Читать книгу The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Александр Сергеевич Пушкин, Александр Пушкин, Pushkin Aleksandr - Страница 8

The ways and deeds of days gone by,

A narrative on legend founded…

In princely banquet chamber high,

By doughty sons and guests surrounded,

Vladimir-Bright Sun holds a fete;

His daughter is the chosen mate

Of Prince Ruslan, and these two linking

In marriage, old Vladimir’s drinking

Their health, a handsome cup and great

To his lips held and fond thoughts thinking.

Our fathers ate ’thout haste-indeed,

Passed slowly round the groaning tables

The silver beakers were and ladles

With frothing ale filled and with mead.

Into the heart cheer poured they, truly…

The bearers, bowing, solemn-faced,

Before the feasters tankards placed;

High rose the foam and hissed, unruly…

The hum of talk is loud, unceasing;

Abuzz the guests: a merry round.

Then through the hubbub, all ears pleasing,

There comes the gusli’s rippling sound.

A hush. In dulcet song and ringing

Bayan, the bard – all hark him well —

Of bride and groom the praise is singing;

He lauds their union, gift of Lel[4].

Ruslan, o’ercome by fiery feeling,

Of food partakes not; from Ludmila

He cannot tear away his eyes;

He flames with love, he frowns, he sighs,

At his moustache plucks, filled with torment

And, all impatience, counts each moment.

Amid the noisy feasters brood

Three youthful knights. In doleful mood

They sit there, their great tankards empty

With downcast eyes, the fare, though tempting,

Untouched; the goblets past them sail;

They do not seem to hear the tale

Of wisdom chanted by Bayan…

The luckless rivals of Ruslan,

Of love and hate a deadly brew

In their hearts hid, the three are too

O’erwrought for speech. The first of these

Is bold Rogdai of battle fame

(’Twas he who Kiev’s boundaries

Stretched with his blade); the next, the vain,

Loud-voiced Farlaf, by none defeated

At festal board, but tame, most tame

Mid flashing swords and tempers heated;

The last, the Khazar Khan Ratmir,

A reckless spirit, aye, and ardent.

All three are pale-browed, glum, despondent:

The feast’s no feast, the cheer’s no cheer.

It’s over, and the teasiers rise

And flock together. Noise. All eyes

Are smiling, all are on the two

Young newly-weds… Ludmila, tearful,

Looks shyly down: her groom is cheerful,

He beams… Now do the shades anew

Embrace the earth, e’er nearer creeping,

The murk of midnight veils the dome…

The boyars, by sweet mead made sleepy,

Bow to their hosts and make for home.

Ruslan’s all rapture, all elation…

What bliss! In his imagination

His bride caresses he. But there

Is sadness in the warmth of feeling

With which, their happy union sealing,

The old prince blesses our young pair.

The bridal couch has long been ready;

The maid is led to it… It’s night.

The torches dim, but Lel already

His own bright lamp has set alight.

Love offers – see – its gifts most tender,

Its fondest wish at last comes true,

On carpets of Byzantine splendour

The jealous covers fall… Do you

The sound of kisses, love’s sweet token,

And its soft, whispered words not hear?

Does not – come, say – the murmur broken

Of shy reluctance reach your ear?

Anticipation fires the spirit,

O’erjoyed the groom… But lo! – the air

Is rent by thunder, ever nearer

It comes. A flash! The lamp goes out,

The room sways, darkness all about,

Smoke pours… Fear grips Ruslan, defeating

His native pluck: his heart stops beating…

All’s silence, grim and threatening.

An eerie voice sounds twice. There rises

Up through the haze a menacing

Black figure… Coiling smoke disguises

Its shape… It vanishes… Now our

Poor groom, on his brow drops of sweat,

Starts up. By sudden dread beset,

And for his bride – O fateful hour! —

With trembling hand gropes anxiously…

On emptiness he seizes, she

Has by some strange and evil power

Been borne away… He’s overcome…

Ah, if to be love’s martyr some

Unfortunate young swain is fated,

His days may well be filled with gloom,

But life can still be tolerated.

But if in your arms, after years

Of longing, of desire, of tears,

Your bride of but one minute lies

And then becomes another’s prize,

’Tis much too much… Quite frankly, I,

Were such my case, would choose to die!

