The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  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

  To try to shield herself. And such is

  The shriek the poor maid now lets out

  The Moors are deafened by’t, while pale

  Than his fair captive turns her jailer.

  He makes to flee, half turns about,

  Claps hands to ears in desperation,

  And trips, a victim of frustration

  And umbrage, on his beard, falls to

  The floor, gets up, falls dow^n anew,

  Is quite entangled.... In a dither

  His dusky menials all are. Hither

  And thither rush they, shout and push.

  Then. flushed, confused, a wee bit angered,

  They bear him off to be untangled

  And quite forget the dwarfs tarbush.

  But what of our young hero? Pray

  Remember the unlooked-for fracas.

  Your pencil, quick, Orlovsky! Make us

  A sketch of that night-shrouded fray.

  The moon shines down upon a cruel

  And savage match. Incensed, the young

  Combatants fight their bloody duel

  Thout respite. Their great lances flung

  Are far from them, their swords lie shattered,

  Likewise their shields, their mail is spattered

  With blood.... And yet the gory joust

  Goes on. Beneath them, waging battle,

  Their steeds whip up dark clouds of dust.

  In an embrace of steel the two

  Bold knights are locked (they’re on their mettle),

  But seem quite moveless, as if to

  Their saddles welded. Rage and ire

  Their limbs turn stiff. A liquid fire

  Sweeps like a torrent through their veins;

  They’re intertwined; chest ‘gainst chest streins-

  But now they weaker grow, they tire;

  ‘Tis clear that soon one of them must

  Go under, by the other bested.

  Ruslan with iron hand a thrust

  To his fierce rival gives, and, wresting

  Him from the saddle, lifts him high

  Above himself and never falters

  But hurls him down into the waters

  That seethe below them, shouting “Die!”

  I’m sure, my friends, you’ve guessed arigh

  With whom my brave and gallant knight

  His duel fought. Of battles deadly

  The seeker rash it was, Rogdai.

  The hope of Kiev, darkly, madly

  Ludmila loved he and was by

  This led to seek his rival. On

  A Dnieper bank it was he found him:

  Persistence and resolve had won!

  Alas! The hero’s strength unbounded

  Deserted him, and in the wild

  He met his end, was then beguiled

  By a young mermaid who caressed him,

  And to her icy bosom pressed him,

  And, laughing, drew him down at last....

  For many years thereafter, when

  Night came and o’er the heavens cast

  Its sable shroud, his ghost, appearing

  There on the bank or in a clearing,

  Would frighten lonely fishermen.

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE THIRD

  You tried to stay from all eyes hidden

  Save friendship’s own, my verse-in vain!

  To envy’s scrutiny unbidden

  Are you subjected all the same.

  A mindless critic has already

  The ticklish question asked me, why,

  As if to mock Ruslan, his lady

  I have been calling “maid”.

  Now, I

  Appeal to you, my good, kind reader,

  Does not with his lips malice speak?

  Come, Zoilus, come, sly-tongued schemer -

  What fitting answer can I make?

  Blush, wretch, and God be with you, argue

  With you I’ll not, my heart is free

  Of tainted thought, and silent, mark you,

  I stay, kept so by modesty.

  Dull Hymen’s victim, you, Climene,

  Will understand; yes, I can see you

  Gaze downward languidly, for me you

  Feel deeply, sweet.... A tear falls, then

  Another on the lines my pen

  Has scribbled; clear are they, I know,

  To hearts like yours; you flush, the glow

  Fades from your eye, your muted sigh is

  Most eloquent-a time of trials

  Is nearing.... Quake, O jealous one!

  For wilful Love with Anger mated

  A plot lays-yes, well may you frown:

  Your brow inglorious is fated

  To boast revenge’s tw^in-horned crown.

  A cold dawn gilds the finely chiselled

  Tops of the hills.... There reigns throughout

  Grim silence. Sulkily the wizard

  In dressing gown and still without

  His cap, sits on the bed, and, yawning,

  Seems angered by the glow of morning.

  His dusky slaves, close to him pressing,

  Are busy with his beard, a comb,

  A fine one, made of walrus bone,

  Through all its curvings gently passing

  To give them strength and beauty, thy

  Pour balm upon his termless whiskers,

  And, using curling irons, briskly

  Make waves in them.... The calm of day

  Is broken-through the window sailing,

  A dragon comes; it clangs its scaly,

  Well furbished armour, folds its wings,

  Coils swiftly into shiny rings,

  And suddenly, to the surprise

  Of all, takes old Nahina’s guise.

  “Hail, brother mine!” says she. ‘I knew you

  Till now by loud report alone,

  But never grudged you, be it known

  The high esteem and honour due you.

