The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  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

  Its sightless gaze; the midget graces

  The horse’s rump. “Hail, Head!” Ruslan

  Cries loudly, for the Head to hear him.

  “He who betrayed you is undone!

  Look! Here he is, none now need fear him!”

  These words the Head revivified

  And in it roused new, fresh-born feeling.

  It looked dow^n at them, and, revealing

  All of its anguish, moaned and sighed.

  Our hero it had recognized,

  And at the midget, nostrils swelling,

  Stared, full of venom undisguised.

  A fiery red its pale cheeks turned,

  And in its death-glazed eyes there burned

  A fury fierce and all-compelling.

  In towering rage, incensed, confused,

  It gnashed its giant teeth, and stuttered,

  And smothered imprecations muttered,

  And with its slowing tongue abused

  Its hated brother.... But the pain,

  Prolonged as it had been, was ceasing;

  The dark, flushed face turned pale again,

  And weaker grew the heavy breathing.

  Its eyes rolled back, and soon Ruslan

  And magus knew that all was over:

  A spasm, and the Head was gone.

  The knight rode off at once, much sobered;

  As for the dwarf, he did not dare

  To breathe, and, all his past strength losing,

  To fiends in hell addressed a prayer,

  The language of black magic using.

  Where a small nameless streamlet wound,

  Upon the sloping bank above it,

  By dark and shaded forest covered,

  There stood, nigh sunk into the ground,

  A run-down hut. Thick pine-trees shaded

  Its roof. The waters, somnolent,

  Licked lazily at a much faded

  And worn-down fence of reeds and went

  With gentle murmur round it snaking;

  The breeze Ые-w softly, only making

  A faint sound.... There it was that spread

  A vale, and such was its seclusion,

  It gave one the distinct illusion

  That an unbroken silence had

  Here from the birth of Time been reigning.

  Ruslan now stopped his horse. The weaning

  And peaceful night to morn gave way;

  The grove and valley sparkling lay

  “Neath veils of haze. His sleeping bride

  The prince laid on the grass, and, seating

  Himself beside her, close, he sighed

  And looked at her, his young heart beating

  With dulcet hope. Just then a boat’s

  White sail he glimpses, and there float

  A fisher’s song above the water

  That drowns its gentler voice and sofu

  The man has cast his nets, and, bendi

  With zeal and promptness to the oar,

  His humble vessel now is sending

  Straight for the hut perched on the shore,

  The good prince shades his eyes and watches:

  There now-the boat the green bank touches,

  And from the hut there hurries out

  A sweet young maid; her hair about

  Her shoulders loosely falls, she’s slender

  And bare of breast, her smile is tender,

  She’s charm itself. The two embrace

  And on the bank sit, taking pleasure

  In one another, in this place,

  And in a quiet hour of leisure.

  But whom to his intense surprise

  Does Prince Ruslan now recognize

  In this young fisherman? Dear Heaven!

  It is Ratmir! Yes, it is he,

  A man for exploit born, and even

  For fame itself, one of his three

  Sworn rivals. On this halcyon shore

  He turned to fair Ludmila faithless,

  And for his new love’s warm embraces

  Relinquished fame for ever more.

  Ruslan came up to him, astounded;

  The recluse khan his rival knew.

  A cry, and to the prince he flew

  And joyous threw his arms around him

  “You here, Ratmir? Lay you no claim

  To greater things?” our hero asked hin

  “Have you found life like ours too tasking

  Thus to reject your knightly fame?”

  “In truth, Ruslan,” replied the khan,

  “War and its phantom glory bore me;

  Behind me have I left my stormy,

  Tumultuous years. This peace, this calm,

  And love, and pastimes innocent

  Bring me a hundred-fold more gladness

  My lust for combat being spent,

  No tribute do I pay to madness;

  Rich am I, friend, in happiness,

  And have all else forgot, yes, even

  Ludmila’s charms.” “I’m glad, God bless

  You for’t, Ratmir, for fate has given

  Her back to me....” “You have your bride

  With you!” amazed, the young khan cried.

  “What luck! I too once longed to free her....

  W^here is she, then? I’d like to see her-

  But no! I’ll not betray my mate;

  Made mine by a forgiving fate,

  She wrought this change in me, the fervour

  Of eager youth in me revived;

  Because I’m hers, because I serve her

  I know true love and am alive.

  Twelve sirens who professed a longing

  For me without regret I spurned;

  My heart to none of them belonging,

  I left them never to return;

  I left their merry home, a castle

  That in a shaded forest nestled,

  My sword and helm laid down, and foe

  And fame forgot. ‘Twas, my friend, so

  That, peace and solitude embracing,

  A kithless hermit I became,

  And dwell, to no one known by name,

  With her I love....”

