Works of Alexander Pushkin

by Alexander Pushkin

  For thus arrayed, she’s seen by none,

  What does Ludmila?... Silent, teary,

  She walks the garden paths alone

  And pines for Prince Ruslan, her dearly

  Beloved spouse; then, to her home

  In far-off Kiev her thoughts flying,

  She brightens and, no longer sighing,

  Embraces father, brothers, sees

  Her youthful playmates in her dreams

  And her old nannies; separation

  And thralldom suddenly forgot,

  She’s back among them all; but not

  For long does her imagination

  Bear her away with it, and soon

  Anew is she immersed in gloom....

  As for the lovesick villain’s minions,

  His orders wordless they obey

  And search the castle, the pavilions.

  The grounds ‘thout respite night and day.

  They shout, they rush about insanely,

  But all, let us admit it, vainly,

  For being an accomplished tease,

  The maid provoked them without cease.

  Before them suddenly appearing,

  She’d call out happily, “Yoo-hoo!”

  And spotting her as well as hearing

  Her voice, the slaves, a motley crew,

  Would run to catch her only to

  Seize upon empty air; her tinkling

  Laugh sounded as the cap she drew

  Down on her head, and in a twinkling

  Was gone.... Where she had passed, they knew,

  For signs of it, however fleeting,

  Were to be seen: from off a tree

  Ripe fruit might vanish, grass might be

  Left crushed and limp; that she’d been eating

  Or drinking or else resting there

  They could not help but be aware.

  A cedar or a birch provided

  The maid with shelter; on a bough

  She’d perch and try to doze, but how

  Could sleep come to a maiden blinded

  By endless tears, her heart grief-torn!...

  Against a tree trunk weakly leaning,

  She might sigh wearily and yawn

  And fall a prey to fitful dreaming....

  But when the new-born light of day

  Night’s shadows drove away, and pearly

  The skies turned, ‘neath the fall’s cool spray

  She’d wash. The dwarf, one morning early,

  Saw, upward forced by hands unseen,

  The water play, then join the stream....

  Till darkness had anew descended

  And moonbeams the lone gardens combed,

  Of spirit sore, by none attended,

  Ludmila its far reaches roamed.

  At times the echoes would be bringing

  Her sweet voice closer, softly singing.

  Threads from a Persian shawl, a leaf

  Chewed through, a tear-stained handkerchief,

  A garland by her quick hands made

  Might be found lying in a glade.

  His passion and frustration mounting.

  All else save his piqued pride discountins

  The dwarf has but a single thought:

  That the young princess must be caught.

  Thus did famed Lemnos’ hobbling smith,

  Accepting the connubial wreath

  From the unrivaled Aphrodite,

  Decide to snare her charms, delighting

  The laughing gods by showing them

  Of love the cunning stratagem.

  One day the maid sat bored and weary

  Inside a marble summer-house

  And gazed abstracted through the boughs

  Of trees by wind swayed at the cheery,

  Bloom-covered meadow just beyond.

  “My love!” she hears. Ruslan! The sound

  Of his dear voice. He’s there, in person:

  His face, his form; but dull of eye

  And pale is he, he bleeds, his thigh

  Is gashed: a wound, a bad one. “Mercy!

  Ruslan, ‘tis you!” And with a cry

  She flies to him, and, heartsore, shaking

  In tears, says to him, her voice breaking:

  “Ruslan, my husband, you are here

  And wounded, bleeding.... Oh, my dear!”

  Her arms go round him.... God in Heaven!

  What horror’s this! She cannot stir,

  She’s trapped, a net enmeshes her!...

  The cap falls off. Who is her craven

  And foul pursuer? Cold of limb,

  She hears: “She’s mine!” Her gaze grows dim....

  The dwarf, none other! Quite defenseless

  Is she again; she sees his face

  And moans, but by the good Lord’s grace

  Dreams now enfold her, she falls senseless.

  Poor child! What sight is there more chilling,

  More certain to provoke our rage!

  His brazen hand the puny mage

  Lays on the charms of young Ludmila.

  Is he-foul thought!-to taste of bliss?

  But hark! A horn sounds. What means this?

  A challenge to him? Yes! The midget’s....

  Face shows cold fear. He quails, he fidgets...

  A louder blare! Back on her head

  The magic cap he puts, and, paling,

  Is off, his beard behind him trailing,

  To meet the fate that lies ahead.

  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,

&n
bsp; 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
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  (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