Works of Alexander Pushkin (9 page)

At length th’exhausted Khan returned,
  Enough of waste his sword had dealt,
The Russian cot no longer burned,
  Nor Caucasus his fury felt.
In token of Maria’s loss
  A marble fountain he upreared
In spot recluse;--the Christian’s cross
  Upon the monument appeared,
(Surmounting it a crescent bright,
  Emblem of ignorance and night!)
Th’inscription mid the silent waste
Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced,
  Still do the gurgling waters pour
Their streams dispensing sadness round,
  As mothers weep for sons no more,
In never-ending sorrows drowned.
  In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,)
Roam where this monument appears,
  And pitying poor Maria’s fate
  Entitle it the FOUNT OF TEARS!

My native land abandoned long,
I sought this realm of love and song.
Through Bakchesaria’s palace wandered,
Upon its vanished greatness pondered;
  All silent now those spacious halls,
And courts deserted, once so gay
  With feasters thronged within their walls,
Carousing after battle fray.
  Even now each desolated room
And ruined garden luxury breathes,
  The fountains play, the roses bloom,
The vine unnoticed twines its wreaths,
  Gold glistens, shrubs exhale perfume.
The shattered casements still are there
  Within which once, in days gone by,
Their beads of amber chose the fair,
  And heaved the unregarded sigh;
The cemetery there I found,
  Of conquering khans the last abode,
Columns with marble turbans crowned
  Their resting-place the traveller showed,
And seemed to speak fate’s stern decree,
“As they are now such all shall be!”
Where now those chiefs? the harem where?
Alas! how sad scene once so fair!
Now breathless silence chains the air!
  But not of this my mind was full,
The roses’ breath, the fountains flowing,
The sun’s last beam its radiance throwing
 Around, all served my heart to lull
Into forgetfulness, when lo!
A maiden’s shade, fairer than snow,
  Across the court swift winged its flight;--
  Whose shade, oh friends! then struck my sight?
  Whose beauteous image hovering near
  Filled me with wonder and with fear?
Maria’s form beheld I then?
  Or was it the unhappy Zarem,
Who jealous thither came again
  To roam through the deserted harem?
That tender look I cannot flee,
Those charms still earthly still I see!

He who the muse and peace adores,
  Forgetting glory, love, and gold,
Again thy ever flowery shores
  Soon, Salgir! joyful shall behold;
The bard shall wind thy rocky ways
  Filled with fond sympathies, shall view
  Tauride’s bright skies and waves of blue
With greedy and enraptured gaze.
  Enchanting region! full of life
Thy hills, thy woods, thy leaping streams,
  Ambered and rubied vines, all rife
With pleasure, spot of fairy dreams!
  Valleys of verdure, fruits, and flowers,
  Cool waterfalls and fragrant bowers!
All serve the traveller’s heart to fill
  With joy as he in hour of morn
  By his accustomed steed is borne
In safety o’er dell, rock, and hill,
  Whilst the rich herbage, bent with dews,
Sparkles and rustles on the ground,
  As he his venturous path pursues
Where AYOUDAHGA’S crags surround!

THE GIPSIES

Translated by Charles Edward Turner

This narrative poem was originally written in 1824 and published in 1827. Composed during Pushkin’s exile in the south of the Russian Empire,
The Gipsies
is one of his most popular poems, which has been praised for its originality and handling of psychological and moral issues, serving to inspire many operas and ballets, as well as other contemporary poets.

The Gipsies
opens in Bessarabia, modern day Romania, with a colourful and lively description of a gipsy camp’s activities.  Written almost entirely in iambic tetrameter, the narrative poem introduces an old man waiting for his daughter Zemfira to return home, while his dinner grows cold. When she arrives, she announces that she has brought Aleko with her, an exile who has fled the city, because the law is pursuing him.

Bessarabia, at the time of the poem’s setting

THE GIPSIES

I.

