The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  Its eyes two balls of fire resembled,

  Great clouds of steam now poured from both

  Its ears and mouth. And then it started,

  Cheeks puffing up, with all its might

  To blow at our hapless knight.

  To no avail the horse, much startled,

  Head downward held and eyes squeezed tight,

  To push through rain and whirlwind strained;

  Half-blinded, terrified, and drained

  Of half his strength, he spun around

  And ran, for safer places bound.

  Ruslan made fresh attempts to guide him

  And to attack the Head anew-

  He was repulsed, at him it blew

  And cackled crazily. Behind him

  He heard it boom: “Ho, knight, where to?

  To flee is most unwise of you,

  You’ll break your neck! Come, my assailant,

  Attack me, show me just how valiant

  You are! But no, you’d better stop;

  Your poor old nag is fit to drop!”

  And sticking out its tongue, it taunted

  And teased the knight. The monster’s leer

  Left our young hero quite undaunted

  Though sorely vexed. He raised his spear

  And at the Head the weapon flung,

  And, quivering, the brazen tongue

  It pierced and there was to remain

  Stuck fast in it. Of blood a torrent

  Poured from the maw. The great Head’s pain

  And its amazement were apparent;

  Gone was its cheek, its beet-red hue;

  Upon the prince its great eyes fastened,

  It chewed on steel, and greyer grew,

  And though still seething, was much chastened.

  So on the stage one of the Muse’s

  Less worthy pupils sometimes loses

  His head, a sense of where he is

  When deafened by a sudden hiss.

  He pales, he quakes, what he is there for

  Well-nigh forgetting, with an effort

  Declaims his lines and ... stops, unheard

  By the derisive, jeering herd.

  Our gallant knight, the huge Head finding

  To be thus discomposed and dazed,

  Flew hawk-like toward it, hand upraised

  And in a heavy gauntlet cased,

  And dealt the giant cheek a blinding

  And crushing blow. There starts an echo

  That carries o’er the gloomy plain.

  The dewy grass is richly stained

  With bloody foam. For nigh a second

  The great Head sways and rocks, the, lo!-

  It topples, hits the ground below

  And starts to roll, the steel helm maing

  A mighty clatter. But behold!-

  A huge sword, glittering like gold,

  A champion’s sword, there’s no mistaking

  The look of it, lies where the Head

  Lay ‘fore its fall. The prince, elated,

  Now seizes it, and the ill-fated

  Head follows, bv the fierce wish led

  To lop its ears and nose off. Routed

  It lies before him, he’s about to

  Bring down the sword when a low plea,

  A faint moan stops him. Startled, he

  Lets his arm sink, his ire subsiding,

  And ruth, not wrath his actions guiding.

  As in a vale snow quickly thaws

  When touched by midday’s sunshine flaming,

  So supplication trims the claws

  Of vengeance, its brute powers taming.

  “You brought me to my senses,” sighing,

  The Head now said in accents lame.

  “Your right hand proved beyond denying

  That I have but myself to blame.

  I promise you, I will obey you,

  But mercy, mercy, knight, I pray you!

  For grim has my plight been; I too

  Was once a valiant knight like you,

  By none on battlefield excelled

  Or to lay dow^n my arms compelled.

  And happy I-were’t not for my

  Young malformed brother’s rivalry!

  For Chernomor, that fount of hatred,

  Alone my downfall perpetrated!

  A bearded midget and a stain

  Upon our family’s good name,

  For me who was both tall and straight

  He felt a bitter jealousy,

  But hid his all-consuming hate

  Behind an outward courtesy.

  Alas! I have been simple ever,

  While he, this wretch of comic height,

  Is diabolically clever

  And full of viciousness and spite.

  Besides-I quake as I confess this-

  That fancy beard of his possessed is

  Of magic powers: while whole it stays

  That true embodiment of evil,

  The dwarf, is safe from harm. With base

  Intentions but in accents civil

  To me one fateful day he said:

  Т need your help.’ (There’s no refusing

  Such an appeal.) ‘You see, perusing

  A book of magic once, I read

  That where rise mighty hills, and breakers

  Against them smash, in a forsaken

  Stone vault, known to no human, lies

  A magic sword that was created

  By baneful spirits. Fascinated,

  I studied hard and learnt the meaning

  Of secret words, in this wise gleaning

  A truth to great fears giving rise:

  That this sword, so the skies portend

  And fate wills, both our lives will end

  By parting us, my friend and brother,

  Me from my beard, you from your head.

  We must procure the sword, none other,

  And ‘thout delay’. ‘Well, well,’ I said,

  ‘What’s stopping us? We need not tarry!

  You’ll point the way out. Come, now, hurry,

  Get on my shoulder, brother mine;

  On to the other one a pine

  I’ll hoist. If need be we will go

  To the earth’s very end.’ And so

  Upon our way at once we started,

  And, God be thanked, as if to spite

  The soothsay, all at first went right,

  And those far mountains, happy-hearted,

  I reached at last and went beyond,

  And there the secret dungeon found,

  And with my bare hands broke it open

  And drew the sword out, always hoping

  That fate would merciful remain.

