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

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,