THE WORKS OF
ALEXANDER PUSHKIN
(1799-1837)
Contents
The Poetry
SHORT POEMS
THE FOUNTAIN OF BAKHCHISARAY
THE GIPSIES
POLTAVA
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN
RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Verse Novel
EUGENE ONEGIN
The Short Stories and Unfinished Novels
PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO
MARIE
THE SHOT
THE SNOWSTORM
THE UNDERTAKER
THE POSTMASTER
MISTRESS INTO MAID
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
KIRDJALI
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
EGYPTIAN NIGHTS
DUBROVSKY
The Plays
BORIS GODUNOV
THE STONE GUEST
MOZART AND SALIERI
The Criticism
THE ROMANTIC POETS: POUSHKIN by Rosa Newmarch
POUSHKIN: HIS WORKS by Rosa Newmarch
LECTURES ON RUSSIAN LITERATURE: PUSHKIN by Ivan Panin
The Biography
A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN by Henry Spalding
© Delphi Classics 2012
Version 1
THE WORKS OF
ALEXANDER PUSHKIN
By Delphi Classics, 2012
The Poetry
Baumanskaya Ulitsa, Moscow, Pushkin’s birthplace
A memorial bust marking Pushkin’s birthplace; the house has been demolished and a school now stands in its place.
Pushkin’s father, Sergei Lvovich Pushkin (1767–1848), was from a distinguished family of the Russian nobility, tracing its ancestry back to the 12th century.
Pushkin’s mother, Nadezhda Ossipovna Gannibal (1775–1836), was descended from German and Scandinavian nobility.
SHORT POEMS
Translated by Charles Edward Turner, George Borrow and Ivan Panin
Universally revered as the greatest of all the Russian poets and the founder of his country’s modern literature, Pushkin was born into the nobility in Moscow in 1799. Although destined to have a tragically short life, Pushkin had published his first poem at the age of fifteen and he was already widely recognised as being a poetic genius at the time of his graduation from the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum.
For much of his literary career, Pushkin was censored under the strict surveillance of the Tsar’s political police and he was often unable to publish his works. His political poems led to an interrogation by the Petersburg governor-general and the great poet even endured exile to his mother’s rural estate in Mikhailovskoe from 1824 to 1826.
Pushkin is celebrated for having developed a highly nuanced level of language that went on to influence the course of Russia literature. He is also credited for augmenting the Russian lexicon, much like how Shakespeare influenced the English language. Pushkin’s fashioning of new words, his use of rich vocabulary and his highly sensitive handling of style all laid the foundations for what we now consider to be modern Russian literature. In spite of his brief life, Pushkin bequeathed to posterity works of almost every literary genre, spanning lyric poetry, narrative poetry, unfinished novels, short stories, plays, critical essays and literary epistles.
In this section, readers can explore a selection of some of the poet’s finest lyrical poems, including To K —— , now widely regarded as being the most famous Russian poem. Pushkin’s short poems feature a large variety of themes, with personal, humorous and political works, as well as some of the most beauty love poetry ever written.
The Epiphany Cathedral, Moscow, where Pushkin was christened
Pushkin, c.1801
CONTENTS
TO —— (KERN)
К ***
TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON
Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow
THE DREAMER
THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH
I HAVE OUTLIVED MY EVERY WISH
TO THE SEA
ELEGY
VAIN GIFT, GIFT OF CHANCE
DROWNED
THE UNWASHED
A WINTER MORNING
THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT
A STUDY
TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA
GOD GRANT, MY REASON NE’ER BETRAY ME
THE TALISMAN
THE MERMAID
ANCIENT RUSSIAN SONG
Poems Translated by Ivan Panin
POEMS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL
MON PORTRAIT
MY PEDIGREE
MY MONUMENT
MY MUSE
POEMS OF LOVE
THE STORM-MAID
THE BARD
SPANISH LOVE-SONG
LOVE
JEALOUSY
IN AN ALBUM
THE AWAKING
ELEGY: HAPPY WHO TO HIMSELF CONFESS
FIRST LOVE
ELEGY: HUSHED I SOON SHALL BE
THE BURNT LETTER
SING NOT, BEAUTY
SIGNS
A PRESENTIMENT
IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND
LOVE’S DEBT
INVOCATION
ELEGY: THE EXTINGUISHED JOY OF CRAZY YEARS
SORROW
DESPAIR
A WISH
RESIGNED LOVE
LOVE AND FREEDOM
NOT AT ALL
INSPIRING LOVE
THE GRACES
POEMS MISCELLANEOUS
THE BIRDLET
THE NIGHTINGALE
THE FLOWERET
THE HORSE
TO A BABE
THE POET
SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!