But poor Ruslan’s alive and tortured

In mind and heart… O’erwhelmed by news,

Just then arrived, of the misfortune,

The Prince, enraged, turns on the youth.

The whole court summoning, “Ludmila…

Where is Ludmila?” thunders he.

Ruslan does not respond. “My children!

Your merits past high hold I… Free,

I beg, my daughter from the clutches

Of evil. I am helpless; such is

Old age’s piteous frailty.

But though I am too old to do it,

Not so are you. Go forth and save

My poor Ludmila, you’ll not rue it:

He who succeeds, shall – writhe, you knave!

Why did you not, wretch, base tormentor,

Know how to guard your young wife better?

Shall have Ludmila for a bride

And half my fathers’ realm beside!…

Who’ll heed my plea?” “I!” says the grieving,

Unhappy groom. “I!” shouts Rogdai,

And echoed by Farlaf his cry

And by Ratmir is. “We are leaving

Straightway, and pray believe us, sire,

We’ll ride around the world entire

If need be. From your daughter parted

Not long will you be, never fear.”

The old prince cannot speak for tears;

His gratitude is mute; sad-hearted,

A broken man, at door he stands

And to them stretches out his hands.

All four the palace leave together;

Ruslan is ashen-faced, half-dead.

Thoughts of his kidnapped bride, of whether

He’ll ever find the maid, with dread

And pain his heart fill. Now the foursome

Get on their restless, chafing horses,

And leaving dust clouds in their wake,

Away along the Dnieper make…

They’re lost to sight, but Prince Vladimir

Stands gazing at the road and tries

To span the distance ever-dimming

As after them in thought he flies.

Ruslan, his mind and memory hazy,

Is mute, lost in a kind of trance;

Behind him, o’er his shoulder gazing,

The picture of young arrogance,

Farlaf rides, hand on hip, defiant.

Says he: “At last! The taste is sweet

Of freedom, friends… When will we meet —

The prospect likes me well – a giant?

Then will blood pour as passions seethe

And victims offer to the sabre.

Rejoice, my blade! Rejoice, my steed,

And lightly, freely prance and caper!”

The Khazar Khan, his pulses racing,

In saddle dances, for in thought

He is the fair young maid embracing

Whose love he has for so long sought.

The light of hope is in his eye,

Now does he make his stallion fly,

Now forces him, the good steed teasing,

To rear, now gallops him uphill,

Now lets him prance about at will.

Rogdai is silent; with increasing

Unease his heart fills; dark thoughts chill

And burden him; he is tormented

By jealousy, and, all calm gone,

With hate-glazed eye, like one demented,

Stares sullenly at Prince Ruslan.

Along a single road the rivals

Rode on all through the day until

From east poured shades that night’s arrival

Bespoke… The Dnieper, cold and still,

Is wrapt in folds of mist… The horses

Have need of rest… Not far away

A track lies that another crosses.

“’Tis time to part,” the riders say.

“Let us chance fate.” So ’tis decided;

Each horse is given now its head,

And, by the touch of spur unguided,

Starts off and moves where ’twill ahead.

What do you in the hush of desert

Alone, Ruslan? Sad is your plight.

Was’t all a dream – the bride you treasured,

The terrors of your wedding night?

Your helmet pushed down to your brow

Your strong hands limp, the reins let loose,

O’er woods and fields astride your steed

You ride, while faith and hope recede

And leave you well-nigh dead of spirit.

A cave shows ’fore the knight; he nears

And sees a light there. His feet lead

Him straight inside. The dark and broad

Vaults seem as old as nature. Moody,

Distraught Ruslan is… In the cave

A bearded ancient, his mien grave

And quiet, sits. A lamp is burning

Near him, a book lies on his knee;

Engrossed in it, its pages he

With careful hand is slowly turning.

“I bid you welcome, knight! At last!”

Says he in greeting, smiling warmly.

“Here have I twenty long years passed

Of my old age, and grim and lonely

They’ve been… But now has come the day

For which, foreseeing it, I waited.

To meet, we two, my son, were fated,

Now sit and hear me out, I pray…

Ludmila from you has been taken;

You flag, you droop, by hope forsaken

And faith itself… ’Tis wrong! For brief

With evil and its partner, grief,

Will be, I promise, your encounter.