  Lpon him gazing,

  The shepherdess ne er left his side;

  Now smiled she sweetly, now she sighed....

  On, on, unseen, the hours went racing.

  Their hearts by friendship warmed, till night

  Set in, o’er all its patterns tracing,

  The fisher sat beside the knight....

  It’s still and dark. The half-moon’s light,

  Pale just at first, is brighter growing.

  Time to be off! A cover throwing

  With gentle hand o’er his young bride,

  Ruslan goes off to mount his steed.

  The kha
n, bemused, preoccupied,

  In spirit follows him; indeed,

  Good luck in all his daring ventures

  He wishes him and happiness

  And his proud dreams and past adventres

  Recalls with fleeting wistfulness....

  Why is it Fortune has not granted

  My fickle Lyre the right to praise

  Heroic deeds alone? Why can’t I

  Of love and friendship, that these days

  Are out of fashion, chant? A bard

  Of Truth, why must I (God, it’s hard!)

  Denounce spite, venom, vice, am fated

  In my sincere and artless songs

  To bare for those to come the wrongs

  By crafty demons perpetrated?

  Farlaf, Ludmila’s worthless wooer,

  A wretch, still eager to pursue her,

  But all his dreams of glory gone,

  Out in the wilds lived, isolated

  From all mankind and known to none,

  And for Nahina’s coming waited.

  Nor did he, reader, wait in vain:

  For here she is, the ancient dame!

  A solemn hour. “You know me, stalwart,”

  She says to him. “Now mount, and forward!

  Come after me.” And lo!-wdth that

  She turns herself into a cat,

  And then, the charger saddled, races

  Off and away. She’s followed by

  Farlaf on horseback. Through the mazes

  Of gloomy forests their paths lie.

  Clad in night’s haze that never lifted,

  The vale lay tranquil, slumber-bound,

  And, veiled in mist, the pale moon drifted

  From cloud to cloud and lit the mound

  With fitful rays. Beneath it seated,

  Our hero, staying at her side,

  Kept vigil o’er his sleeping bride.

  By tristful thought all but defeated

  The poor prince was; within him crowded

  Dreams, fancies and imaginings;

  Beginning gently to enshroud him,

  Above him hovered sleep’s cool wings.

  His closing eyes upon the sweet

  Young maid he tried to fix, but, feeling

  Unable this to do, sank, reeling,

  By slumber captured, at her feet.

  A dream comes to him, bodeful, gloomy:

  He seems to see Ludmila, his

  Sweet princess, pale-faced and unmoving,

  Pause on the brink of an abyss.

  She vanishes, and he is standing

  Above the dreaded chasm alone,

  And from it comes, the spirit rending,

  A call for help, a piteous moan....

  ‘Tis she! He jumps, and flies apace,

  To pierce the darkness vainly straining.

  Through fathomless, night-mantled space,

  And then, at long last bottom gaining,

  Steps on hard ground.... Vladimir’s palace

  Before him towers.... He enters. There is

  The old Prince with his grey-haired knights,

  His twelve young sons, his guests, all seated

  At festive tables. No smile lights

  Vladimir’s face. He does not greet him

  And seems as wroth as on the dread

  And well-remembered day of parting.

  All silent stay, no banter starting,

  No talk. But there-is not the dead

  Rogdai among them, his past rival,

  The one that he in battle slew?

  Quite unaware of his arrival,

  A froth-topped goblet of some brew

  He gaily drains. Surprised, Ruslan

  Espies Ratmir, the youthful khan,

  And others, friends and foes, ringed near him;

  The gusli tinkle, old Bayan

  Of deeds heroic chants-to hear him

  Is strange. Farlaf now enters, leading

  Ludmila in. The Prince, receding

  Into himself, his grey head bowed,

  Says not a word. The silent crowd

  Of boyars, princes, knights, concealing

  What so disquiets, so dismays

  And frightens them, quite moveless stays.

  Then, in an instant, all is gone....

  A deathly chill o’er his heart stealing,

  Ruslan now finds himself alone.

  From his eyes tortured tears are flowing

  Sleep fetters him, he tries to break

  Its leaden chains, but fails, and, knowing

  ‘Tis but a dream, cannot awake.

  Above the hill the moon looms pale;

  Dark are the forests; in the vale

  Dead silence reigns, and there, astride

  His steed, we see the traitor ride.

  A glade and barrow he has sighted;

  Stretched at his love’s feet, on the ground

  Ruslan sleeps, and around the mound

  His stallion walks. Farlaf, much frightened

  Looks on a’tremble. In the mist

  The witch is lost. No signal sounding,

  The bridle dropping from his fist,

  He rides up closer, his heart pounding

  And leans across, his broadsword bared,

  To cleave the knight in two prepared

  Without a fight. His presence scenting,

  The stallion whinnies angrily

  And paws the ground. But what’s to be,

  There is, I fear me, no preventing!