  But no! We quarrelled once again.

  The cause ?-O’er which was to possess it

  No mean reward, I must confess it.

  He raved, I reasoned, so it went

  Until the wily one, while seeming

  To yield his ground and to relent,

  Devised, to work my ruin scheming,

  A knavish ruse. ‘Enough! This sparring,

  This shameful tiff, life’s pleasures marring,’

  Said he with solemn mien, ‘must cease.

  Is it not better to make peace?

  Whose sword this is to be, I’m thinking,

  Fate can decide. We’ll each an ear

  Put to the ground, and if a ringing

  Should yours reach first, why, brother dear,

  You will have won it.’ And, so saying,

  He dropped on to the ground, and I,

  I followed suit and lay down by

  His side.... Ah, knight, there’s no gainsaying

  I was a dolt, a knucklehead,

  A perfect ass to have believed him-

  1 told myself I would deceive him

  And was myself deceived instead!

  The ugly wretch stood up, and, stealing

  On tiptoe to me from the back,

  The sword raised. Dastardly attack!-

&nbs
p; It sang, a death-blow to me dealing.

  Ere I could turn, my poor head was

  No longer in its place, alas.

  Preserved by some dark, occult force,

  It lives (which is no boon, of course),

  But all the rest of me, unburied,

  Rots in a place to man unknown;

  With blackthorn thickly overgrown

  My frame is; by the midget carried

  I (Just the head) was to this spot

  And left to guard-ignoble lot!-

  The magic sword. For ever after

  It shall be yours, ‘tis only right.

  Fate’s kind to you; should you, O knight,

  The dwarf meet, be he e’er so crafty,

  Avenge me-with this great sword smite

  The ruthless knave, my heart relieving

  Of all its suffering and grieving.

  The juicy smack you gave me I

  Will then forget, without a sigh

  Or a reproach this sad world leaving.”

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FOURTH

  Each morning as I wake from slumber

  To God I tender heartfelt praise

  That of magicians nowadays

  There is a marked decrease in number,

  And that they render now far less

  Precarious our marriages.

  In fact, their spells need not be dreaded

  By those of us but newly wedded.

  But there is witchery and guile,

  Blue eyes, a tender voice, a smile,

  A dimpled cheek, and all the rest,

  Which to avoid, I find, is best.

  The honeyed poison they exude

  Intoxicates; I dread, I fear them.

  Like me beware of staying near them,

  Embrace repose and quietude.

  O wondrous genius of rhyme,

  O bard of love and love’s sweet dreaming,

  You who portray the sly and scheming

  Dwellers of hell and realms divine,

  Of this inconstant Muse of mine

  The confidant and keeper faithful!

  Forgive me, Northern Orpheus, do,

  For recklessly presuming to

  Fly after you in my tale playful

  And catching in a most quaint lie

  Your wayward lyre....

  My good friends, I

  Know that you heard about the evil

  Old wretch, the hapless sinner who

  In days of yore sold to the devil

  His own soul and his daughters’ too;

  Of how through charity and fasting

  And faith and prayer sincere, long-lasting

  And penitence without complaint

  He found a patron in a saint;

  How, when the hour struck, he died,

  How his twelve daughters slept, enchanted.

  Stirred were we, yes, and terrified

  By visions strangely darkness-mantled,

  By Heaven’s wrath, the Arch-fiend’s fury,

  The sinner’s torments. With enduring

  Delight and joy, let us confess,

  We eyed the chaste maids’ loveliness,

  W^alked with them, sad of heart and weeping,

  Around the castle’s toothy wall,

  Or stayed beside them, vigil keeping

  O’er their calm sleep, their peaceful thrall.

  We called upon Vadim, exhorted

  Him to come soon, and when the blest,

  The holy ones awoke, escorted

  Them to their father’s place of rest.

  Yet had we been deceived and dare I

  The truth speak and misgiving bury?...

  Ratmir goads his steed on, his way

  Toward southern plains impatient making,

  Filled with the hope of overtaking

  Ludmila ‘fore the end of day....

  The crimson skies turn slowly darker

  And vainly with his gaze he strains

  To pierce the haze that cloaks the plains

  And sleepy stream. A last ray sparkles

  Above the wood and paints it gold.

  By nighttime’s dark, thick veil enfolded,

  Our knight rides past black, jutting boulders...

  Oh, for a place to sleep!... Behold!-

  A vale before him lies, an old

  Walled castle perching high above it

  Upon a cliff top; shadow-covered,

  At every corner turrets show.

  With all a swan’s glide, smooth and slov

  Along the wall there walks a maiden;

  By twilight’s faint ray lit is she,

  And on the soft air dreamily

  Her song floats, in the distance fading:

  “Night cloaks the lea; from far away

  The chilling winds of ocean carry.