Take heart; with strong, sound spirit counter

The blows of fortune, banish woe,

And, sword aloft held, northward go!

‘‘He who has wronged you, O my daring

Young stalwart, is old Chernomor.

A wizard, he is known to carry

Young maids off to the hills. ’Tis for

Long years he’s reigned there. None has ever

His castle seen, but through its door

You’ll pass, I know, and end forever

The villain’s rule; by your hand he

Will perish – so ’tis meant to be!…

I may not yield to indiscretion

And say aught more; your destiny

Yourself from this day on you fashion.”

Our knight falls at the elder’s feet

And in delight his hand he kisses.

The world a bright place seems, and sweet

Life is again; forgot distress is…

But then the sudden joyful glow

His face leaves, and it pales and darkens.

“Do not despair but to me harken,”

The old man says. “I know what so

Disquiets you: you are in fear of

The warlock’s love, eh, knight?… Be calm

The truth is, o my youthful hero,

That he can do the maid no harm.

From sky the stars he’ll pluck, I’ll wager,

Or shift the moon that sails on high,

But change the law of time and aging

He cannot, hard as he may try.

Though he lets none her chamber enter

And jealous watch keeps at her door,

He is the impotent tormentor

Of his fair captive, nothing more.

While never far from her, he curses

His lot, and soundly – but, my knight,

’Tis time for you to rest: the earth is

Enclosed in shadow; it is night.”

On soft moss lies Ruslan, a flame

Before him flickering. He yearns

For soothing sleep, he twists and turns

And flings about – but no, ’tis plain

That sleep won’t come. He heaves a sigh

And says: “Nay, Father, sick am I

Of soul and cannot sleep for dreary

And troubled thought. Talk to me, do;

With godly speech, I beg of you,

Relieve my heart: it aches, it’s weary…

I make too bold to ask you this;

You, who befriend me, I importune —

Speak! Tell me, confidant of fortune:

Why came you to this wilderness?”

And with a wistful smile replying

To him, the old man says: “Alas,

I have forgot my land!” Then, sighing:

“A Finn am I by birth. It was

My lot to tend the flocks of neighbours,

And I would take them off to graze

In vales on which no stranger’s gaze

E’er rested. Carefree midst my labours

Did I remain, and only knew,

Besides the woods and streams, what few

Joys poverty could offer to me…

Alas! Ahead dark days were looming.

“Near where I lived, a lovely flower,

One named Nahina, bloomed; of our

Young maids none lovelier than she

Was there. One morn, a bagpipe blowing,

My flocks I grazed where grass was growing

In lush profusion. I could see

A brook wind ’fore me; by it, weaving

A garland, sat a dear young lass…

Her beauty – ah, ’twas past believing! —

Drew and enchanted me, and as

I gazed at her I knew I’d seen her

Before… Yes, knight, it was Nahina,

’Twas fate had brought me there. The flame

Of love was my reward for eyeing

The maid thus brazenly; I came

To know a passion self-denying:

All of its bliss, all of its pain.

“Six months sped by… I thought to win her

And opened up my heart. I said:

‘I love thee dearly, sweet Nahina!’

But my shy sadness only bred

Scorn in her who was vain and prideful;

She was indifferent to my lot,

And said, of all my pain unmindful:

‘Well, shepherd mine, I love thee not!’

“I was estranged from all, and gloomy

Life seemed. The shady native wood,

The games of shepherds – nothing could

My hurt soothe and bring comfort to me

I languished… But the far seas drew me;

To leave my homeland sought I then

And with a band of fighting men

To brave the ocean’s winds capricious…

I hoped to win renown and fame

And for my own Nahina claim.

This planned, according to my wishes,

I called upon some boatmen who

Joined with me in a quest for danger

And gold. My land, to war a stranger,

The clash of steel now heard, and knew

The sound of boat with boat colliding…

On, on we sailed, the billows riding,

My men and I, by sweet hope led,

Both snow and water painting red

For ten long years with gore of foes.