In noisy crowds the gipsies bold
Their way through Bessarabia tramp;
To-day they pitch their camp and set
Their tattered tents by river-side.
As free as bird, they choose their haunt,
And peaceful sleep ‘neath open sky.
From midst the wheels of waggon-vans,
Half-covered with thick canvas roofs,
Curls high the flame, and round the fire
Within their tent the family group
Prepare with care the evening meal.
In open field the horses graze;
Beyond the tent the tamed bear lies;
And all is gay along the steppe
With busy cares of household life,
With women’s songs, and children’s laugh,
And measured beat of blacksmith’s stroke,
As they prepare for morrow’s march.
And now, o’er all the nomad camp
Unbroken silence calmly reigns,
And naught is heard on tranquil steppe,
Save bark of hound or neighing steed.
Throughout the camp the fires are quenched,
. And all is peace. The moon, sole queen
In heaven’s expanse, sheds forth her rays,
And bathes the sleeping camp in light.
All sleep, save one old man who sits
Before the half-extinguished fire
And warms himself with its last heat.
And oft he scans the fields remote,
Enwrapt in evening’s soft, white mist.
His daughter young and fair is wont
In all to have her way, and now
Has gone to stroll the lonely fields.
She will come back; but it is late,
And o’er the moon the clouds or night
Already gather thick and fast.
But no Zemphire returns: meanwhile,
The old man’s modest meal grows cold.

At last she comes, and close behind
Follows along her path a youth,
A stranger to the gipsy sire.
“See, father mine”, the maiden said,
“I bring a guest; beyond the mounds
I found him lost on the wild steppe,
And refuge in our camp I offered.
He lies beneath the ban of law,
But Ï have sworn to be his friend;
Aleko is his name, and he,
Where’er I go, will follow me.”

OLD MAN.
I welcome thee. Remain the night
Beneath the shelter of our tent;
Or, if thou wilt, stay longer here,
As thou thinkst fit, for I consent
Our board and roof with thee to share.
Be one of us, and learn our fate
To bear, the fate of vagrants poor,
But free, and with the early dawn
Shalt find a place with us in van,
And prove what trade art skilled to ply:
The iron forge.... or sing a song,
And show the villagers our bear.

ALEKO.
I will remain.

ZEMPHIRE.
He shall be mine:
And who shall chase him from my side?
But it grows late; the crescent moon
Has set; the fields drink in the mist;
And heavy sleep weighs down mine eyes.

II.

Tis dawn. Around the sleepy tent
With watchful steps the old man strolls.
“Arise, Zemphire, the sun is up;
Awake, my. guest, ‘tis time to march:
Quick, children, quit the couch of ease!
With busy haste they all start up;
The tents are raised; the waggon-vans
Stand ready for the long day’s inarch.
At given sign the swarming crowds
Begin to make their slow descent
Through steep defiles precipitous.
In hand tilt-carts the asses draw
Their close-packed loads of children gay;
And mingling groups of old and young
In orderly disorder move.
Loud cries, and shouts, and gipsy songs;
The bear’s low growl, and frequent creak
Of his impatient, irksome chain;
The particoloured, tattered robes;
Shoeless men half-clad and children;
The angry bark and howl of dogs;
The noisy bagpipe’s piercing notes;
The grating harsh of turning wheels.
A picture wild and dissonant,
But all alert and full of soul;
Unlike our world’s benumbing ease,
Unlike the barren life of town,
A life as dull as chant of slaves.

III.

With weary glance the youth looks back
Upon the now unpeopled plain;
Nor can he yet the secret cause
Of grief that fills his heart discern.
Beside him lies the black-eyed maid;
Lord of himself, lives as he will;
And o’er him shines the glowing sun
In his rounded midday beauty.
What, then, torments his youthful soul?
What care disturbs his restless heart?

