Works of Alexander Pushkin (18 page)

My steps in hot impatience turning,
The subtle craft of wizardry
I spent unnumbered years in learning.
Then were the fearsome secrets, sought
By me with such despair, such yearning,
Revealed to my enlightened thought;
Of charms and spells I knew the power:
Love’s aim achieved — О happy hour!
‘Nahina, thou art mine!’ I cried.
‘Now shall I have thee for my bride.’
But once again by fate defeated
Was I and of my triumph cheated.
 
“Enraptured, with young dreams aglow,
Filled with love’s fervour and elation,
I loudly chant an incantation
And on dark spirits call, and lo!-
A flash of light, a crash of thunder,
And magic whirlwinds start awake,
I feel the earth begin to quake,
I hear it hum and rumble under
My feet, and there in front of me,
The picture of senility,
A crone stands. She is bent and shrunken,
Her hair is white, her eye is sunken
And glazed with age, her head is shaking...
And yet, and yet — had I mistaken
Her for another?-Nay, O knight;
Nahina ‘twas!... In doubt, in fright
The horrid vision now I measured
With unbelieving gaze, my sight
Mistrusting.... ‘Thou! Art thou my treasured
Nahina? Speak!’ from me the cry
Burst forth. ‘Where is thy beauty? Wby
Have the gods changed thee so? Have I
Long, then, from life and love been parted?’
‘For forty years!’ I heard her say.
‘Indeed, I’m seventy to-day!...
But never mind! So are lives charted
And so they pass. Thy spring has flown
And mine has too. We are, I own,
Old, both, but be thou not disheartened
By fickle youth’s swift passage. True,
I’m grey, a trifle crooked too,
Less lively and perhaps less charming
Than once I was....’ This in disarming
Tones she declared, her voice a squeak.
‘Come, do not look, I beg, so tragic....
I am-in confidence I speak-
Like thee become well versed in magic.’
 
“A sorceress! What had she said!...
Struck dumb was I by the admission
And felt a fool, a dunderhead
For all my store of erudition.
 
“But worse by far was that the spell
That I had cast worked far too well.
My shrivelled idol flared with passion;
She loved me — loved me to obsession!
Her grey lips twisted in a smile,
In graveyard tones the old hag muttered
The wildest of avowals, while
I suffered silently, in utter
Disgust and loathing, and upon
The ground my eyes kept. She wheezed on,
And though, by fits of coughing shaken,
So was she with her subject taken,
She never stopped. ‘My poor heart is
For tender passion born and bliss,’
She croaked. ‘ ‘Tis love alone I covet
And hunger for. I flame, I bum....
O come to me, for thee I yearn;
I’m dying, dying, my beloved!’
 
“ ‘Twas lustfully that she, Ruslan,
Was ogling me. Her bony fingers
Caught greedily at my caftan....
There to remain, knight, there to linger
Beside her was sheer agony;
I squeezed my eyes shut, for, you see,
I could not bear it any longer,
And broke away.... ‘Knave! Thus to wrong me!’
She yelped. ‘A pure maid’s life-quite shattered!
Such villainy! For shame! For shame!
As if my love so little mattered!
Alas! I am myself to blame;
You men, I vow, are all the same.
By thy seduction helpless rendered,
To passion wholly I surrendered....
Deceiver! Blackguard! Thou shalt know
Wbat vengeance is, just wait!...’
 
“ ‘Twas so
We parted. In these forests buried
E’er since, a hermit’s solitary
Life have I led, and of the balm
Of nature tasted, by its calm
And wisdom doctored. I’ll not tarry
Long here on earth.... To you alone
Do I impart this; know: the crone
Has not forgot her unrequited,
Scorned passion. In her soul, her blighted
And ugly soul, love’s changed to spite;
And that she’ll come to hate you, knight
As she does me, you can be sure.
But be not, I entreat you, frighted:
Griefs bound to pass, ‘twill not endure.
 
