His noble form,
Dark-louring like God’s thunder-storm,
Destruction breathes. The steed is brought,
And restive, but submissive, stands;
Scenting afar the smoke and fire,
It trembling darts its eyes askance,
And proudly bears its rider bold,
Who seemed to know his fiery steed.
Beneath the burning midday sun
Awhile the raging battle slacks,
Though Cossacks still keep up the fire.
But now the troops are drawn in line,
The trumpet, flute, and drum are hushed,
From hills no longer cannon flash
Across the plain their hungry roar;
And far around the welkin rings
With deaf’ning shouts and loud hurrah,
The soldiers’ welcome to their Tsar.
Before his troops he quickly moves
In all his might and martial pride,
As with keen glance the field he scours.
Behind him ride, in compact crowd,
The boast and glory of his age,
In all the changes of blind fate,
In all the toils of rule and war,
His fellow-workmen and his mates:
Brave Scheremeteff, honour’s theme,
And Bruss, and Bauer, and Repnine,
And Menschikoff, kind fortune’s child.
The prop and pillar of the realm.
Meanwhile, before the ranged ranks
Of his best troops and heroes brave,
In litter borne by faithful slaves,
Pale in face and motionless,
With bandaged arm, King Charles appears.
Around him crowd his brilliant suite.
Deep plunged in thought, his troubled face
Is marked with signs of anxious care;
As though the combat he desired
Was now a thing of fear and doubt.
And, like a man compelled by fate,
He feebly waves his tired hand,
Begins the fight he long had planned,
And moves his troops against the foe.
Our men across the smoking plain
March quick to front the fierce assault,
The shock of great Poltava’s day!
Amidst a shower of red-shot hail,
That strikes and breaks the wall of flesh.
Each time a rank falls out, fresh rank
Supplies its place, and heavy clouds
Of horsemen, scudding to the sound
Of clattering arms, in maddened fray,
Around them deal fast blows of death.
The fiery balls fly here and there,
And, spreading death, heap pile on pile
Of heroes slain, or soil dig up,
Or hissing fall in streams of blood.
The mingled foes strike, hew, and wound:
And naught is heard save beat of drum,
The roar of cannon, cries of rage,
The heavy tramp, and dying groan;
And death and hell hold feast unchecked.
Amidst the terror and dismay,
Unmoved the leaders calmly watch
The progress of the doubtful fight,
Pursue the tactics of their troops,
Foresee the ruin and the conquest,
And oft in whispers converse hold.
But who may be the warrior gray
That near the Moscow Tsar close stands?
By two Cossacks held up, his heart
Once more with youthful zeal burns fierce,
As with the soldier’s practised eye
He views the busy scene around.
Grown old and weak in exile long,
No longer can he leap on steed;
No longer will Palaeus see
At his brief summons Cossacks haste.
But wherefore flash his eyes so keen,
And with dark rage, as with night-mist,
His agèd face is mantled deep?
What passion is it moves him thus?
Or does he through the battle smoke
Mazeppa spy, and at the sight
His years decrepit vainly curse?
Mazeppa, thoughtful and disturbed,
Surveys the field, as round him press
A crowd of mutinous Cossacks,
Kinsmen, elders, body-troopers.
A sudden shot! The old man turned.
In Voinarovsky’s close-clenched hand
The barrel of his gun still smoked.
A few steps made, the young Cossack
With bleeding wound from saddle rolled.
The steed, all bathed in foam and dust,
Scenting freedom, wildly snorted,
And soon was lost in thickest smoke.
On Hetman rushed the Cossack fierce
Across the field, with sword in hand,
His eyes afire with madman’s rage.
The old man met his eager foe,
And would a question put. But ere
He could reply, the brave Cossack
Had breathed his last. His glazèd eyes
Still bore the glance of hate, and seemed
To seek revenge on Russia’s foe.
One instant ere he closed his eyes,
His face grew bright with sudden gleam,
As with a sigh he softly lisped
The name “Marie”, and, smiling, died.
Each moment nears the happy hour;
Our men push on, the Swedes retire;
We charge, and they disrouted flee;
Headlong pursuit our horsemen give.
The swords grow blunt with slaughter’s work,
The plain is covered thick with dead,
As with a swarm of locusts black.
There is high feast in Peter’s tent:
Right proud and keen, and bright his glance.
And all within is joy and pomp,
As, to his troopers’ noisy shouts,
He welcomes one and all his guests,
Pays honour to the captive Swedes
In goblets crowned with nine salutes,
His teachers in the art of war.
But where the first and honoured guest,
Our chiefest teacher and most feared,
Whose rage and long nursed hate this day
The victor of Poltava stilled?
And where Mazeppa, Judas false,
Has refuge found and fled in fright?
Among the guests where is the King,
Or why has block the traitor spared?
The ill-starred mates of common flight,
The King and Hetman, breathless urge
Their steeds across the barren steppe.
The dread of shame and danger near
Inspire the King with novel force;
No more he cares for aching wound.
