(BEING CONTINUED FROM 18/11/16)
The Bacchic Song
Why hushed you, O, gaiety’s voice? Resound, the hymns of the Bacchus! Long live they, who ever had loved us -- The beautiful women and sweet, gentle girls! Let glasses be full with wines’ gold! To bottom, that rings, The sacred gold rings Let fall through the wine, sweet and cold. Raise higher your glasses and move them right now! Long live airy muses, and brightness of brow! You, hallowed sun, flare on! Like this icon-lamp is a-paling In light of the growing dawn, So all false sagacity’s dimming and failing By great endless sun of the mind. Long live holy sun, and let dark die behind. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 1999 Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, November, 1999
The Bronze Horseman
A Petersburg Story
The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.
The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.
The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.
On a deserted, wave-swept shore, He stood – in his mind great thoughts grow – And gazed afar. The northern river Sped on its wide course him before; One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver. On banks of mosses and wet grass Black huts were dotted there by chance – The miserable Finn’s abode; The wood unknown to the rays Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed, Hummed all around. And he thought so: ‘The Swede from here will be frightened; Here a great city will be wrought To spite our neighborhood conceited. From here by Nature we’re destined To cut a door to Europe wide, To step with a strong foot by waters. Here, by the new for them sea-paths, Ships of all flags will come to us – And on all seas our great feast opens.’ An age passed, and the young stronghold, The charm and sight of northern nations, From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold, Rose the proud one and precious. Where once the Finnish fisherman, Sad stepson of the World, alone, By low riverbanks’ a sand, Cast into waters, never known, His ancient net, now on the place, Along the full of people banks, Cluster the tall and graceful masses Of castles and palaces; and sails Hasten in throng to the rich quays From all the lands our planet masters; The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks; Bridges hang o’er the waters proud; Abundantly her isles are covered With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks… By the new capital, the younger, Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once - Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager By a new queen when her time comes. I love you, Peter’s great creation, I love your view of stern and grace, The Neva wave’s regal procession, The grayish granite – her bank’s dress, The airy iron-casting fences, The gentle transparent twilight, The moonless gleam of your nights restless, When I so easy read and write Without a lamp in my room lone, And seen is each huge buildings’ stone Of the left streets, and is so bright The Admiralty spire’s flight, And when, not letting the night’s darkness To reach the golden heaven’s height, The dawn after the sunset hastens – And a half-hour’s for the night. I love your so sever winter’s Quite still and fresh air and strong frost, The sleighs race on the shores river’s, The girls – each brighter than a rose, The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances, And, on the bachelors’ free feast, The hissing of the foaming glasses And the punch’s bluish flaming mist. I love the warlike animation Of the play-fields of the god Mars, And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars So homogeneous attraction, In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves, Those flags, victories and rended, The glitter of those helmets, splendid, Shot through in military strives. I love, O capital my fairest, Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke, In moments when the northern empress Adds brunches to the regal oak Or Russia lauds a winning stroke To any new and daring foe, Or, breaking up the light-blue ice, The Neva streams it and exults, Scenting the end of cold and snow. City of Peter, just you shine And stand unshakable as Russia! May make a peace with beauty, thine, The conquered nature’s casual rushes; And let the Finnish waves forget Their ancient bondages and malice And not disturb with their hate senseless The endless sleep of Peter, great! The awful period was that, It’s fresh in our recollection… This time about, my dear friend, I am beginning my narration. My story will be very sad. PART ONE On Petrograd, sunk into darkness, November breathed with fall cold’s harshness. And, splashing, with the noisy waves Into the brims of her trim fences, The Neva raved, like the seek raves In a bed, that has become the restless. Now it was very dark and late; The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat. And the wind blew with sadly wailing. Right at this time, from being a guest Evgeny, for his nightly rest, Came home. This name was most prevailing In our young hero’s name choice. It sounds pleasantly. Of course, With it my pen’s had long connections It needn’t the special commendations, Though in the times, in Lithe gone, It might have been the most attractive And under Karamzin’s pen, fine, Sung in some legends, our native; But now it is forgotten by The world and rumors. Our guy Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service, Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is For his kin which had left the world, Or for the well-forgotten old. So, he is home – our Evgeny, Took off his greatcoat, undressed, Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed He was by his thoughts, so many. What did he thought of? Well, of that That he was poor and that his bread, His honour and his independence Just by hard work must be achieved, That God should send to him from heavens More mind and money. That do live Such idle, fully happy creatures – The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,. Whose life is absolutely light! That he had served for two long years; And that the weather, former fierce, Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood In the Neva is getting higher, The bridges might be got entire, And that his sweet Parasha’s place For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed. There sighed Evgeny with his soul, And dreamed as dreams a real bard: “To marry then? Of course it’s hard. But why don’t marry, in a whole? I’m of the young and healthy sight, Ready to work for day and night; I’ll someway find the good repose, The simple and shy place, at last, Parasha will be there composed. The year or, may be, two will pass – I’m in position, to my dear I’ll give all family to bear And bring our children up, at once... Such we’ll start life, at last