THE THREE SPRINGS
THE TASK
SLEEPLESSNESS
QUESTIONINGS
CONSOLATION
FRIENDSHIP
FAME
HOME-SICKNESS
INSANITY
DEATH-THOUGHTS
RIGHTS
THE GYPSIES
THE DELIBASH
HYMN TO FORCE
THE BLACK SHAWL
THE OUTCAST
THE CLOUD
THE ANGEL
THE PROPHET
Pushkin, aged 20
TO —— (KERN)
This poem was written in July 1825 and dedicated to Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879). It has the distinction of being labelled the most famous poem in the Russian language. This anonymous translation is followed by the original Russian text and then a comparison of the two texts.
I still recall the marvellous moment:
When you appeared before my gaze
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like soul of the purest grace.
In torturing fruitless melancholy,
In vanity and loud chaos
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.
As years passed and winds scattered
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
And the bless’d features of your face.
Held in darkness and separation,
My days dragged in strife.
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Lacking tears and love and life.
But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
And again you appear before me
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Like the soul of purest grace.
Again
my heart beats in rapture,
Again everything awakens:
My long-past faith and inspiration,
And the tears and life and love.
1825
Anna Petrovna Kern (1800-1879), a socialite, memoirist and the poet’s married lover
К ***
Я помню чудное мгновенье:
Передо мной явилась ты,
Как мимолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.
В томленьх грусти безнадежной
В тревогах шумной суеты
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
И снились милые черты.
Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
Рассеял прежние мечты,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
Твой небесные черты.
В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Тянулись тихо дни мои
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.
Душе настало пробужденье:
И вот опять явилась ты,
Как милолетное виденье,
Как гений чистой красоты.
И сердце бьется в упоенье,
И для него воскресли вновь
И божество, и вдохновенье,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.
TO —— (KERN) COMPARISON
Я помню чудное мгновенье:
I still recall the marvellous moment:
Передо мной явилась ты,
When you appeared before my gaze
Как мимолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like soul of the purest grace.
В томленьх грусти безнадежной
In torturing fruitless melancholy,
В тревогах шумной суеты
In vanity and loud chaos
Звучал мне долго голос нежный
I’ve always heard your gentle voice
И снились милые черты.
And glimpsed your features in my dreams.
Шли годы. Бурь порыв мятежной
As years passed and winds scattered
Рассеял прежние мечты,
My long-past hopes, and in those days,
И я забыл твой голос нежный,
I lacked your voice’s divine spell
Твой небесные черты.
And the bless’d features of your face.
В глуши, во мраке заточенья
Held in darkness and separation,
Тянулись тихо дни мои
My days dragged in strife.
Без божества, без вдохновенья,
Lacking faith and inspiration,
Без слез, без жизни, без любви.
Lacking tears and love and life.
Душе настало пробужденье:
But the time arrives; my soul awakens,
И вот опять явилась ты,
And again you appear before me
Как милолетное виденье,
Like a ghost, like a fleeting spirit,
Как гений чистой красоты.
Like the soul of purest grace.
И сердце бьется в упоенье,
Again my heart beats in rapture,
И для него воскресли вновь
Again everything awakens:
И божество, и вдохновенье,
My long-past faith and inspiration,
И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.
And the tears and life and love.
Poems Translated by Charles Edward Turner and George Borrow
THE DREAMER
The moon pursues her stealthy course,
The shades grow gray upon the hill,
Silence has fallen on the stream,
Fresh from the valley blows the wind;
The songster of spring days has hushed
His notes in waste of gloomy groves,
The herds are couched along the fields,
And calm the flight of midnight hour.
