Works of Alexander Pushkin (7 page)

My breath is the wind;
My bosom the ocean;
My form’s undefined;
My essence is motion.

The braggarts of science
Would weigh and divide me;
Their wisdom evading,
I vanish and hide me.

My glances are rays
From stars emanating;
My voice through the spheres
Is sound, undulating.

I am the monarch
Uniting all matter:
The atoms I gather;
The atoms I scatter.

I pulse with the tides —
Now hither, now thither;
I grant the tree sap;
I bid the bud wither.

I always am present,
Yet nothing can bind me;
Like thought evanescent,
They lose me who find me.

THE BLACK SHAWL

I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.

When young I was and full of trust
I passionately loved a young Greek girl.

The charming maid, she fondled me,
But soon I lived the black day to see.

Once as were gathered my jolly guests,
A detested Jew knocked at my door.

Thou art feasting, he whispered, with friends,
But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.

Moneys I gave him and curses,
And called my servant, the faithful.

We went; I flew on the wings of my steed,
And tender mercy was silent in me.

Her threshold no sooner I espied,
Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.

The distant chamber I enter alone —
An Armenian embraces my faithless maid.

Darkness around me: flashed the dagger;
To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.

And long I trampled the headless corpse, —
And silent and pale at the maid I stared.

I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,
But perished the girl, and with her my love.

The shawl I took from the head now dead,
And wiped in silence the bleeding steel.

When came the darkness of eve, my serf
Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.

Since then I kiss no charming eyes,
Since then I know no cheerful days.

I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.

THE OUTCAST

On a rainy autumn evening
Into desert places went a maid;
And the secret fruit of unhappy love
In her trembling hands she held.
All was still: the woods and the hills
Asleep in the darkness of the night;
And her searching glances
In terror about she cast.

And on this babe, the innocent,
Her glance she paused with a sigh:
“Asleep thou art, my child, my grief,
Thou knowest not my sadness.
Thine eyes will ope, and though with longing,
To my breast shalt no more cling.
No kiss for thee to-morrow
From thine unhappy mother.

Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,
My everlasting shame, my guilt!
Me forget thou shalt for aye,
But thee forget shall not I;
Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers;
Who’ll say: Thou art none of ours!
Thou wilt ask: Where are my parents?
But for thee no kin is found.

Hapless one! with heart filled with sorrow,
Lonely amid thy mates,
Thy spirit sullen to the end
Thou shalt behold the fondling mothers.
A lonely wanderer everywhere,
Cursing thy fate at all times,
Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear …
Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!

Asleep! let me then, O hapless one,
To my bosom press thee once for all;
A law unjust and terrible
Thee and me to sorrow dooms.
While the years have not yet chased
The guiltless joy of thy days,
Sleep, my darling; let no bitter griefs
Mar thy childhood’s quiet life!”

But lo, behind the woods, near by,
The moon brings a hut to light.
Forlorn, pale, trembling
To the doors she came nigh;
She stooped, and gently laid down
The babe on the strange threshold.
In terror away she turned her eyes
And disappeared in the darkness of the night.

THE CLOUD

O last cloud of the scattered storm,
Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;
Alone thou bringest the darkness of shadow;
Alone thou marrest the joy of the day.

Thou but recently hadst encircled the sky,
When sternly the lightning was winding about thee.
Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,
Thou hast watered with rain the parched earth.

Enough; hie thyself. Thy time hath passed.
The earth is refreshed, and the storm hath fled,
And the breeze, fondling the leaves of the trees,
Forth chases thee from the quieted heavens.

THE ANGEL

At the gates of Eden a tender Angel
With drooping head was shining;
A demon gloomy and rebellious
Over the abyss of hell was flying.

The spirit of Denial, the spirit of Doubt,
The spirit of purity espied;
And unwittingly the warmth of tenderness
He for the first time learned to know.

Adieu, he spake. Thee I saw;
Not in vain hast thou shone before me.
Not all in the world have I hated,
Not all in the world have I scorned.

THE PROPHET

Tormented by the thirst for the Spirit,
I was dragging myself in a sombre desert,
And a six-winged seraph appeared
Unto me on the parting of the roads;
With fingers as light as a dream
He touched mine eyes;
And mine eyes opened wise,
Like unto the eyes of a frightened eagle.
He touched mine ears,
And they filled with din and ringing.
And I heard the trembling of the heavens,
And the flight of the angels’ wings,
And the creeping of the polyps in the sea,
And the growth of the vine in the valley.
And he took hold of my lips,
And out he tore my sinful tongue,
With its empty and false speech.
And the fang of the wise serpent
Between my terrified lips he placed
With bloody hand.
And ope he cut my breast with a sword,
And out he took my trembling heart,
And a coal blazing with flame
He shoved into the open breast.
Like a corpse I lay in the desert;
And the voice of the Lord called unto me:
“Arise! O prophet and guide, and listen, —
Be thou filled with my will,
And going over land and sea,
Burn with the Word the hearts of men!”

THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY

Translated by William D. Lewis

Published in 1824, this narrative poem was written in the spring of 1821, after Pushkin had visited The Fountain of Tears at the Khan Palace in Bakhchisaray.  The poem has since inspired several musical compositions, including Boris Asafyev’s 1934 ballet and Alexander Ilyinsky’s 1911 opera of the same name.

The title page of the poem’s first edition

CONTENTS

THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI

TARTAR SONG.

‘Pushkin in Bakhchisaray Palace’ by Grigory Chernetsov

THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAI

A Tale of the Tauride

Mute sat Giray, with downcast eye,
  As though some spell in sorrow bound him,
His slavish courtiers thronging nigh,
  In sad expectance stood around him.
The lips of all had silence sealed,
  Whilst, bent on him, each look observant,
  Saw grief’s deep trace and passion fervent
Upon his gloomy brow revealed.
  But the proud Khan his dark eye raising,
  And on the courtiers fiercely gazing,
Gave signal to them to begone!
The chief, unwitnessed and alone,
  Now yields him to his bosom’s smart,
Deeper upon his brow severe
  Is traced the anguish of his heart;
As full fraught clouds on mirrors clear
  Reflected terrible appear!

What fills that haughty soul with pain?
  What thoughts such madd’ning tumults cause?
With Russia plots he war again?
  Would he to Poland dictate laws?
Say, is the sword of vengeance glancing?
  Does bold revolt claim nature’s right?
  Do realms oppressed alarm excite?
Or sabres of fierce foes advancing?
Ah no! no more his proud steed prancing
  Beneath him guides the Khan to war,--
  Such thoughts his mind has banished far.

Has treason scaled the harem’s wall,
Whose height might treason’s self appal,
And slavery’s daughter fled his power,
To yield her to the daring Giaour?

No! pining in his harem sadly,
No wife of his would act so madly;
  To wish or think they scarcely dare;
By wretches, cold and heartless, guarded,
Hope from each breast so long discarded;
  Treason could never enter there.
Their beauties unto none revealed,
  They bloom within the harem’s towers,
  As in a hot-house bloom the flowers
Which erst perfumed Arabia’s field.
To them the days in sameness dreary,
  And months and years pass slow away,
In solitude, of life grown weary,
  Well pleased they see their charms decay.
Each day, alas! the past resembling,
  Time loiters through their halls and bowers;
In idleness, and fear, and trembling,
  The captives pass their joyless hours.
The youngest seek, indeed, reprieve
Their hearts in striving to deceive
Into oblivion of distress,
By vain amusements, gorgeous dress,
  Or by the noise of living streams,
In soft translucency meand’ring,
  To lose their thoughts in fancy’s dreams,
Through shady groves together wand’ring.
  But the vile eunuch too is there,
In his base duty ever zealous,
  Escape is hopeless to the fair
From ear so keen and eye so jealous.
  He ruled the harem, order reigned
Eternal there; the trusted treasure
  He watched with loyalty unfeigned,
His only law his chieftain’s pleasure,
  Which as the Koran he maintained.
His soul love’s gentle flame derides,
And like a statue he abides
  Hatred, contempt, reproaches, jests,
Nor prayers relax his temper rigid,
  Nor timid sighs from tender breasts,
To all alike the wretch is frigid.
  He knows how woman’s sighs can melt,
  Freeman and bondman he had felt
Her art in days when he was younger;
  Her silent tear, her suppliant look,
  Which once his heart confiding shook,
Now move not,--he believes no longer!

When, to relieve the noontide heat,
  The captives go their limbs to lave,
And in sequestered, cool retreat
  Yield all their beauties to the wave,
No stranger eye their charms may greet,
  But their strict guard is ever nigh,
  Viewing with unimpassioned eye
  These beauteous daughters of delight;
  He constant, even in gloom of night,
Through the still harem cautious stealing,
  Silent, o’er carpet-covered floors,
  And gliding through half-opened doors,
From couch to couch his pathway feeling,
  With envious and unwearied care
  Watching the unsuspecting fair;
And whilst in sleep unguarded lying,
Their slightest movement, breathing, sighing,
  He catches with devouring ear.
O! curst that moment inauspicious
  Should some loved name in dreams be sighed,
Or youth her unpermitted wishes
  To friendship venture to confide.

What pang is Giray’s bosom tearing?
  Extinguished is his loved
chubouk
,
Whilst or to move or breathe scarce daring,
  The eunuch watches every look;
Quick as the chief, approaching near him,
  Beckons, the door is open thrown,
And Giray wanders through his harem
  Where joy to him no more is known.
Near to a fountain’s lucid waters
Captivity’s unhappy daughters
  The Khan await, in fair array,
Around on silken carpets crowded,
Viewing, beneath a heaven unclouded,
With childish joy the fishes play
And o’er the marble cleave their way,
Whose golden scales are brightly glancing,
And on the mimic billows dancing.
  Now female slaves in rich attire
Serve sherbet to the beauteous fair,
  Whilst plaintive strains from viewless choir
Float sudden on the ambient air.