The bird of air is free and knows
Nor anxious toil nor daily care;
Nor fretsome seeks to weave a nest,
That shall defy the ages’ wear;
But on the branch the long night sleeps,
Till sun shall don his morning robe,
And then, responsive to God’s call,
With quickened thrill sings out his song.
When spring, fair nature’s darling child,
Gives place to sultry summer’s heat,
And later autumn brings its due,
Dark clouds, and mists, and frequent rains,
Men’s hopes fall low, and they are drear;
The bird to other distant lands,
To warmer shores and bluer seas,
Will fly, and wait return of spring.

Like the bird that is free from care,
An exile lone, bird of passage,
He knew not where to lay his head,
Nor was there aught to touch his soul.
To him the world lay open wide,
Nor cared he where he strayed or slept;
But each new day he freely left
To fate’s disposal and control.
The changes and alarms of life
Thus failed to break his peace of mind.
At times, the far-off star of fame
Would tempt him leave his ease, and climb;
 In vain, the world before him spread
Its idle pomps and pleasures vile;
Not seldom o’er his lonely head
The thunder roared and threat’ning broke;
But naught he recked of tempests rude,
And dozed alike in storm and calm;
He lived his life, nor recognised
The power of blind and cunning fate.
But, God: what passions wild have stormed
Aleko’s seeming tranquil breast!
With what mad fury have they raged,
And torn in twain his wounded soul!
And thinks he to have tamed them now?
They shall awake, their hour will come!

IV.

ZEMPH1RE.
But say, my friend, dost not regret
The world tnou hast behind thee left?

ALEKO.
And what is there to leave?

ZEMPHIRE.
Thou knowst:
Country, friends and native city.

ALEKO.
Wherefore regret? Ah, didst thou know,
Couldst but once conceive or measure
The vileness of their stifling town!
Where men do herd in crowds, nor breathe
The morning fresh, or mountain free.
Or scent of spring on meadow sweet;
Are shamed of love, and banish thought,
Consent to sell their freedom dear,
To, fetish idols bow their heads,
Will sue for pelf, and hug their chains.
What have I left? The falser’s lie
The smirking bigot’s narrow creed.
The senseless hate of unwashed mob,
Rank, orders, title, bought with shame.

ZEMPHIRE.
But there are mansions vast and rich,
There are carpets varicoloured,
There are balls and banquets gayest,
And there are jewelled maidens fair.

ALEKO.
What gain can bring the to wn’s mad Joys?
Where love reigns not, joy cannot be.
Better far than all their maidens,
Art thou, Zemphire, though poorly clad,
Of jewels and of necklace bare!
Change not, my true and faithful friend,
And I’ll keep true to my sole wish,
With thee will share my love, my cares,
My life, in willing banishment

OLD MAN.
I see, thou lovst us and our folk,
Though bora amidst a people rich;But freedom is not alway’s dear
To him who has been born in ease.
Amongst us runs a legend old:
From southern climes was banished once
A stranger to our land.... his name
I knew, but have forgotten since....
He was already old in years,
But still was young in heart and soul;
Possessed the wondrous gift of song,
And voice like murmur of the waves.
And all who knew him loved him well,
And on the Danube’s shore he lived,
Offended none, and none despised,
Enchanting all with song divine;
Was not proud, nor reasoned wisely,
But weak and timid, like a child.
For him our folk would hunt the beast,
Or trap the fish in close-knit net;
And when the river swift would freeze,
And wintry winds began to howl,
For him, their aged favourite,
They deftly stitched warm skins of fur.
For he was strange to petty toil
And all the tasks of daily life,
And lived a wand’rer pale and poor.
An angry god had punished him,
He said, for some offence and crime.
And now he prayed that death might come;
And as he roamed the Danube shore,
His grief he shared with its blue waves,
And oft would shed hot, burning tears,
At thought of his far-distant home.
And ere he died, he prayed that we
His body to the south would bring;
For never could he sleep in peace,
Unless in his dear earth he lay,
His home once more his native land.