With head bent low, he hurries on,
Outstrips with ease the swift pursuit,
And gallops fierce, that of his men
But few have strength to keep the pace.
Abreast with him the Hetman rides,
And anxious is the glance that scans
The wide expanse that stretches far:
Before them lies a farmstead bared
Why grows Mazeppa pale with fear?
Why hurries he, as panic-struck,
And, spurring steed, fast dashes by?
Or docs the sight of yard and home,
And garden waste, and open gate
That leads into the field, awake
Within his heart an aching dream
Of wrongful deed and crime most foul?
And does the ravisher once more
Behold that cloistered shrine,
That home, the scene of mirth and joy,
Where he, his heart unlocked with wine.
Surrounded by the household gay,
And welcome guest, was wont with jest
At midday feast to gladden all?
Is this the house, the refuge sure,
Where once the angel unstained dwelt?
Is this the garden, whence that night
The maiden pure he lured across
The steppe?... Too well he knew the place!
The shades of night fall o’er the plains
Along the Dnieper’s grassy shore;
Among the rocks they lightly sleep,
The foes of Russia and her Tsar.
The hero’s sleep is lulled with dreams,
And he forgets Poltava’s shame.
But broken is Mazeppa’s sleep,
His gloomy soul finds no repose,
And in the silence of the night
His name is whispered. Starting up,
With frightened gaze he looks around,
And, trembling as beneath the fall
Of sharpened axe, before him sees
A silent form, with finger raised.
And there, with loose, dishevelled hair,
With bright and glittering, sunken eyes,
In garments torn, full pale and wan,
A moon-ray falling on her, stands...
“Or do I dream?... Marie!... Tis thou?”
MARIE.
Hush, hush, my darling! But just now,
Have father, mother, closed their eyes:
So, wait... or they may hear us... hush!
MAZEPPA.
Marie, ah poor Marie, I pray,
Recall thy thoughts! What dost thou here?
MARIE.
Listen the trick they have dared play,
The juggling trick they have devised!
Last night she came with warning words
That father had been done to death,
And secretly an old white head
She showed to me. Oh, righteous God!
Where can we fly from man’s deceit?
For, think, the head she brought with her
Bore not the shape of human skull,
Was like a wolfs... You see, the kind
She is! With cheating lies like these
She thought to trick and gull her child:
Now, shame on her to torture me!
And why? That I might courage lack
With thee, my love, this night to flee:
Can people be so base?
In dread,
Her lover looks on her wild face;
But she, distempered fancy’s slave,
Quick whispers: “I remember all,
The field... the folk in dresses gay...
The crowd... the bodies warm, but dead...
I went with her to see the show...
But where wert thou?... And why, alone,
Apart from thee, at night, I fled?
But let us quick return, ‘tis late!...
But ah! My head is ill, my brain
Is racked with empty, idle dreams;
Strange! I took thee for another...
Nay, nay, I pray thee, touch me not!
Thy glare is cruel, cold as ice,
And ugly! But he was beautiful:
His eyes were soft with kindest love,
His words were fair and gracious,
His beard was whiter than the snow:
But thine is clotted with dry blood!”
And with a shriek of laughter mad,
And swifter than the hunted deer,
She wildly burst his hold, ran forth,
And in the silent waste was lost.
The last thin shades of night disperse,
The east begins to redden bright;
In Cossack tents the fires burn clear,
And busy hands the meal prepare.
Along the banks the body guards
The steeds unbridled lead to drink,
And Charles awakes. “‘Tis time!” he cries,
“Arise, Mazeppa, dawn is near!”
But long the Hetman has not slept;
His heart is drear, the choking grief
Mounts high, his breath comes thick and hard:
Silent he sets the saddle right,
And he and Charles pursue their flight.
At last they cross the border-point;
The Hetman’s eyes are dimmed with tears,
As home and country fade from view.
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN
A POEM IN TWO CANTOS.
Translated by Charles Edward Turner
Written in 1833 while Pushkin was staying on his family’s estate at Boldino, this famous ballad concerns the equestrian statue of Peter the Great in Saint Petersburg. It is widely considered to be the poet’s most successful narrative poem, having a lasting impact on Russian literature. Due solely to the influence of the poem, the statue is now simply known as the ‘Bronze Horseman’.
Owing to censorship, only the Prologue was allowed to be published during the poet’s lifetime, appearing in 1834 under the title Petersburg. An extract from a poem. The narrative poem was first published in full in 1837, immediately following Pushkin’s death. The Bronze Horseman was printed in the journal Sovremennik, which Pushkin had established the year before. Even then, the censors demanded certain alterations to the text.
Divided into three sections, with a short introduction and two cantos, The Bronze Horseman opens with a part-fictional history of Saint Petersburg. In the first two stanzas, Peter the Great stands at the edge of the River Neva in an uninhabited area, where he conceives the idea of a city that will threaten the Swedes and open a ‘window to the West’.
The Bronze Horseman, Saint Petersburg
CONTENTS
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. PROLOGUE.
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE FIRST.
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE SECOND.
