Topless against Putin: Femen activists protest in Italy ahead of Russia-Ukraine talks
by euronews (in English)
Published on Oct 16, 2014
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And you, stubborn heirs
Of fathers renowned for meanness,
Who with servile heel trod underfoot the shards Of families by Fortune frowned upon!
You, greedy crowd standing near the throne,
Of Freedom, Genius and Glory the hangman!
You hide behind the protection of law,
Before you, the court and truth—all is silent!
But there is also divine judgment, you cronies of corruption!
There is a terrible judge: he waits;
He is not swayed by tinkling gold,
And knows your thoughts and affairs beforehand.
Then in vain will you resort to slander:
It will not help you again,
And with all your black blood you shall not wash away
The righteous blood of the poet!
-- The Promise of Mikhail Lermontov, by Denise M. Henderson
Necro may refer to:
• necro-, the Greek prefix meaning death
• Necromancy, a type of magic
• Necrophilia, the sexual attraction to corpses
• Necropolis, a large ancient cemetery
-- Necro, by Wikipedia
On who must be reckoned
The greatest of sinners:
"The publican," one says,
And one, "The Pomyéshchick,"
Another, "The peasant."
This last was a carter,
A man of good standing
And sound reputation,
No ignorant babbler.
He'd seen many things
In his life, his own province
Had traversed entirely.
He should have been heard.
The peasants, however,
Were all so indignant
They would not allow him
To speak. As for Klímka,
His wrath is unbounded,
"You fool!" he is shouting.
"But let me explain."
"I see you are all fools,"
A voice remarks roughly:
The voice of a trader
Who squeezes the peasants
For laputs or berries
Or any spare trifles.
But chiefly he's noted
For seizing occasions
When taxes are gathered,
And peasants' possessions
Are bartered at auction.
"You start a discussion
And miss the chief point.
Why, who's the worst sinner?
Consider a moment."
"Well, who then? You tell us."
"The robber, of course."
"You've not been a serf, man,"
Says Klímka in answer;
"The burden was heavy,
But not on your shoulders.
Your pockets are full,
So the robber alarms you;
The robber with this case
Has nothing to do."
"The case of the robber
Defending the robber,"
The other retorts.
"Now, pray!" bellows Klímka,
And leaping upon him,
He punches his jaw.
The trader repays him
With buffets as hearty,
"Take leave of your carcase!"
He roars.
"Here's a tussle!"
The peasants are clearing
A space for the battle;
They do not prevent it
Nor do they applaud it.
The blows fall like hail.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!
Write home to your parents!"
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!
Heh, send for the pope!"
The trader, bent double
By Klímka, who, clutching
His hair, drags his head down,
Repeating, "He's bowing!"
Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"
When Klímka has freed him
He sits on a log,
And says, wiping his face
With a broadly-checked muffler,
"No wonder he conquered:
He ploughs not, he reaps not,
Does nothing but doctor
The pigs and the horses;
Of course he gets strong!"
The peasants are laughing,
And Klímka says, mocking,
"Here, try a bit more!"
"Come on, then! I'm ready,"
The trader says stoutly,
And rolling his sleeves up,
He spits on his palms.
"The hour has now sounded
For me, though a sinner,
To speak and unite you,"
Ióna pronounces.
The whole of the evening
That diffident pilgrim
Has sat without speaking,
And crossed himself, sighing.
The trader's delighted,
And Klímka replies not.
The rest, without speaking,
Sit down on the ground.
***
My brothers, how grievous
The sins of the nobles!"
"And yet not as great
As the sin of the peasant,"
The carter cannot here
Refrain from remarking.
-- Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?, by Nicholas Nekrasov
hold em up
it's a street arrest
and we're dealin with identity theft
you need a publication
i don't see why i got to
you need a press release
as to assimilate
journo-fascist profiteers
pornotastic pioneers
bonbonbastic puppeteers
get away from me
how can you write what we read
that ain't my reality
you disabuse humanity
humility
and fealty
-- Identity Theft, by Nellie McKay
SAVYÉLI
"A mane grey and bushy
Which covered his shoulders,
A huge grizzled beard
Which had not seen the scissors
For twenty odd years,
Made Savyéli resemble
A shaggy old bear,
Especially when he
Came out of the forest,
So broad and bent double.
The grandfather's shoulders
Were bowed very low,
And at first I was frightened
Whenever he entered
The tiny low cottage:
I thought that were he
To stand straight of a sudden
He'd knock a great hole
With his head in the ceiling.
But Grandfather could not
Stand straight, and they told me
That he was a hundred.
