Works of Alexander Pushkin

by Alexander Pushkin

  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 y
ou

  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

  The word again, the maid starts... eating.

  Ludmila rises; in a twinkling

  Gone are the tent and rich repast;

  The harp is silenced, not a tinkling

  Disturbs the calm.... On walks she, past

  The greening groves and round them wanders,

&
nbsp; While high above the wizard’s gardens

  The moon appears, of night the queen,

  And in the heavens reigns supreme.

  From every side soft mists come drifting

  And on the hilltops seek repose.

  Our princess feels inclined to doze,

  And is by some strange powers lifted

  As gently as by spring’s own breeze

  And carried through the air with ease

  Back to the chamber richly scented

  With rose oil, and put down again

  Upon the couch where, grief-tormented,

  She lay before. And now the same

  Three youthful maidens reappear

  And, round her bustling, they unfasten

  Hooks and the like of them and hasten

  To take her raiments off. They wear

  An anxious look; of mute compassion

  Their aspect leaves a faint impression

  And of a dull reproach to fate.

  But let’s not tarry more: ‘tis late,

  And fair Ludmila is by tender

  And skillful hands by now undressed.

  Robed in a snowy shift that renders

  Her charms more charming still, to rest

  She lays her down. The three maids, sighing,

  Back out with bows, the door is shut.

  What does our captive?-Lies there, but

  Shakes leaf-like, and, sleep from her flying,

  Feels chilled and dares not breathe. Her gaze

  Bedimmed by fear, she moveless stays

  And tense, with all her being trying

  To penetrate the voiceless gloom,

  The numbing stillness of the room;

  Her heart throbs wildly, fitfully,

  An agitated, endless thru nming....

  The silence seems to whisper; she

  Hears someone to her bedside coming

  And in her pillows hides, and oh!-

  The horror of it-footsteps.... No!

  It cannot be, she must be dreaming.

  The door swings open; there’s a flare

  Of light, and silent, pair by pair,

  file of Moors, their sabres gleaming,

  Steps in with even, measured stride.

  A look most grave and solemn wearing,

  On downy pillows they are bearing

  A silver beard. Puffed up with pride,

  A pose assuming grand and stately,

  Behind it marches in sedately

  A hunchbacked dwarf, chin high. It is

  To him the beard belongs. On his

  Clean-shaven pate a tall, close-fitting

  Tarbush. wound round with cloth, is sitting.

  He nears her, and Ludmila, led

  By shock and fright, flies off her bed

  And at him, and his cap she clutches,

  And lifts a shaking fist, no doubt