  Come, youthful roamer, do not tarry;

  Take shelter in our castle, pray!

  “The nights in languid calm we spend,

  The days in feasts and merrymaking.

  Come, youthful wanderer, attend

  This fete of ours, to joy awaking.

  “We many are and beauties all;

  Our lips are soft, our speeches tender.

  Come, youthful wanderer, surrender

  And heed our joyous, secret call!

  “For thee, O knight, at birth of morning

  A farewell cup of wine we’ll fill.

  Heed thou our summons with a will,

  Our gentle plea refrain from scorning.

  “Night cloaks the lea, from far away

  The chilling winds of ocean carry.

  Come, youthful roamer, do not tarry,

  Take shelter in our castle, pray!”

  He hears her in this manner greet him

  And hastens, tempted, to the gate

  Where other fair maids, smiling, wait,

  A throng of them come out to meet him

  Their eyes to his face glued, they seek

  To make him welcome. How entrancing

  Their speeches are, .the words they speak!...

  Two of them lead away his prancer.

  The castle enters he; en masse

  The fair young hermits follow. As

  One of his winged helm relieves him,

  Another ‘thout his armour leaves him,

  A third removes his sword and shield.

  The garb of warfare’s bound to yield

  To flimsier dress. But first the splendours

  Of a true Russian bath wait for

  The wayworn youth. In torrents endless

  We see the steaming water pour

  Into the silver tubs; it eddies

  And swdrls; swift fountains upward send

  Sprays that the warm air coolness lend,

  A breezy freshness; all’s made ready

  To please and gratify the khan.

  Rich are the rugs that he lies on!

  Transparent wisps of steam curl o’er him;

  The maids, all half-nude loveliness,

  Around him crowd, a mute caress

  Hid in their downcast eyes, and for him

  Care with a wordless tenderness.

  Above him one waves birch twigs that

  Send off sweet scents, another, at

  His side stays put and waxes busy,

  The juice of spring’s fresh roses using

  To cool his weary legs and arms

  And drown in aromatic balms

  His curly locks. Ratmir, enraptured,

  Forgets Ludmila, long since captured,

  And her once dreamt-of, longed-for charms.

  With languor filled and with desire,

  His roving eye agleam, he burns,

  All passion, and, his heart afire,

  For love and its fulfilment yearns.

  But now7 the baths he leaves, and, wearing

  Rich velvets, to a feast sits down,

  With the young sirens gladly sharing

  The wonders of the board. I own

  I am no
Homer to be singing

  In lofty verse (not mine his pen

  The feasts of Grecian fighting men

  And their great goblets’ merry ringing.

  No, like Parny I would that my

  Imprudent lyre might tender sigh

  O’er love’s sweet kiss and sing the praises

  Of nude forms dimmed by night’s soft hazes!..

  Lit by the moon the castle is;

  I see a chamber where, reclining

  Upon a couch, Ratmir sleeps, pining

  For love in dreamy languor. His

  Once pallid brow and cheeks are flaming,

  His lips, half-open, are aglow

  And seem to be in secret claiming

  Another’s lips; he heaves a low,

  A moan-like, lingering sigh, and, seizing

  The quilt, with quickened, fevered breathing,

  To his breast presses it.... The door

  Squeaks open, moon beams streak the floor,

  A maid steals in.... Awake, Ratmir!

  Of sleep asunder tear the meshes!

  Night’s every moment is too precious,

  Pray waste them not!... The maid draws near

  The sleeping knight with softest tread....

  His face, on hot down pillowed, blazes,

  The silk quilt’s slipped from off the bed.

  She holds her breath and at him gazes,

  Entranced by what she sees, by this

  Limp, sensuous form now left ‘thout cover:

  She’s sanctimonious Artemis

  Beside her youthful shepherd lover.

  Then, gracefully and lightly she

  Puts on the couch a rounded knee,

  And o’er the lucky sleeper leaning,

  Sighs deeply, to his breathing listens,

  And rouses him from sensuous dreaming

  With passionate and fiery kisses....

  But stay! Beneath my slowing fingers

  The virgin lyre now turns still,

  My shy voice weaker grows — we will

  Leave young Ratmir, I dare not sing of

  Him more or in this vein go on:

  ‘Tis time, friends, to recall Ruslan,

  That stalwart staunch as he is fearless,

  That lover true, that gallant peerless.

  Exhausted by the mighty fray,

  Beneath the Head he now lies sleeping,

  But early morning’s shining ray

  Already o’er the sky comes creeping,

  And turns the Head’s thick locks in play

  To molten gold. Our young knight, blinking,

  So sharp’s the light, from earthen bed

  Springs quickly up, and in a twinkling

  By his swift steed is onward sped.

  The days run on, the fields turn yellow,

  The leaves drop from the trees’ bared crowns;

  The autumn wind’s fierce whistling drow