As rumour of our prowess spread,

The foreign rulers came to dread

Our forays, and their champions chose

To flee our blades. Yes, fierce and hearted

Our battles were, and merry, too,

And with the men we had defeated

Together feasted we. But through

The din of war and merrymaking

I heard Nahina’s voice, and for

The sight of her in secret aching,

Before me saw my native shore.

‘Come, men!’ I cried. ‘Did we not roam

The world enough? Time to go home!

‘Neath native eaves we’ll hang our mail;

Is’t not, in faith, for this we hanker!’

And leaving in our wake a trail

Of fear, for Finland we set sail

And in her waters soon dropped anchor.

“Fulfilled were all my dreamings past

That set my lone heart faster beating.

O longed-for moment of our meeting,

O blessed hour, you came at last!

There, at the feet of my proud beauty

I laid my sword and, too, the booty

Of war: pearls, corals, gold. ’Fore her,

By jealous womenfolk surrounded,

Her one-time playmates, my unbounded

Love making me her prisoner,

Mute stood I, but Nahina coolly

Turned from me, saying with no sign

That she would e’er relent: ‘Nay, truly,

I do not love thee, hero mine!’

“I do not like to speak of things

It is pure agony to think of.

E’en now, my son, when at the brink of

I am of death, remembrance brings

Fresh sorrow to my long-numb spirit

And gravely wounds my being whole,

And torn by pain, seared by it, wearied,

I feel the tears down my cheeks roll.

“But hark! In parts I call my home,

Amid the northern fishers lone,

The art of magic lives. The shaded,

Thick-growing forests wrapt in deep,

Eternal silence lie and keep

The secrets of the wizards aged

Who dwell there and whose minds to quest

For wisdom of the loftiest

And weirdest kind are given. Awesome

Their powers are: what was and also

What will be they have knowledge of,

Life can they snuff and foster love.

“And I, love’s mad and avid seeker,

In my despair that ne’er grew weaker,

By means of magic thought to start

In proud Nahina’s icy heart

Of love for me at least a flicker.

Toward the murk of woodland free

My steps in hot impatience turning,

The subtle craft of wizardry

I spent unnumbered years in learning.

Then were the fearsome secrets, sought

By me with such despair, such yearning,

Revealed to my enlightened thought;

Of charms and spells I knew the power:

Love’s aim achieved – О happy hour!

‘Nahina, thou art mine!’ I cried.

‘Now shall I have thee for my bride.’

But once again by fate defeated

Was I and of my triumph cheated.

“Enraptured, with young dreams aglow,

Filled with love’s fervour and elation,

I loudly chant an incantation

And on dark spirits call, and lo! —

A flash of light, a crash of thunder,

And magic whirlwinds start awake,

I feel the earth begin to quake,

I hear it hum and rumble under

My feet, and there in front of me,

The picture of senility,

A crone stands. She is bent and shrunken,

Her hair is white, her eye is sunken

And glazed with age, her head is shaking…

And yet, and yet – had I mistaken

Her for another? – Nay, O knight;

Nahina ’twas!… In doubt, in fright

The horrid vision now I measured

With unbelieving gaze, my sight

Mistrusting… ’Thou! Art thou my treasured

Nahina? Speak!’ from me the cry

Burst forth. ‘Where is thy beauty? Why

Have the gods changed thee so? Have I

Long, then, from life and love been parted?’

‘For forty years!’ I heard her say.

‘Indeed, I’m seventy to-day!…

But never mind! So are lives charted

And so they pass. Thy spring has flown

And mine has too. We are, I own,

Old, both, but be thou not disheartened

By fickle youth’s swift passage. True,

I’m grey, a trifle crooked too,

Less lively and perhaps less charming

Than once I was…’ This in disarming

Tones she declared, her voice a squeak.

‘Come, do not look, I beg, so tragic…

I am – in confidence I speak —

Like thee become well versed in magic.’

“A sorceress! What had she said!…

Struck dumb was I by the admission

And felt a fool, a dunderhead

For all my store of erudition.

“But worse by far was that the spell

That I had cast worked far too well.

My shrivelled idol flared with passion;

She loved me – loved me to obsession!

Her grey lips twisted in a smile,

In graveyard tones the old hag muttered

The wildest of avowals, while

I suffered silently, in utter

Disgust and loathing, and upon

The ground my eyes kept. She wheezed on,