  Ruslan hears nothing, for sleep on him,

  Weighs heavily, a cruel vise.

  Spurred by the wdtch, Farlafs upon him,

  And plunging deep his sharp steel thrice

  Into his breast, his priceless prey

  Lifts up and, weak-kneed, rides away.

  The hours flew. Beneath the barrow

  The whole night long our hero lay;

  The blood from his wounds oozed in narrow,

  Unending streamlets.... Dawn arrived,

  And with its coming he revived,

  Let out a heavy, muffled groan,

  About him peered, and, vainly trying

  To lift himself and stand, fell prone,

  Like one already dead-or dying.

  RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE SIXTH

  You bid me, O my heart’s desire,

  Take up my light and carefree lyre

  And chant the lays of old, my leisure

  Devoting to a faithful Muse.

  Do you not know, then, that I treasure

  Love’s raptures more and frankly choose

  To spend but little of my time

  With that long cherished lyre of mine,

  That being now at odds with rumour

  And drunk with bliss, I’m in no humour

  To welcome toil or harmony’s

  Sweet, winsome strains.... By you I breathe,

  And though loud are fame’s prideful speeches,

  Their sound my ear but faintly reaches.

  Of genius the secret fires

  Are dead; its thoughts are left behind.

  Love, love alone my heart inspires,

  Its wild desires invade my mind.

  But you-you’d have me sing; my stories

  Of loves long past and erstwhile glories

  Appeal to you; you wish to hear

  Of Prince Ruslan and of Ludmila,

  The dwarf, Nahina, Vladimir,

  And to the old Finn’s woes a willing

  And patient ear are glad to lend.

  The tales I spun would sometimes tend

  To make you feel a trifle sleepy

  Though with a smile you listened e’er.

  At other times I was aware

  How tenderly-this felt I deeply -

  Your loving gaze the singer’s met.

  Enamored babbler, I will let

  My fingers pass over the lazy

  And stubborn strings, and at your feet,

  The minstrel’s customary seat,

  Strum loudly
, my young champion praising.

  But where’s Ruslan? Out in the field,

  His blood long cold and long congealed,

  He sprawls, a raven o’er him swooping,

  Upon the grass lie limp and drooping

  The whiskers serving to adorn

  His helm of steel; mute is his horn.

  His golden mane no longer waving,

  Around the prince his mount walks gravely,

  Head lowered; in his once bright eye

  The light has died. Not knowing why

  The prince lies so, he is unwilling

  To play and waits for him to wake.

  In vain! The prince won’t move or take

  The sword up: deep his sleep and chilling.

  And Chernomor? There, in the bag,

  He lies, forgotten by the hag,

  And knowing naught, his grudges nurses;

  Worn, sleepy, bored to tears, he curses

  My youthful hero and his bride....

  Then, not a sound his ears assailing

  For hours on end, he peeps outside-

  A miracle, no less! Words fail him.

  For in a pool of blood the knight

  Lies dead, and no one is in sight;

  Ludmila’s gone, the field’s deserted.

  The wizard crows in joy. ‘‘I’m free!”

  He cries. “All danger is averted.”

  But he is wrong, as we shall see.

  Farlaf, by old Nahina aided,

  On horseback makes for Kiev; he

  Is full of hope and fear. The maiden

  Across the saddle lies asleep.

  Ahead, the Dnieper, cold and deep,

  Already shows, its waters flowing

  Mid native leas; the city’s glowing

  Gold domes and wooden walls draw near.

  Here is the gate! The townsfolk cheer,

  And mill about, excitement mounting.

  Word to the Prince is sent. Before

  The eyes of all, at palace door

  We see the knavish youth dismounting.

  Meanwhile, Vladimir, called Bright Sun,

  Was in his lofty terem sitting,

  And, filled with sorrow unremitting,

  On his loss brooding. Round him, glum,

  His knights and boyars sat, a pompous,

  Stone-visaged lot. A sudden rumpus

  Is heard without: yells, shouts, a din;

  The portal opes. A knight comes in.

  Who can he be? Why the intrusion?

  All rise. A murmur fills the room,

  Grows louder. General confusion.

  Ludmila rescued! And by whom! -

  Farlaf, of all men! Strange! The Prince,

  Changed wholly now of countenance,

  Starts from his chair and, heavy-footed

  Hastes to his long-lost daughter’s side.

  He touches her; she stirs not; muted

  Her breathing is. Ruslan’s young bride