Peter the Great envisioning Saint Petersburg by the River Neva
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. PROLOGUE.
On the waste shore of raving waves
He stood, with high and dread thoughts filled,
And gazed afar. Before him rolled
The river wide, a fragile bark
Its tortuous path slow making.
Upon the moss-grown banks and swamps
Stood far asunder smoky huts,
The homes of Finnish fishers poor;
Whilst all around, a forest wild,
Unpierced by misty-circled sun,
Murmured loud.
Gazing far, he thought:
From hence we can the Swede best threat;
Here must I found a city strong,
That shall our haughty foe bring ill;
It is by nature’s law decreed,
That here we break a window through,
And boldly into Europe look,
And on the sea with sure foot stand;
By water path as yet unknown,
Shall ships from distant ports arrive,
And far and wide our reign extend.
A hundred years have passed, and now,
In place of forests dark and swamps,
A city new, in pomp unmatched,
Of Northern lands the pride and gem.
Where Finnish fisher once at eve,
Harsh nature’s poor abandoned child,
From low-sunk boat was wont his net
With patient toil to cast, and drag
The stream, now stretch long lines of quays,
Of richest granite formed, and rows
Of buildings huge and lordly domes
The river front; whilst laden ships
From distant quarters of the world
Our hungry wharfs fresh spoils supply;
And needful bridge its span extends,
To join the stream’s opposing shores;
And islets gay, in verdure clad,
Beneath the shade of gardens laugh.
Before the youthful city’s charms
Her head proud Moscow jealous bends,
As when the new Tsaitza young
The widowed Empress lowly greets.
I love thee, work of Peter’s hand!
I love thy stern, symmetric form;
The Neva’s calm and aueenly flow
Betwixt her quays of granite-stone,
With iron tracings richly wrought;
Thy nights so soft with pensive thought,
Their moonless glow, in bright obscure.
When I alone, in cosy room,
Or write or read, night’s lamp unlit;
The sleeping piles that clear stand out
In lonely streets, and needle bright,
That crowns the Admiralty’s spire;
When, chasing far the shades of night,
In cloudless sky of golden pure,
Dawn quick usurps the pale twilight,
And brings to end her half-hour reign.
I love thy winters bleak and harsh;
Thy stirless air fast bound by frosts;
The flight of sledge o’er Neva wide,
That glows the cheeks of maidens gay.
I love the noise and chat of balls;
A banquet free from wife’s control,
Where goblets foam, and bright blue flame
Darts round the brimming punch-bowl’s edge.
I love to watch the martial troops
The spacious Field of Mars fast scour;
The squadrons spruce of foot and horse;
The nicely chosen race of steeds,
As gaily housed they stand in line,
Whilst o’er them float the tattered flags;
The gleaming helmets of the men
That bear the marks of battle-shot.
I love thee, when with pomp of war
The cannons roar from fortress-tower;
When Empress-Queen of all the North
Hath given birth to royal heir;
Or when the people celebrate
Some conquest fresh on battle-field;
Or when her bonds of ice once more
The Neva, rushing free, upheaves,
The herald sure of spring’s rebirth.
Fair city of the hero, hail!
Like Russia, stand unmoved and firm!
And let the elements subdued
Make lasting peace with thee and thine.
Let angry Finnish waves forget
Their bondage ancient and their feud;
Nor let them with their idle hate
Disturb great Peter’s deathless sleep!
It was a day of fear and dread,
In book of memory still writ.
And now, for you, my friends, the tale
Of that day’s woe 1 will begin;
And mournful will my story be.
THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE FIRST.
O er Peter’s cloud-wrapt city hung
November’s autumn cold and mist.
With noisy splash of angry wave
The Neva chafed her granite fence,
As one, confined to bed with pain,
Will peevish toss from side to side.
The hour was late, and it was dark,
The rain beat hard on window-pane,
The wind with mournful howl roared loud,
When young Evjenie bade his friends
Adieu, and homeward turned his steps.
Evjenie is our hero’s name,
A name that lightly falls in verse,
And one my pen is used to write.
No interest his surname has,
Though in the olden times gone by,
May be, it was in high repute;
We meet with it in Karamsin,
Like other once familiar names;
But now ‘tis lost and all unknown.
In district called Kolumna lived
Our hero, who in office served.
His chiefs he feared, but patient bore
Death of relations dear and near,
Or world s neglect of service past.
Evjenie reached his home, uphung
His cloak, undressed, and went to bed.
But long it was before he slept;
A host of cares possessed his brain.
He thought... of what? That he was poor
And hard must toil, if he would bare
Existence get, in freedom live,
Or have his neighbour’s good repute.
Wished that God had but endowed him
With greater wit, or better, wealth;
For in our world are those who have
No wit, and never think to work,
And still contrive to live in ease;
Whilst he must drudge and slave, or starve.
And then, our hero heard the storm,
With fury lashed, still louder rage,
And thought the bridges soon across
The Neva wide would be removed.
And he for two or three whole days
Could of Parasha have no news.
Such were his thoughts. And all that night
His heart within him ached.
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