
To know a passion self-denying:
All of its bliss, all of its pain.
 
“Six months sped by.... I thought to win her
And opened up my heart. I said:
Т love thee dearly, sweet Nahina!’
But my shy sadness only bred
Scorn in her who was vain and prideful;
She was indifferent to my lot,
And said, of all my pain unmindful:
‘Well, shepherd mine, I love thee not!’
 
“I was estranged from all, and gloomy
Life seemed. The shady native wood,
The games of shepherds-nothing could
My hurt soothe and bring comfort to me
I languished.... But the far seas drew me;
To leave my homeland sought I then
And with a band of fighting men
To brave the ocean’s winds capricious....
I hoped to win renown and fame
And for my own Nahina claim.
This planned, according to my wishes,
 
I called upon some boatmen who
Joined with me in a quest for danger
And gold. My land, to war a stranger,
The clash of steel now heard, and knew
The sound of boat with boat colliding....
On, on we sailed, the billows riding,
My men and I, by sweet hope led,
Both snow and water painting red
For ten long years with gore of foes.
As rumour of our prow^ess spread,
The foreign rulers came to dread
Our forays, and their champions chose
To flee our blades. Yes, fierce and hearted
Our battles were, and merry, too,
And with the men we had defeated
Together feasted we. But through
The din of war and merrymaking
I heard Nahina’s voice, and for
The sight of her in secret aching,
Before me saw my native shore.
‘Come, men!’ I cried. ‘Did we not roam
The world enough? Time to go home!
‘Neath native eaves we’ll hang our mail;
Is’t not, in faith, for this we hanker!’
And leaving in our wake a trail
Of fear, for Finland we set sail
And in her waters soon dropped anchor.
 
‘Fulfilled were all my dreamings past
That set my lone heart faster beating.
O longed-for moment of our meeting,
O blessed hour, you came at last!
There, at the feet of my proud beauty
I laid my sword and, too, the booty
Of war: pearls, corals, gold. ‘Fore her,
By jealous womenfolk surrounded,
Her one-time playmates, my unbounded
Love making me her prisoner,
Mute stood I, but Nahina coolly
Turned from me, saying with no sign
That she would e’er relent: ‘Nay, truly,
I do not love thee, hero mine!’
 
“I do not like to speak of things
y. It is pure agony to think of.
E’en now, my son, when at the brink of
I am of death, remembrance brings
Fresh sorrow to my long-numb spirit
And gravely wounds my being whole,
And torn by pain, seared by it, wearied,
I feel the tears down my cheeks roll.
 
“But hark! In parts I call my home,
Amid the northern fishers lone,
The art of magic lives. The shaded,
Thick-growing forests wrapt in deep,
Eternal silence lie and keep
The secrets of the wizards aged
Who dwell there and whose minds to quest
For wisdom of the loftiest
And weirdest kind are given. Awesome
Their powers are: what was and also
What will be they have knowledge of,
Life can they snuff and foster love.
 
“And I, love’s mad and avid seeker,
In my despair that ne’er grew weaker,
By means of magic thought to start
In proud Nahina’s icy heart
Of love for me at least a flicker.
Toward the murk of woodland free