And night the peaceful ingle-nook
Has with her misty livery clad;
In stove the flames have ceased to dart,
And candle down to socket burned;
The saintly face of household gods
Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,
And taper pale in dimness burns
Before the guardians of home.
With head in hand bent lowly down,
In sweet forgetfulness deep plunged,
I lose myself in fancy dreams,
And lie awake on lonely couch;
As with the weird dark shades of night,
Illumined by the soft moon’s rays,
Wingèd dreams, in hurrying crowds,
Flock down and strongly seize my soul.
And now flows forth a soft, soft voice,
The golden chords in music tremble;
And in the hour when all is still,
The dreamer young begins his song,
With secret ache of soul possessed
And dreams that come from God alone,
With flying hand he boldly smites
The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.
Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,
Prays not for fortune or for wealth;
From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,
Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;
At eve, on lotos flowers couched,
He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;
Nor harshest sound of warrior’s trump
Has power to stir him from his dream.
Let glory, with her daring front,
Strike loudly on her noisy shield;
In vain she tempts me from afar,
With skinny finger red in blood;
In vain war’s gaudy banners float,
Or battle-ranks their pomp display;
Peace has higher charms for gentle heart, -
Nor do I care for glory’s prize.
In solitude my blood is tamed,
And tranquilly the days pass by:
From God I have the gift of song,
Of gifts the rarest, most divine;
And never has the Muse betrayed me:
Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,
The vilest home or desert wild
Shall have a beauty of their own.
In dusky dawn of golden days
The untried singer thou hast blessed,
As with a wreath of myrtle fresh
Thou didst encrown his childish brow,
And, bringing with thee light from heaven,
Radiant made his humble cell;
And, gently breathing, thou didst lean
O’er his cradle with blessing sweet.
For ever be my friend and guide
Even to the threshold of the grave!
O’er me hover with gentlest dreams,
And shroud me with thy shielding wings!
Banish far all doubt and sorrow,
Possess the mind with fond deceit,
A glory shed o’er my far life,
And scatter wide its darkest gloom!
Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,
The genius of Deat
h shall come,
And whisper, knocking at the door,
“The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!”
E’en so, on winter eve sweet sleep
Frequents with joy the home of peace,
With lotos crowned, and lowly bent
On restful staff of languid ease
THE GRAVE OF A YOUTH
The world he fled,
Of love and pleasure once the nursling,
And is as one who lies in sleep.
Or cold of nameless tomb, forgot.
Time was, he loved our village games,
When as the girls beneath the shade
Of trees would loot the meadow free;-
But now in village song and dance
No more is heard his greeting light.
His elders had with envy marked
His easy gait and bearing gay,
And, smiling sadly, ‘mongst themselves
Oft shook their hoary heads, and said:
“We too once loved the choral dance,
And shone as wits and jesters keen:
But wait: the years will make their round.
And thou shalt be what we are now.
Be taught by us, life’s jocund guest,
The world to thee will soon prove cold:
Thou now mayst dance!”.... The elders live,
Whilst he, in ripest bloom of youth,
Has, fading, perished ere his time.
Wild the feast, and loud the song-,
Although his voice is ever mute;
New friends now lill the vacant seat;
Seldom, seldom, when maidens chat,
And talk of love, his name is spoke;
Of all, whose hearts his words made flame,
It may be, one will shed a tear,
As memory recalls some scene
Of joy long buried in his grave —
And wherefore weep?
Bathed by a stream,
In calm array, the lines of tombs,
Each guarded by its wooden cross,
Lie hidden in the antique grove,
There, close beside the highroad’s edge,
Where old beech-trees their branches wave,
His heart at peace and free from care,
Sleeps his last sleep the gentle youth.
In vain, the light of day pours down,
Or morn from mid-sky shines full bright,
Or, splashing round the senseless tomb,
The river purls, or forest wails;
In vain, at early morn, in quest
The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Page 1