The old man’s story hungrily
Our knight took in. Enchanted by it,
He sat there rapt and clear of eye,
Untouched by sleep. The night was qui(
He never heard it winging by.
Now dawn’s bright glow the heavens graces...
With rueful smile Ruslan embraces
The mage, and, full of gratitude,
The cave leaves in a hopeful mood.
He leaps into the saddle deftly,
Grips with his legs the whinnying steed,
And with a whistle moves off swiftly.
“Be with me, Father, in my need!”
He cries. “Farewell!” Across the clearing
The answer carries, his heart cheering:
“Forgive your bride and love her, heed
My counsel, knight! Farewell! Godspeed
 
 

RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE SECOND

You whose swords clash in contest gory,
Persist in your dread rivalry;
Pay tribute full to sombre glory
And relish hate and enmity!
Let the world, gaping at your deadly
Encounters, freeze-know: none will try
To interfere; more-none will, sadly,
Of pity for you breathe a sigh.
You who compete in different fashion,
Of the remote Parnassian heights
The mettlesome and valiant knights,
Fence if you must, but with discretion,
From vulgar bickering refrain:
The herd ‘twill only entertain.
And as for you, by tender passion
Made bitter rivals, pray remain
On cordial terms-for he who’s fated
To win a maid’s love this will do
Though all mankind should lay plans to
Keep the two lovers separated....
Why fume?-It’s silly and a sin.
When bold Rogdai, his heart with dim
But chilling boding filled, had parted
From his companions three and started
Across a lonely tract of land,
As he rode swiftly o’er the woody
And silent plain, on his ills brooding,
The hapless youth could ill withstand,
So troubled were his thoughts, so painful,
The Evil Spirit’s taunting baneful,
And whispered: “Smite I shall and kill!
Bewar Ruslan, Ludmila will
Weep over you, I swear!...” And turning
His steed about, down dale, up hill
He galloped, for sweet vengeance yearning
 
Meanwhile, Farlaf, that fearless soul,
Had spent in sleep the morning whole,
And then, from noon’s hot rays well sheltered,
Beside a brook himself he settled
To dine and thus to fortify
His moral fiber. By and by
He saw a horseman in the mead
Toward him charging. Disconcerted,
The knight with quite uncommon speed
His food and all his gear deserted,
His mail, his helmet, and his spear,
And ‘thout a backward glance went flying
Off on his horse. “Stop, wretch, you hear!
The other cried, to halt him trying.
“Just let me catch you, and you’re dead-
I’ll make you shorter by a head!”
Farlaf, who found the voice belonged
To bold Rogdai, his rival, longed
The more — quite wisely-to be gone
And his horse lashed and goaded on.
So will a rabbit, danger scenting,
Stop short, and, to escape attempting,
Ears folded, by great leaps and bounds
O’er lea, wood, mound, run from the hounds.
Where passed the chase in all its glory
Spring had the snows of winter hoary
Into great, muddy torrents thawed,
And these at earth’s breast ceaseless gnawed.
 
Farlaf’s horse, now a wide ditch facing,
His tail shook mightily, and, bracing
Himself, in his teeth took the bit
And leapt across, nor was a whit
The worse for it. Not so his timid
And far less nimble rider who
Rolled down, head over heels, on to
The mud, and lay there, floundering in i
And waiting to be slain.... Rogdai
Storms up, a wrathful vision. “Die,
Poltroon!” he roars, and his swwd raises,
But then is brought up short; his gaze is
Fixed on his foe. Farlaf! Dismay,
Surprise, vexation, rage display
Themselves on his face. His teeth grinding
He swears aloud. We see him riding
Away in haste, inclined to laugh
Both at himself and at Farlaf.
 
Soon on a pathway upward winding
He met a hag with snowy hair,
A feeble, bent old thing. “Go there!”
She quavered, “That’s where you will find him!”
And with her staff she pointed north.
Rogdai felt cheered; nay, more-elated.
Quite unaware that death awaited
Him up ahead, he started forth.
 
And our Farlaf? Upon his bed
Of mud we see him breathless lie.
“Where has my rival gone? Am I
Alive,” he asks himself, “or dead?”
Then suddenly from overhead
A voice comes-it is hoarse, deep-soundins
“Rise, stalwart mine, all’s calm around you,”,
The crone says. “Here’s your charger; you
Need fear, good youth, no dangers new.”
 
At this the knight crawled slowly out
And looked around him in some doubt.
Relieved, he uttered sighing deeply:
“I do believe I got off cheaply....
The Lord be thanked! No broken bones!’
 
“Ludmila’s far away,” the crone’s
Next words were, “and though we be tempted
To try and find her, to attempt it
Is most unwise.... No, no,” she drones,
“We’ll not succeed: too many hurdles,
And, all in all, to roam the world is
A rather risky enterprise;
You’d soon regret it. I advise
You to go straightway home to Kiev;
On your estate your days you’ll spend
In ease, behind you danger leaving -
Ludmila won’t escape us, friend!”
 
With this she vanished, and our knight,
The flame of love well-nigh extinguished
And dreams of martial fame relinquished,
Set off for home. ‘Twas not yet night,
But any noise however slight,
A rustling leaf, a bird in flight,
A brook’s song put him in a sweat.
 
