Works of Alexander Pushkin (21 page)

RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FIFTH

How dear my princess is, one bows
‘Fore her, to sing her praises anxious:
She is so tender, unpretentious,
So faithful to her marriage vows;
Capricious, yes, but not unduly,
Which makes her only sweeter, truly.
Her ways delight us, they endear
Her to us, leaving us enchanted.
How to compare her with Delphire
Who’s so unfeeling, so flint-hearted!
By fate endowed has been the first
With mien and manner most beguiling;
To hear her speak, to see her smiling
Makes one’s heart throb, with love athirst.
Delphire now, spurs and whiskers added,
Would make a true Hussar. But stay!
Blest is he who at end of day
Has a Ludmila waiting for him
In some lone nook, and from her hears
That he’s her love, that she adores him.
And likewise blest is a Delphire’s
Admirer who is too clear-headed
To court her long and runs away.
But let’s not stray too far. Come, say,
\Vho was it that the dwarf invited
So daringly to fight him? Who
Defiantly the trumpet blew
And by its sound the villain frightened ?-
Ruslan. Afire with vengeance, he
Has reached the midget’s castle. See?
Beneath the palisades he’s halted;
The trumpet’s sound comes storm-like, loud,
The steed paws at the snowy ground;
The prince awaits the dwarf. A bolt of
What seems like thunder deafens him.
A crushing blow! It has descended
Upon his helmet. Though defended
By this his head is, yet with dim,
Dull sight it is he upward gazes
And sees the dwarf above him fly,
A mammoth bludgeon lifted high.
Ruslan bends down, his great shield raises
And waves his sword, but Chernomor
Sweeps upward; then, appearing o’er
The prince again and downward swooping
He flies straight at him, whereupon
The latter feints, his rival duping,
And down the midget falls, straight on
The well-packed snow, with fear nigh frozen.
Ruslan dismounts, and, never pausing,
The space between them neatly cleared,
Grabs the magician by the beard!
The captive grunts and strains, and, heaving
Himself from off the bank of snow,
Sails skyward with our hero, leaving
The knight’s astonished steed below.
They’re ‘neath the clouds, Ruslan still gripping
The beard and swinging in the air.
O’er seas and forests, o’er the bare
And rugged hills, their summits tipping,
The dwarf wings, and the stalwart knight,
Though numb and stiff his hand is growing,
Holds dogged on. The dwarf is quite
Used up by now and winded. Slowing
His progress through the air at length,
Amazed and awed by Russian strength,
He turns to our young knight and slyly
Says to him: “Prince, I’ll do you ill
 
No more; in faith, I value highly
Young valour such as yours and will
Descend at once-on one condition....”
“Be silent, dastardly magician!”
Ruslan exclaims. “I will not treat
With my beloved bride’s tormentor,
Nor into any dealings enter
With you! This sword-’tis only meet
Will punish you, and this most surel’
All of your wiles will serve you poorly!
Fly to the stars, if you so choose,
And still your whiskers you will lose!”
A horrid fear the wizard seizes,
In vain to free himself he tries,
The prince’s grip is like a vise,
He tweaks the beard, and, gleeful, teases
The dwarf by plucking out the hairs
For two whole days the midget bear
Ruslan, but on the third, a’quiver
With fright, he cries: “Have mercy, pray!
I’ve no breath left at all. Deliver
Me from this plight without delay.
I’m in your hands. Where’er you say
We will alight.” “Aha, you shiver!
Well, then, admit you’re overcome
By Russian strength! And, villain, come,
To my Ludmila quickly take me!”
 