He lived all alone
In his own little cottage,
And never permitted
The others to enter;
He couldn't abide them.
Of course they were angry
And often abused him.
His own son would shout at him,
'Branded one! Convict!'
But this did not anger
Savyéli, he only
Would go to his cottage
Without making answer,
And, crossing himself,
Begin reading the scriptures;
Then suddenly cry
In a voice loud and joyful,
'Though branded—no slave!'...
"Savyéli would gather
The berries and mushrooms
From spring till late autumn,
And snare the wild rabbits;
Throughout the long winter
He lay on the oven
And talked to himself.
He had favourite sayings:
He used to lie thinking
For whole hours together,
And once in an hour
You would hear him exclaiming:
"'Destroyed … and subjected!'
Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes!
You're fit but for battles
With old men and women!'
"'Be patient … and perish,
Impatient … and perish!'
"'Eh, you Russian peasant,
You giant, you strong man,
The whole of your lifetime
You're flogged, yet you dare not
Take refuge in death,
For Hell's torments await you!'...
[H]e told me the story.
"'The peasants in old days
Were serfs as they now are,
But our race had, somehow,
Not seen its Pomyéshchick;
No manager knew we,
No pert German agent.
And barschin we gave not,
And taxes we paid not
Except when it pleased us,—
Perhaps once in three years
Our taxes we'd pay.'...
"'The times were so blessed,—
And folk had a saying
That our little village
Was sought by the devil
For more than three years,
But he never could find it.
Great forests a thousand
Years old lay about us;
And treacherous marshes
And bogs spread around us;
No horseman and few men
On foot ever reached us....
They were good times!
In these days the Barin
Lives under your window;
The roadways go spreading
Around, like white napkins—
The devil destroy them!
We only were troubled
By bears, and the bears too
Were easily managed.
Why, I was a worse foe
By far than old Mishka,
When armed with a dagger
And bear-spear. I wandered
In wild, secret woodpaths,
And shouted, ''My forest!''...
"'At last our Pomyéshchick
Invented a new game:
He sent us an order,
''Appear!'' We appeared not.
Instead, we lay low
In our dens, hardly breathing.
A terrible drought
Had descended that summer,
The bogs were all dry;
So he sent a policeman,
Who managed to reach us,
To gather our taxes,
In honey and fish;
A second time came he,
We gave him some bear-skins;
And when for the third time
He came, we gave nothing,—
We said we had nothing.
We put on our laputs,
We put our old caps on,
Our oldest old coats,
And we went to Korójin
(For there was our master now,
Stationed with soldiers).
''Your taxes!'' ''We have none,
We cannot pay taxes,
The corn has not grown,
And the fish have escaped us.''
''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.''
He waited no longer;
''Hey! Give them the first round!''
He said, and they flogged us.
"'Our pockets were not
Very easily opened;
Shaláshnikov, though, was
A master at flogging.
Our tongues became parched,
And our brains were set whirling,
And still he continued.
He flogged not with birch-rods,
With whips or with sticks,
But with knouts made for giants.
At last we could stand it
No longer; we shouted,
''Enough! Let us breathe!''
We unwound our foot-rags
And took out our money,...
And so by the ikons
We swore all together
That next time we rather
Would die of the beating
Than feebly give way.
It seems the Pomyéshchick
Had taken a fancy
At once to our roubles,
Because after that
Every year we were summoned
To go to Korójin,
We went, and were flogged.
"'Shaláshnikov flogged like
A prince, but be certain
The treasures he thrashed from
The doughty Korójins
Were not of much weight.
The weak yielded soon,
But the strong stood like iron
For the commune. I also
Bore up, and I thought:
''Though never so stoutly
You flog us, you dog's son,
You won't drag the whole soul
From out of the peasant;
Some trace will be left.'...
He sent us a German.[48]
Through vast, savage forests,
Through sly sucking bogs
And on foot came the German,
As bare as a finger.
"'As melting as butter
At first was the German:
''Just give what you can, then,''
He'd say to the peasants.
"'''We've nothing to give!''...
''Well, if you can't pay
You should work, little peasants.''
"'''What work should we do?''
"'''You should dig some deep ditches
To drain off the bog-lands.''
We dug some deep ditches.
"'''And now trim the forest.''
"'''Well, well, trim the forest….''
We hacked and we hewed
As the German directed,
And when we look round
There's a road through the forest!...
And now he's established
A village ispravnik,
They live like two brothers.
His courtyard at all times
Is teeming with strangers,
And woe to the peasants—
The fallen Korójins!
