Александр Пушкин - The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

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.”