  Now secret fate has joined us two

  In enmity. The threat of danger

  Hangs like a dark cloud over you,

  While I’m to be the sole avenger

  Of slighted honour, mine, my own;

  Its voice I heed.”

  The dwarf, a wily

  Look on his face, in unctuous tones

  Makes his reply: ‘T value highly,”-

  To her he now extends his hand-

  ‘‘Divine Nahina, our alliance.

  We’ll easily the Finn withstand;

  I fear him not at all, for mine is

  The greater strength; he ill compares

  With me, I vow. This beard I wear,

  Grey though it is, has special powers,

  And no bold knight, no foe of ours,

  However brave, no mort
al can,

  Unless by hostile force ‘tis severed.

  Vpset mv least design or plan;

  Ludmila will be mine forever.

  As for Ruslan, to die he’s doomed!”

  “To die! To die!” the witch repeated

  With catty spite. “To die!” she boomed.

  And then. her mission thus completed.

  She hissed three times, thrice stamped the ground,

  And flew. a dragon’s shape regaining,

  Off and awav, with vengeance flaming..

  In fine brocade most richly gowned

  And bv the old witch cheered and heartened,

  The wizard to the maid’s apartment

  Anew decided to repair

  And take his silken whiskers there

  And lovelorn heart. We see him going

  From room to room, he passes through

  A row of them, vexation growing.

  Wbere is his fair young captive? To

  The park he hastes at first, then makes for

  The grove, the waterfall, the lake shore,

  The arbours, but, dear reader mine,

  Finds of the princess not a sign.

  By this he’s driven nearly frantic,

  We hear him moaning, raving, ranting;

  He pants, he shakes in every limb,

  The light of day’s obscured for him.

  “Here, slaves!” he splutters, in a flurry.

  “The maid is lost! She’s disappeared!

  Be off with you, you idlers, hurry!

  If she’s not found, with this my beard,

  I jest not, I will have you strangled.

  Beware!”

  But let us leave the angered

  Dwarf, reader, and I’ll tell you where

  Our maid has gone.... All night she pondered

  Her fate, of danger well aware,

  But as she wept she ... smiled. You’ll wonder

  Why so.... She’d met the dwarf, and he,

  Despite the beard that she so hated,

  Seemed a mere clown, and, you’ll agree,

  That fear and laughter are ill-mated.

  Ludmila rises as the dawn

  Is born, and morning’s rays creep nearer,

  Her sleepy gaze unconscious drawn

  Toward a lofty, shining mirror.

  Instinctively she lifts her tresses

  From lily shoulders, o’er them passes,

  As habit tells her to, her hands

  And plaits the silky, golden strands.

  The garments that she has been given

  Lie in a corner. With a sigh

  She starts to dress, is newly driven

  To quiet tears, but keeps an eye

  Upon the faithful glass wherein

  She sees herself. A sudden whim

  To put the dwarfs hat on now seizes

  The princess. It is always fun,

  Now, is it not, to try things on,

  The very thought is one that pleases!

  Besides, by none can she be seen,

  And, what is of no smaller matter,

  There is no hat that will not flatter

  A girl who’s only seventeen!

  And so the wicked midget’s hat

  Ludmila turns this way and that;

  Straight, then askew she makes it sit,

  Down on her eyebrows pushes it,

  Claps it on front-to-back.... Behold!

  A miracle!-In times of old

  They happened often, it appears-

  Ludmila’s image disappears,

  Gone is she from the glass completely;

  But in a moment, as she neatly

  Turns the hat round, she’s there again!

  Once, twice she tries it, and the same

  Thing happens. Cries the princess: “Splendid!

  My troubles now are all but ended.

  So much for you, vile dwarf, your hunt

  For me is over!” And, cheeks glowing,

  Herself to be in safety knowing,

  She puts the hat on back-to-front.

  For shame! Too long has our attention

  Been claimed bv beard and hat of late;

  Our hero giving up to fate,

  Of him-alack!-we made no mention.

  His duel with Rogdai behind him,

  He passes through a lonely wood,

  And in a sunlit dale we find him

  His stallion reining in. A mood

  Of sudden, awful dread comes o’er him:

  An ancient battlefield’1 s before him,

  And grim it looks, for everywhere

  Gleam yellow bones, and here and there

  Old, broken armour lies, corroding;

  A quiver and a rusty shield

  Rest near at hand; far out afield

  Stiff, bony fingers hold a moulding

  Green sword, a skull is seen to rot

  Within a weed-grown helm. And what

  Is that ahead? A skeleton,

  That of a knight, still armed and on

  His fallen, fleshless charger seated,

  As if alive and undefeated.