But let us now Farlaf forget
Across a wood we see him ride....
In thought he lovingly embraces
His only love, his fair young bride.
“My wife,” he cries, “my own Ludmila,
Will e’er I find you, dear one, will I
Your gaze full of enchantment meet
And hear your tender voice and sweet?
Say, is it in a wizard’s power
You are, and is the early bloom
Of youth to fade? Are you to sour
And wither in a dungeon’s gloom?...
Or will one of my rivals seize you
And bear you off?-Nay, love, rest easy:
My head is on my shoulders still,
And this my sword I wield with skill.”
 
One day at dusk Ruslan was riding
Along a steep and rocky shore,
The stream below in shadow hiding,
When with a whine an arrow o’er
His head flew, and behind him sounded
The clang of mail, the heavy pounding
Of hooves, a horse’s piercing neigh.
“Halt!” someone shouted. “Halt, I say!”
The knight glanced round: far out afield,
With spear raised high and ready shield,
A rider galloped whistling shrilly.
Ruslan, his heart with anger filling,
His steed turned speedily about
And charged toward his grim assailant
Who met him wdth a brazen shout:
“Aha, I’ve caught you up, my gallant!
First taste of steel, then seek your fair!”
Now, this Ruslan could little bear;
He recognized the voice and hated
The sound of it. “How dares he! I’ll-”
 
But where’s Ludmila? For a while
Let’s leave the two men; we have waited
Quite long enough, ‘tis time to turn
To our dear maid now and to learn
How she, one lovely past comparing,
Has at her captor’s hands been faring.
 
A confidant of wayward fancy,
Not always modest have I been,
And this my narrative commencing,
Dared to describe the night-cloaked scene
In which our fair Ludmila’s charms
\Vere from her husband’s eager arms
Whisked off. Poor maid! When, quick as lightening,
The villain with one movement mighty
Removed you from the bridal bed,
And like a whirlwind, skyward soaring,
Through coils of smoke charged on, ahead
Toward his kingdom’s mountains hoary,
You swooned away, but all too soon
Recovered from that welcome swoon
To find yourself, aghast, dumfounded,
By lofty castle walls surrounded.
 
Thus-it was summer-at the door
Of my house lingering, Г saw
The sultan of the henhouse chasing
One of his ladies, and moved by
Hot passion, with his wings embracing
The flustered, nervous hen.... On high
Л grey kite hovered, old marauder
Of poultry-yards; in rings o’erhead
He slowly sailed, unseen; then, boldly,
With lightning speed, dropped down, a dread
And ruthless foe, his plans death-dealing
Laid earlier.... Up soars he, sealing
The fate of his poor, helpless prey.
Clutched in his talons, far away
He bears her to the safety of
A dark crevasse. In vain, with fear
And hopeless sorrow filled, his love
The rooster calls: he sees her airy
And weightless fluff come drifting near,
By swift, cool breezes downward carried.
 
Like some dread dream, oblivion
Ludmila chains. She cannot rise
And, in a stupor, moveless lies....
The soft, grey light of early dawn
Revives her, deep within her rouses
Unconscious fear and restlessness;
Sweet thoughts of joy her heart possess,
For surely her beloved spouse is
Nearby!... “Where are you, dear one? Come!
She whispers, and-is stricken dumb.
W^here is your chamber, my Ludmila?
Poor, luckless maiden, you lie pillowed
Upon a lofty feather-bed;
On silken cushions rests your head;
The canopy that floats above you
Is tasselled, rich, and like the cover,
Patterned most prettily. Brocade
Is everywhere, and winking, blazing
Gems likewise. From fine censers made
Of gold rise balmy vapours hazy....
But ‘tis enough! This pen of mine
Must fly description-by another
Was I forestalled: Scheherezade.
And no house, be it e’er so fine,
Affords you any pleasure, mind you,
Unless your love is there beside you.
 
Just then, in garments clad air-thin,
Three comely maidens tiptoed in.
With bows for the occasion suited
Ludmila mutely they saluted,
Then one, of footstep light, drew n’
And with ethereal fingers plaited
Her silken locks, a way, I hear,
Of dressing hair that has outdated
Long since become. Upon her head
Л diadem of fine pearls setting,
She then withdrew. With softest tre
The second maid approached; ‘thout letting
Herself glance up, all modesty,
In sky-blue silk Ludmila she
Gowned quickly, and her golden tresses
Crowned with a mis-like veil that fell
About her shoulders. There-how well
It shields her, with what grace caresses
Charms for a goddess fit; her feet
Encased are in a pair of neat
And dainty shoes. The third maid brings her
A pearl-incrusted sash; unseen,
A gay-voiced songstress ballads sings her....
But neither shoes, nor gown, nor e’en
The pearly sash and diadem
The princess please; no song delights her,
Indifferent she stays to them;
In vain the looking-glass invites her
To eye her new-found finery
And revel in its wealth and splendour -
The sight seems almost to offend her:
Her gaze is blank; sad, silent she.
 