What is old Chernomor to do?
Obedience is his rival’s due!
And so he’s off, quite ill and shaken
And flying home. Midst hills of ice
He sets the prince down. In a trice
Ruslan the Head’s sword raises briskly
With one strong hand; then, ‘thout delay,
The other using, grasps the whiskers
And cuts them off like so much hay.
“There now,” he tells him, “that will teach you!
Where is that handsome tuft you prize
Your strength and pride, you thieving creature?”
And to his helm the dwarfs beard ties.
He calls his bay who joins him, neighing,
Into a bag the pasty-faced
And half-dead wizard stuffs in haste,
The dancing steed no longer staying,
And starts uphill. The top. They ride
Up to the massive palace portal.
Ruslan-there is no happier mortal-
In hot impatience steps inside.
The throng of Moors and slave girls, seeing
His helm with beard graced, know the knight
To be the victor and are fleeing
Before him, fading out of sight
Like ghosts. Ruslan from hall to hall
Strides all alone; we hear him call
To his young spouse-the echo answers....
Is she not in the necromancer’s
Great castle, then? The garden door
He opens wide, all expectation,
And on walks fast. His eye sweeps o’er
The empty grounds in agitation:
All’s dead, naught stirs, still are the groves,
The leafy arbours and the coves;
The river banks, the slopes-deserted,
The valleys too.... He’s disconcerted,
For nowhere e’en a trace is there
Of her he seeks, nor can he hear
The slightest sound. There passes through him
A sudden chill, the world grows dark
About him, and bleak thoughts come to him:
“Captivity.... of grief the mark....
A moment, and the waves-” These fancies,
How dismal they! His head hung, he
Stands like a rock there movelessly....
His very reason clouds, his senses
Fail him. He’s all ablaze, he flames;
Despairing love’s dark poison surges,
A mighty torrent, in his veins.
Is’t not his lady who emerges
From darkness, is’t not she who clings
To him?... He roars her name, he flings
Himself about, and, frenzied, raving,
His sword in mad abandon waving,
At boulders strikes and makes them roll
Downhill, and hacking, mowing, slashing,
Pavilions to the ground sends crashing,
Reduces grove and lea and knoll
To barren wastes, and tumbles bridges
Into the streams. The distant ridges
Send back the clang, the boom, the din;
Ruslan’s sword sings and whistles. Grim
The scene is: all is devastation;
Insensed and maddened, our young knigt
A victim seeks; on left and right
His sword the air cuts ‘thout cessation....
Then all at once a chance thrust sends
The midget’s magic headdress flying
From off his captive’s brow; so ends
The spell cast on her. ‘Fore him lying,
Enmeshed, Ruslan Ludmila sees.
He does not trust his eyes, he is
O’ercome by happiness, and, falling
At his bride’s feet, tears up the nets,
And with his tears her limp hands wets,
And kisses them, her dear name calling.
But closed her lips are and her eyes,
And sensuous are the dreams she’s seeing
That make her bosom sink and rise.
Fresh sorrow fills our knight’s whole beir
What means this sleep? Is she perchance
To be forever in a trance?...
But hark!-a friend’s voice.... ‘Tis the Finn,i
His councillor, who speaks to him:
 
“Take heart, O Prince! Upon your way
For home set off with fair Ludmila
And, strength of purpose your heart filling,
To love and honour faithful stay.
God’s bolt will strike, defeating malice;
You shall know peace, all will be well.
In Kiev, in Vladimir’s palace,
Your bride will wake, free of her spell.”
 
Ruslan, much cheered, no longer weary,
Lifts up his calmly sleeping bride,
And down a slope we see him guide
His horse and leave the mountain eyrie.
 
The midget to his saddle tied,
Across a vale, across a forest
He hurries, by no rival harassed.
In his arms his love rests, a precious
And welcome burden. Oh, how fresh is
Her face! The vernal dawn can be
No more so. ‘Gainst her husband’s shoulder
It rests, all sweet serenity....
The wind born in the barrens boldly
Plucks at her silky golden hair.
She sighs, the roses on her fair
Young cheeks play. Her beloved’s name
She whispers; ‘tis her dreams that bring her
His image and her heart inflame;
On her lips love’s avowals linger.
And he-he’s all fond contemplation
(The sight of her his spirit cheers) -
Oh, that sweet smile, those glistening tears,
That lovely bosom’s agitation!...
 
Meanwhile, by day, by night they journey
Up hill, down dale, but still unspanned
The distance is, still far the land
Which to behold Ruslan is yearning.
The maid sleeps on.... Did our young knight,
By fruitless, unassuaged desire
Worn-for it seems like years-not tire
Of guarding her? Did he delight
In virtuous dreams, immodest longing
Subduing and in no way wronging
His drowsy charge? So told are we
By one, a monk, who put in writing
The story of the prince, inviting
Inquisitive posterity
To profit by’t. And I-I fully
Believe the annalist, for, truly,
What’s love unshared?-An irksome thing
That can but little pleasure bring.
Ludmila’s sleep did not resemble
Yours in the least, nymphs of the mead,
When languid springtime’s call you heed
And in the cooling shade assemble
Of leafv trees.... I well recall
That happy day in early summer,
A tiny glade at evenfall,
And lovely Lida feigning slumber...
That kiss of mine, so light, so shy,
So hurried, young love’s fresh, sweet token,
Could not awake the maid; unbroken
It left her sleep.... But, reader, why
Do I talk nonsense? Why this needless
Remembrance of a love long dead?
Forgot its joys, its pain, its heedless
And trying ways. To speak I’m led
Of those not long from my thoughts gone:
Ludmila, Chernomor, Ruslan.
 