  Entwined with ivy, arrows, lances,

  Spears from the earth stick. Not a sound

  Disrupts of these forlorn expanses

  The haunting silence and profound;

  The sun alone the vale invades

  Of death and of its lingering shades.

  Sad-eyed the knight around him gazes.

  “O field, wide field, you bear the traces

  Of slaughter,” says he with a sigh.

  “Who planted you to bones and why?

  By whose fleet stallion were you trampled?

  What bloody battle here was fought

  With perseverance unexampled?

  Who prayed here and salvation sought?

  Why are you mute, why with the grasses

  O’ergrown of cold oblivion?

  Is there escape from it for none?

  Is it that time all, all erases?

  What if upon some nameless hill

  I am to lie? Mayhap Bayan

  Vill never chant of me or on

  My deeds dwell....”‘

  Thus thought he

  It came to him, and this most clearly,

  That what he needed-needed dearly-

  Was armour and a sword, the night

  Of combat having left him quite

  Unarmed, alack, or ... very nearly.

  On this intent, he w^alks around

  The battlefield w^here bones lie scattered

  And armour, time- and weather-battered,

  To see if something can be found.

  A sudden clank! A rousing clatter!

  The plain from numbing sleep awakes.

  A helmet and a shield, the latter

  At random picking up, he takes,

  And then a ringing horn, but no

  Sword to his liking finds, although

  Scores of them strew the field of battle:

  Being no puny modern knight,

  Young Prince Ruslan declines to settle

  For one he thinks too short or light.

  The boredom fearing of inaction,

  A steel lance chooses he for play,

  Puts on a hauberk for protection,

  And, thus arrayed, goes on his way.

  The flames of sunset, slowly paling,

  Fade o’er an earth embraced by sleep.

  From out the mists the heavens veiling,

  A golden moon is seen to creep.

  The steppe grows dimmer, nighttim’s hazes

  Float over it; the path looms dark.

  As our young knight rides on, his gaze

  Drawn by a huge black mound, and-hark!-

  A fearsome snore comes from’t. Our hero

  Undaunted by it, rides up nearer:

  The strange mound seems to breathe. Ruslan,

  Quite unperturbed, looks calmly on.

  Not so his steed, who balks at making

  Another step and
stands there quaking

  With bristling mane and twitching ear

  In quite ungovernable fear.

  But now the pale orb born to range

  The sleepy skies, lights up the nightly,

  Mist-covered plain and mound more brightly,

  A sight revealing wondrous strange.

  Can pen describe the like?... A Head,

  A living Head is there! In slumber

  Its eyes are shut, it snores, is dead

  To all the world, but every rumble,

  Each breath and wheeze that from it comes

  The helmet stirs and sends the plumes

  That reach the shadowed heights a’swaying.

  Above the gloomy plain and greying,

  The wasteland’s guard, in all its chill

  And frightful splendrousness it towers,

  An aw^esome hulk, part of the still

  And fearful night, possessed of powers

  Weird, menacing.... Ruslan decides

  To rouse it, and, his eyes half doubting,

  Around the Head he slowly rides.

  Here is the nose! Without dismounting,

  The nostrils with the tip of his

  Sharp lance he delicately teases.

  The great face puckers up at this;

  The great Head, eyes now open, sneezes!...

  A whirlwind starts, dust swirls, the pain

  Rocks mightily and rocks again,

  As if by a convulsion shaken.

  The whiskers, lashes, eyebrows rain

  Whole flocks of owls. The groves awaken.

  The echo sneezes. Shocked, the steed

  Lets out a neigh and rears.... Indeed,

  He all but throws the knight. A bellow

  The air rends: “Back, you foolish fellow!

  I jest not. Come and get your due:

  I gobble malaperts like you!”

  Ruslan, provoked, looks round, and, reining

  His horse in sharply, laughs in scorn,

  To make a tart retort disdaining.

  “Was ever such a nuisance born!”

  The Head declares (its tones are surly).

  “Sent here by fate to try me, were you?

  What do you want? Make off! Adieu!

  I’m going back to sleep.” “Not you!”

  The prince exclaims, these rude words hearing,

  And, filled with anger and disgust,

  Says: “Silence, empty pate! A just

  Truth is it, one not said in vain:

  A massive dome, a pygmy brain!”

  And then he adds in accents searing:

  “I ride along and no grudge bear you,

  But cross my path, and I won’t spare you!”

  At this, the Head, by such cheek numbed,

  To a most awful rage succumbed.

  It swelled, it flamed, its pale lips trembled,

  Turned paler still, were flecked with froth,