Those who love truth and like to read
The heart’s most secret book, must know
That should a lady, plunged in woe,
In spite of habit or of reason,
Oblivious of time or season,
Into a mirror through her tears
Forget to peek-well, then she is
In a most grievous state, indeed.
 
Ludmila, left alone again,
Uncertain what to do, beneath
A window stands and through the pane
Drear, boundless reaches, wondering, sees.
On carpets of eye-dazzling snow
Her gaze rests; filled is she with sadness....
Before her all is stark white deadness;
The peaks of brooding mountains show
Above the silent plains, and, sombre,
Seem wrapt in deep, eternal slumber:
No wayfarer plodding slowly past,
No smoke from out a chimney trailing,
No hunter’s horn resounding gaily
Over the snow-bound, endless waste....
Only the rebel wind’s wail dismal
At times disrupts the calm abysmal,
And etched against the sky’s bleak grey,
The nude and orphaned forests sway.
 
Despairing, tearful, poor Ludmila
Her face hides in her hands, unwilling
To think of what may be in store....
She pushes at a silver door
Which opens with a sound most pleasing;
Before her, with their beauty teasing
The eye, spread gardens that surpass
King Solomon’s in loveliness,
And e’en Armide’s and those that to
Taurida’s prince belonged. The view
Is one of trees, green arbours forming
And swaying gently; in the air
Of myrtle floats the sweet aroma;
Palms line the paths, and bays; with their
Proud crowns the mighty cedars boldly
The heavens brush; agleam with golden
Fruit are the orange groves; a pond
Mirrors it all.... The hills beyond,
The vales and copses by the blaze of
Spring are revived; the wind of May
Sweeps o’er the spellbound leas in play
In song melodious and gay
A nightingale its sweet voice raises;
Great fountains upward, to the sky,
Send sprays of gems, then down, enwreathing
The statues that, alive and breathing,
Around them stand. If Phidias’ eye
On these could rest, he, though by Pallas
And by Apollo taught, would, jealous,
His magic point and chisel drop....
In swift and fiery arcs that shatter
‘Gainst marble barriers which stop
Their headlong downward plunge and scatter
The tiny motes of pearly dust,
The waterfalls cascade, while just
A few steps farther out, in nooks
By thick trees shadowed, rippling brooks
Plash sleepily.... The vivid greenness
Is by the whiteness here and there
Flecked of the lightly-built pavilions
That offer shelter from the glare....
And roses, roses everywhere!...
But comfortless is our Ludmila,
What round her lies she does not see;
The magic garden does not thrill her
With all its sensuous luxury....
She walks all over, where she’s going
Not caring; more-not even knowing,
But weeping copious tears, her eye
Fixed sadly on the merciless sky....
Then suddenly her gaze grows brighter
And to her lip her hand flies lightly:
Despite the sparkle of the morn
A frightening thought in her is born....
The dread way’s open: death waits for her -
Above a torrent, there before her,
A bridge hangs ‘twixt two cliffs. Forlon
The hapless maid is and despondent,
She looks upon the foaming stream,
Her tears grow ever more abundant,
She strikes her heaving breast-’twould ;
She is about to jump-but no,
We see her pause ... and onward go.
 
Time passes, and Ludmila, weary,
(Too long has she been on her feet)
Feels her tears drying as the cheering
Thought comes that yes, it’s time to eat.
She drops down on the grass, looks round her,
And lo!-a tent’s cool walls surround her....
The gleam of crystal! A repast
Is set before her, unsurpassed
In choice of food. The gentle sound of
A harp steals near. But though at this
She marvels, our young princess is
Still not at peace, still sorrow-hounded.
“A captive, from my love torn, why
Should I not end it all and die?”
Thinks she. “Oh, villain, you torment me
Yet humour me: such is your whim,
But I ... I scorn you and contempt
Your wily ways. This feast you sent me,
This gauzy tent wherein I sit,
These songs, a lovelorn heart’s outpouring,
Which, for all that, are rather boring,-
In faith, I need them not a whit!
‘Tis death I choose, death!” And repeating