A vale before them spreads; upon it
Rise clumps of spruces, and a mound
Looms farther out, its strangely round
And very dark and gloomy summit
Against the bright blue sky outlined.
Our youthful knight at once divined
That ‘twas the Head before them showin;
The steed speeds on, more restive growing;
Across the plain its great hooves thunder....
And lo!-they’re close, they’re nearly there;
Before them is the nine days’ wonder,
It fixes them with glassy stare.
It is a thing repulsive, horrid:
Its inky hair falls on its forehead;
Drenched of all life, the hue of lead
Its face is, while the huge lips, parted,
And, like the cheeks, of colour bled,
Disclose clenched teeth; over the Head
Its hour of doom hangs. Our brave-hearted
And doughty knight rides up and faces
Its sightless gaze; the midget graces
The horse’s rump. “Hail, Head!” Ruslan
Cries loudly, for the Head to hear him.
“He who betrayed you is undone!
Look! Here he is, none now need fear him!”
These words the Head revivified
And in it roused new, fresh-born feeling.
It looked dow^n at them, and, revealing
All of its anguish, moaned and sighed.
Our hero it had recognized,
And at the midget, nostrils swelling,
Stared, full of venom undisguised.
A fiery red its pale cheeks turned,
And in its death-glazed eyes there burned
A fury fierce and all-compelling.
In towering rage, incensed, confused,
It gnashed its giant teeth, and stuttered,
And smothered imprecations muttered,
And with its slowing tongue abused
Its hated brother.... But the pain,
Prolonged as it had been, was ceasing;
The dark, flushed face turned pale again,
And weaker grew the heavy breathing.
Its eyes rolled back, and soon Ruslan
And magus knew that all was over:
A spasm, and the Head was gone.
The knight rode off at once, much sobered;
As for the dwarf, he did not dare
To breathe, and, all his past strength losing,
To fiends in hell addressed a prayer,
The language of black magic using.
 
Where a small nameless streamlet wound,
Upon the sloping bank above it,
By dark and shaded forest covered,
There stood, nigh sunk into the ground,
A run-down hut. Thick pine-trees shaded
Its roof. The waters, somnolent,
Licked lazily at a much faded
And worn-down fence of reeds and went
With gentle murmur round it snaking;
The breeze Ые-w softly, only making
A faint sound.... There it was that spread
A vale, and such was its seclusion,
It gave one the distinct illusion
That an unbroken silence had
Here from the birth of Time been reigning.
Ruslan now stopped his horse. The weaning
And peaceful night to morn gave way;
The grove and valley sparkling lay
“Neath veils of haze. His sleeping bride
The prince laid on the grass, and, seating
Himself beside her, close, he sighed
And looked at her, his young heart beating
With dulcet hope. Just then a boat’s
White sail he glimpses, and there float
A fisher’s song above the water
That drowns its gentler voice and sofu
The man has cast his nets, and, bendi
With zeal and promptness to the oar,
His humble vessel now is sending
Straight for the hut perched on the shore,
The good prince shades his eyes and watches:
There now-the boat the green bank touches,
And from the hut there hurries out
A sweet young maid; her hair about
Her shoulders loosely falls, she’s slender
And bare of breast, her smile is tender,
She’s charm itself. The two embrace
And on the bank sit, taking pleasure
In one another, in this place,
And in a quiet hour of leisure.
But whom to his intense surprise
Does Prince Ruslan now recognize
In this young fisherman? Dear Heaven!
It is Ratmir! Yes, it is he,
A man for exploit born, and even
For fame itself, one of his three
Sworn rivals. On this halcyon shore
He turned to fair Ludmila faithless,
And for his new love’s warm embraces
Relinquished fame for ever more.
 
Ruslan came up to him, astounded;
The recluse khan his rival knew.
A cry, and to the prince he flew
And joyous threw his arms around him
“You here, Ratmir? Lay you no claim
To greater things?” our hero asked hin
“Have you found life like ours too tasking
Thus to reject your knightly fame?”
“In truth, Ruslan,” replied the khan,
“War and its phantom glory bore me;
Behind me have I left my stormy,
Tumultuous years. This peace, this calm,
And love, and pastimes innocent
Bring me a hundred-fold more gladness
 
My lust for combat being spent,
No tribute do I pay to madness;
Rich am I, friend, in happiness,
And have all else forgot, yes, even