repose, With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both, And our grandsons will bury us...” Thus he did dream. And a great sadness Embraced his soul in that night, He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser, Rain’s siege of windows – not so tight. At last his sleepy eyes were closed... And now the night is getting gray – That night, so nasty and morose, And it is coming – the pale day The awful day! During the night Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests But, having lost all her great battles, The river ceased the useless fight… And in the morn on her shores proud, Stood people in a pressed in lot And saw the tall and heard the loud Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought. But by the force of airy breathing Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva Came back – the wrathful one and seething - And flooded islands, near and far; The weather grew into the cruel, Neva – more swelling and more brutal, Like in a kettle boiled and steamed, And then, as a wild creature seemed, Jumped on the city. And before it, All ran away from its strait path, And all got emptied there; at once. The waters flew into the cellars, And raised up to the fence of canals – And, like Triton, Petropol sails Sunk in the water till his waist. Siege and assault! The evil waters Thrust into windows, like slaughters. The mad boats row into a glass. The stalls are under the wet mass. The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces, The stores of the tread, auspicious, The things, carried the pale want from, The bridges got away by storm, The coffins from the graveyards - float, Along the streets! The populace Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death. All is destroyed: bread and abode. And how to live? The monarch, blessed, Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion, Still governed Russia that year, dread, And from the balcony he, sad And pale, said: “Ne’er the God-made nature Can be subdued by any tsars.” And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s With his full of deep sadness eyes. The streets turned into the fast rivers, Running to made lakes, dark and grievous, The Palace was an island, sad, That loomed over the blackened waters. The Tsar decreed – from end to end, Down the shortest streets and longest, On danger routs over the waves, His generals set into the sailing – To save the drawing and straining On streets and in their homes-graves. Then on the widest Square of Peter, Where with his glass a new pile glittered, Where on its porch, too highly placed, With their paw raised, as if they’re living, Stood two marble lions, overseeing. On one of them, as for a race, Without his hat, arms – tightly pressed, Awfully pale – no stir appeared – Evgeny sat. And there he feared Not his own death. He did not hear How the wrathful roller neared, Greedily licking his shoes’ soles, And how flagged him the rain coarse, And how the fierce wind there wailed, Or how it’d blown off his hat. His looks of deepest desperation Were all set on a single place Without a move. The waves, impatient, Had risen there, like tallest crags, Lifted from waked deeps in a madness, There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest … O, God! O, God! – Right on that place, Alas! so close to the waves, And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish, A willow-tree, a fence unfinished And an old hut: there they must be – A widow and her child Parasha – His soul’s dream … Or does he see It in a dream? … And, like the usher Of dreams – a sleep, is our life none – Just Heavens make of Earth a fun? And he, like under conjuration, Like in jail irons’ limitation, Cannot come down. Him around Only black waters could be found! And turned to him with his back, proudest, On height that never might be tossed, Over Neva’s unending wildness, Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, The idol on his brazen horse. PART TWO But now, sated with distraction And tired of its rude attack, Neva, at last, was coming back, Looking at ruins with satisfaction And leaving with a little attention Its prey behind. A reprobate, With his sever and low set, Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless, Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses: The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!... And, under their large booty posted, Afraid of chases and exhausted, The robbers speed to their old place, Losing their loot along the road. The waves were gone, the pavement, broad, Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed, With heart half-dead and stifled throat, In a hope, fear and awful pains, Runs to the stream, just now restrained. But, in the winning celebration, Waves still were boiling with a passion, As if to flames, under them fanned; They still were with white foam covered, And Neva’s breast was heavily moved, Like the steed’s one after a race. Evgeny sees a boat here; He runs to it – a find, revered, – He calls a boatman at once – The boatman, a guy quite careless, Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness, Takes him into the waves’ wild dance. And for a long with these waves, close, The much trained rower was in fight, And to sink deeply mid their rows, The scuff, with its brave sailors both, Was apt all time… The other side Is reached, at last. And the frustrated Runs through the so well-known street To his old places. He doesn’t meet A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated As the worst one! All’s in a mess – All is failed down or swept or stressed: The little houses are bent down, Some – shifted, some – razed to their ground By awful forces of the waves; The bodies, waiting for their graves, Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless. Our poor Evgeny – his mind’s flamed – Half-dead under the tortures, endless, Runs there where the inhumane fate Would give him the unknown message, As if a letter, sealed to bear; He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage, There is the Gulf, the house is near… But what is this? He stopped, frustrated, Went back, returned a little later… He looks… he walks … he looks once more. There is the place their house for And willow-tree. The gates were here – They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace? And full of troubles, hard to wear, He walked and walked around the place. Told to himself in voices loud – And suddenly, as if all’s found, Struck his forehead and fell in laugh. The night embraced the city, stuffed With all its woe. And still for hours A sleep was running from each house – The folk recalling the past day. Now, through the clouds, weak and pale, The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city And did not found e’en a trace Of the past woe. The dawn, witty, Had safely screened the doing, base. The former life had got its place. Along the streets now free of flooding, With cold indifference, folks are moving. Just having left his lodge of night, The clerk is going at his site. The petty tradesman, very dauntless, Is opening his cellar – wet, Robbed by the waves’ impudent set – Intending to revenge his losses On brothers-humans. From the yard Is pulled the boat, full of mud. Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus, Now is singing his songs, deathless, To the Neva shores’ former plight. What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? … Alas! His agitated mind, Against the immense woe’s billow Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s And Neva’s noise was always growing In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind, With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming, Being quite tortured by some dream. A week, month passed by as a stream, At his past home he wasn’t returning And his landlord, when the rent’s time Had gone, gave his corner to some Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly. Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff And soon became a stranger, fully, To world: his day wasn’t long enough For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning His bread was one a beggar has, He wore the dirt and rotten dress. The evil children, with cries joyful, Sometimes threw stones to his back, Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful, Stung his thin body – for his track Was cast without choosing direction – He seemed to notice nothing else – He was quiet deafened and oppressed By noise of inner agitation. And thus he strayed in his life’s mist – Not humane being, nor some beast – Not fish, nor flesh – not living creature, Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept By Neva’s wharf – the summer’s features Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad, Was breathing there. The roller, sad, Was splashing its complain and groan And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone, Like the offended at the door Of justice that doesn’t hear him more. The poor waked up. All was gloom round: Falling the rain, wind wailing loud, And it was answered through the night By some alone distant guard... Evgeny got up in a hurry, He recollected his all flurry, Stood on a spot, began to walk And stopped again, almost choked, Intently gazing him around With a wild terror on his face... It seemed that he himself had found By a big house where were placed, With their paw up, as if quite living, Two marble lions, overseeing, And in the height, strait o’er him posed, Over the rock, fenced with cast iron, With arm stretched into the skies, sullen, The idol sat on his bronze horse. Evgeny startled. Became clear The strange thoughts, torturing his mind – He named the place where played the flood, Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, – Merging in one rebellious stream, – The lions, square and, at last, him, Who stood without a move and sound – The cooper head piercing black skies – Him, by whose fatal enterprise This city under sea took ground... He’s awful in the nightly dark! In what a thought his brow’s sunk! What a great might in it lies, hidden! And what a fire’s in this steed! O, proud horse, where do you speed! Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’? O, karma’s mighty sovereign! Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen, Into the height, with a curb, iron, Before an abyss in your reign? The poor madman circled around The foot of the black idol’s mass, He gazed into the brazen face Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud. And was his breast oppressed. He laid On the cold barrier his forehead. His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover, His heart was all caught with a flame, His blood seethed. Gloomy he became Before the idol, looming over, And, having clenched his teeth and fist, As if possessed by evil powers, “Well, builder-maker of the marvels,” He whispered, trembling in a fit, “You only wait!...”- And to a street, At once he started to run out – He fancied: that the great tsar’s face, With a wrath suddenly embraced, Was turning slowly around... And strait along the empty square He runs and hears as if there were, Just behind him, the peals of thunder, Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, – A race the empty square across, Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed; And by the moon, that palled lighter, Having stretched his hand over roofs, The Brazen Horseman rides him after – On his steed of the ringing hoofs. And all the night the madman, poor, Where’er he might direct his steps, Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure, Keeps on the heavy-treading race. And from this time, when he was going, Along this square, only by chance, A sense of terror was deforming His features. And he would then press His hand to heart in a great fastness, As if to make its tortures painless, Take off the worn peaked cap at once, Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes And try to pass by. A small island’s Seen in the sea quite near a shore. A fisherman, the late catch for, Would sail to it with his net, silent, Sometimes – and boil there his soup, poor; Or an official clerk would moor To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s. The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget There any plant. A player, sightless, The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad, Of an old hut. The water over, It had been left like a bush, black. Last spring, by a small barging rover, It was conveyed to the shore, back – Destroyed and empty. By its entry, They’d found the poor madman of mine And, for a sake of the Divine, Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver,
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Aleksandr Pushkin(Born 1799, Died 1837) is, by common agreement — at least among his own compatriots — the greatest of all Russian writers. The major part of his lyrical poetry was written between 1820 and 1830, but some of his poetical masterpieces were composed in the last seven years of his life, when he was turning his attention to prose. A development can be traced from the sparkling ebullience of his early verse — the crowning achievement of which is the first chapter of Evgeny Onegin, written in 1823 — to the concetrated expressiveness and restrained power of his later poetry. By effecting a new synthesis between the three main ingredients of the Russian literary idiom — the Church Slovanic, the Western European borrowings, and the spoken vernacular — Pushkin created the language of modern Russian poetry. His personal life was made difficult by his conflicts with the authorities who disapproved of his liberal views. He was killed in a duel.
From “The Heritage of Russian Verse,” by Dimitri Obolensky