Mikhail Lermontov - The Demon / Демон. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Gudaal's is now a house of mourning,
The people crowd into the court:
Whose horse comes galloping in terror
To fall before the rock-hewn gate?
The lifeless rider, who is he?
The battle fury on his face
Has left a deep inscribed trace
On coat and weapons they could see
Fresh bloodstains, and a wiry strand
Of mane was twisted in his hand,
Not long you waited, youthful bride,
And looked to see your bridegroom come:
Alas, though he has gained your side
To join the feasting at your home
His princely word he keeps in vain…
Never will he mount horse again.

Like thunder, the Lord's judgement broke
About this unsuspecting house!
Tamara, sobbing on her couch,
Gives free rein to the heavy tears
Till, shaken, she on them must choke…
Then, suddenly, it seems she hears
Above her words of wonder spoke:
«Weep not, my child! Weep not in vain!
Those tears are no life-giving rain
To call an unresponsive corpse
Back to the living world again.
They only serve to dull their source
In those clear eyes, those cheeks to burn…
And he is far and will not learn
Of all your bitter sorrow now;
The winds of heaven now caress
His high, angelic brow;
And heavenly music, heavenly light…
What are the dreams and dark duress,
The little hopes and stifled sighs
Of earthly maidens in the sight
Of one who dwells in paradise?
Ah no, the lot of mortal man,
Believe, my earthly angel dear,
It merits not one second's span
Your precious sorrow here.

On the wastes of airy ocean
Rudderless and stripped of sail
Through the mists in listless motion
Stars in courses never fail;
Through the boundless fields of heaven
Traceless pass the fluffy sheep —
Clouds dissolving in the even
Reaches of the azure steppe.
Hour of parting, hour of meeting,
Brings them neither joy nor sorrow;
Nor regrets for past fast fleeting;
Nor desires for any morrow.
Let remembrance day be only
One long sorrow-laden day;
For the rest, be strong and lonely
Free of earthly cares as they!»

«As soon as night has spread her veil
To cover the Caucasian heights;
As soon as nature 'neath the spell
Of magic words falls silent quite;
As soon as on the cliffs the wind
Runs rustling through the fading grass,
And the small bird that hides behind
The brittle blades flies up at last;
And, drinking in the evening dew
Beneath the vine-leaves in the gloom,
Night flowering blossoms come to bloom;
As soon as the great, golden moon
Above the mountain quietly peeps
To steal a stealthy glance at you;
I shall come flying to watch your sleep
And on your silken lashes lay
Enchanted dreams of golden day…»

And softly as a strange delusion
The voice fell silent, sound on sound.
The maid sprang up and gazed around,
An inexpressible confusion
Within her breast; – sorrow nor fear
Nor ecstasy could now compare
With this great upsurge of emotion.
The soul from its fast fetters broke
And burning fire coursed through her veins
It seemed as though the voice still spoke
Unknown and wonderful – and then
The sleep she craved came down to bless
Her weary eyes with heaviness;
But now he troubled even her thought
With dreams prophetic and unsought:
A stranger, mist-enshrouded, stood
Beside her bed and spoke no word
But, glimmering with unearthly beauty,
He looked at her with quiet devotion
And sadly, as it were in pity.
But this was not her guardian angel,
No visitant from realms divine:
About his head no radiant halo
Upon the shadowy curls did shine
Nor was it some tormented sprite
Some vicious spirit of hell – ah no!
Neither of darkness nor of light!..
More like the gentle afterglow
As evening deepens into night!..

«Ah, father, father, leave your threat's
Scold not your daughter yet again.
For see these tears! I'm weeping yet
You know full well since when
The suitors come to seek my hand
From all the corners of the land…
As though in Georgia only one
Young maid there were they'd have as bride…
But I–I can be wife to none!..
Oh, father, father, do not chide,
You see yourself – a poison slow
Envenoms all my waking thought
The evil one won't let me go
By overwhelming dreams distraught
I fade and perish utterly!
Have pity, let your foolish girl
Seek refuge in a monastery
There, if I can but take the veil
The saviour will take care of me
And I shall tell Him all my woe.
The world, I know it all too well,
Holds nothing for me: let a cell
In twilit shadow shelter me…
As in a grave – precociously…»

And so Tamara's family
To a far convent brought their child,
And there in all humility
In hair-shirt rough the maiden mild
Enrobed her youthful breast.
Yet in this harsh, monastic garb
Her troubled heart found no more rest
From dreams forbidden and debarred
Than clad in velvet or brocade.
Before the altar at the hour,
Of shining candles, solemn prayer,
Through the sweet chanting of the choir
Familiar speech would reach her ear
And there, beneath the cupola,
A well-known figure would appear
To glide by as the incense rose…
Soundless, he leaves no trace, but goes
Gleaming before her like a star
Calling and beckoning afar
But whither? Ah, that no one knows.

The holy convent was secluded
In a cool glen between two hills
By poplars and acacias ringed…
And, when the night sank weary-winged
To rest in the ravine, the grills
Of the young sister's cell would gleam
Out through their foliage fitfully.
Without, beneath the almond tree
In whose thin shade dark crosses brooded
Like silent watchers on the graves,
The merry birds made sweet conclaves
Of melody. The spring-cold streams
Leapt down from rock to rock, and sang,
Then merged beneath the overhang
To foam away in rapid rushes
Beneath the frosty-flowering bushes…

Way to the north there was a view,
A glimpse of mountains. At day's dawning,
When curling mists of smoky blue
Rose from the hollows of the hills,
And from his minaret the priest,
His face towards the brightening East,
Called all his flock to prayer at morning,
Then, too, the trembling resonance
Of chapel bells awoke the cloister;
The solemn hour did but enhance
The stillness of the place, the calm…
Tamara at this hour came forth
Bearing a pitcher on one arm
And, treading where the mists grew lighter
Down the steep hillside stepped for water.
The snowy summits to the North
Showed violet against the sky
And flung a cloak of rosier dye
About their shoulders in the evening;
And there between them, upheaving
His head between the clouds, their Tsar,
Kazbek, in robes of silver weaving,
Towered up towards the polar star.

Yet, full of tainted thoughts, her mind
Is shuttered to such pure delights,
And all her heart is filled with night
The whole world shadowed and unkind.
And morning ray and evening dark
Serve only to ignite the spark
Of further torment in her soul.
And, as the sweet, nocturnal cool
Over the thirsty earth came seeping,
Almost demented, she would fall
Before the sacred icon weeping;
And in the silence of the night
Her heavy sobbing would affright
The traveller upon his course;
«A mountain spirit», he'd surmise
«Bound in some cavern moaning lies!»
And hustle on his weary horse…