He sucked us all dry
To the very last farthing;
And flog!—like the soul
Of Shaláshnikov flogged he!...
"'But how could you bear it?'
"'Ah, how could we bear it?
Because we were giants—
Because by their patience
The people of Russia
Are great, little Grandchild.
You think, then, Matróna,
That we Russian peasants
No warriors are?
Why, truly the peasant
Does not live in armour,
Does not die in warfare,
But nevertheless
He's a warrior, child.
His hands are bound tight,
And his feet hung with fetters;
His back—mighty forests
Have broken across it;
His breast—I will tell you,
The Prophet Elijah
In chariot fiery
Is thundering within it;
And these things the peasant
Can suffer in patience.
He bends—but he breaks not;
He reels—but he falls not
***
And Vlass, the old Elder,
Has placed his great palm
On the head of his godson.
"Is serfdom revived?
Will they drive you to barschin
Or pilfer your hayfields?"
Says Grísha in jest.
"The hay-fields? You're joking!"
"Well, what has gone wrong, then?
And why were you singing
'The Hungry One,' brothers?
To summon the famine?"
"Yes, what's all the pother?"
Here Klímka bursts out
Like a cannon exploding.
The others are scratching
Their necks, and reflecting:
"It's true! What's amiss?"
"Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,'
Come, drink and be merry!
All's well—as we'd have it,
Aye, just as we wished it.
Come, hold up your noddles!
-- Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?, by Nicholas Nekrasov
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO READ THE COPYRIGHT NOTICE AT THIS LINK BEFORE YOU READ THE FOLLOWING WORK, THAT IS AVAILABLE SOLELY FOR PRIVATE STUDY, SCHOLARSHIP OR RESEARCH PURSUANT TO 17 U.S.C. SECTION 107 AND 108. IN THE EVENT THAT THE LIBRARY DETERMINES THAT UNLAWFUL COPYING OF THIS WORK HAS OCCURRED, THE LIBRARY HAS THE RIGHT TO BLOCK THE I.P. ADDRESS AT WHICH THE UNLAWFUL COPYING APPEARED TO HAVE OCCURRED. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING THE RIGHTS OF COPYRIGHT OWNERS.
Ode to Liberty
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Listless Cytherean princess1, sing
No more. Begone out of my view!
But you, great scourge of tsar and king,
Proud Muse of Freedom, where are you?
Come rip my laurels off. Bring stones
And crush this coddled lyre. Let me
Sing to the world of Liberty
And shame that scum upon the thrones.
Reveal to me the noble path
Where that exalted Gaul2 once strode,
When you in storied Days of Wrath
Inspired in him a dauntless Ode.
Now, flighty Fortune's favored knaves,
Tremble, O Tyrants of the Earth!
But ye: take heed now, know your worth
And rise as men, ye fallen slaves!
I cannot cast my gaze but see
A body flayed, an ankle chained,
The useless tears of Slavery,
The Law perverted and profaned.
Yea, everywhere iniquitous
Power in the fog of superstition
Ascends: Vainglory's fateful passion,
And Slavery's gruesome genius.
Heavy on every sovereign head
There lies a People's misery,
Save where the mighty Law is wed
Firmly with holy Liberty,
Where their hard shield is spread for all,
Where in a Nation's faithful hand
Among mere equals in the land
The sword can equitably fall3The Mosaic account of the creation, whether taken as divine authority or merely historical, is full to this point, the unity or equality of man. The expression admits of no controversy. "And God said, Let us make man in our own image. In the image of God created he him; male and female created he them." The distinction of sexes is pointed out, but no other distinction is even implied. If this be not divine authority, it is at least historical authority, and shows that the equality of man, so far from being a modern doctrine, is the oldest upon record.
-- Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine
To smite transgression from on high
With one blow, righteously severe
In fingers uncorrupted by
Ravenous avarice or fear.
O Monarchs, ye are crowned by will
And law of Man, not Nature's hand.
Though ye above the people stand,
Eternal Law stands higher still.The error of those who reason by precedents drawn from antiquity, respecting the rights of man, is that they do not go far enough into antiquity. They do not go the whole way. They stop in some of the intermediate stages of an hundred or a thousand years, and produce what was then done, as a rule for the present day. This is no authority at all. If we travel still farther into antiquity, we shall find a direct contrary opinion and practice prevailing; and if antiquity is to be authority, a thousand such authorities may be produced, successively contradicting each other; but if we proceed on, we shall at last come out right; we shall come to the time when man came from the hand of his Maker. What was he then? Man. Man was his high and only title, and a higher cannot be given him.
-- Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine
But woe betide the commonweal
Where it is blithely slumbering,
Where Law itself is forced to kneel
Before the Masses, or the King.
Here is the Man: witness he bears
To his forebears’ infamous error
And in the storm of recent Terror
Laid down royal neck for theirs.
King Louis to his death ascends4
In sight of hushed posterity,
His crownless, beaten head he bends:
Blood for the block of perfidy.
The Law stands mute, the People too.
And down the criminal axe-blade flies
And lo! A ghastly purple5 lies
Upon a Gaul enslaved anew.
You autocratic psychopath,6
You and your throne do I despise!
I watch your doom, your children's death
With hateful, jubilating eyes.
Upon your forehead they descry
The People’s mark of true damnation.
Stain of the world, shame of creation,
Reproach on earth to God on high!And I hope that you die
And your death will come soon
I will follow your casket
By the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand over your grave
'Til I’m sure that you’re dead
-- Masters of War, by Bob Dylan
When on the dark Neva the star
Of midnight makes the water gleam,
When carefree eyelids near and far
Are overwhelmed with peaceful dream,
The poet, roused with intellect,
Sees the lone tyrant's statue loom
Grimly asleep amid the gloom,
The palace now a derelict,7
And Clio's8 awesome call he hears
Behind those awesome walls of power.
Vivid before his sight appears
The foul Caligula's last hour.
In stars and ribbons he espies
Assassins drunk with wine and spite
Approaching, furtive in the night
With wolfish hearts and brazen eyes.
And silent stands the faithless guard,
The drawbridge downed without alarm,
The gate in dark of night unbarred
By treason’s mercenary arm.
O shame! O terror of our time!
Those Janissary beasts burst in9
And slash, the Criminal Sovereign
Is slaughtered by unholy crime.
Henceforward, Monarchs, learn ye well:
No punishment, no accolade,
No altar and no dungeon cell
Can be your steadfast barricade.
The first bowed head must be your own
Beneath Law's trusty canopy
Then Peoples' life and liberty
Forevermore shall guard your throne.
_______________
Notes:
1 I.e. Venus Aphrodite, associated in antiquity with the Ionian island of Cythera.
2The identity of this "exalted Gaul" is one of the many quarrels with which scholars of Pushkinian minutiae have busied themselves. Possibilities range from Nabokov's suggestion of the minor poet Ponce Denis Ecouchard Le Brun, to the sadly underrated (by modern critics) poet André Chénier who died on the guillotine at the age of 31, to Jacques de Molay- last grand master of the Knights Templar. For a variety of reasons Chénier seems the most likely, or rather, the only likely choice. But obviously this is a question of interest to historians and the appreciator of poetry doesn't, or at least shouldn't, care.
3 C.f. Guillaume Thomas Raynal's Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes where he writes:
La loi n'est rien, si ce n'est pas un glaive qui se promène indistinctement sur toutes les têtes, et qui abat ce qui s'élève au-dessus du plan horizontal sur lequel il se meut. La loi ne commande à personne ou commande à tous. Devant la loi, ainsi que devant Dieu, tous sont égaux.
The law is nothing, unless it be a sword passing indiscriminately over all heads, and smiting all that rise above the horizontal plane in which it moves. The law governs none, or governs all. Before the Law as before God, all are equal
4King Louis XVI, guillotined in 1793 during the reign of Terror.
5i.e. Napoleonic purple.
6 i.e. Napoleon. Yeah, I know, "psychopath" wasn't a word in the early 19th century.
7 The Tyrant here referred to is Tsar Paul I, father of the then-current Tsar Alexander I. The poem was written in the Turgenevs' apartment which looked out across the canal at the Mikhailovsky Castle, the scene of Paul's assassination in 1801- an event envisioned in the subsequent two stanzas. In Pushkin's time, Paul was considered and depicted as a royal psychopath who ignored the will of his subjects.
8- Clio: the muse of History.
9 Janissaries: i.e. assassins fierce and ruthless as Turkish troops.
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO READ THE COPYRIGHT NOTICE AT THIS LINK BEFORE YOU READ THE FOLLOWING WORK, THAT IS AVAILABLE SOLELY FOR PRIVATE STUDY, SCHOLARSHIP OR RESEARCH PURSUANT TO 17 U.S.C. SECTION 107 AND 108. IN THE EVENT THAT THE LIBRARY DETERMINES THAT UNLAWFUL COPYING OF THIS WORK HAS OCCURRED, THE LIBRARY HAS THE RIGHT TO BLOCK THE I.P. ADDRESS AT WHICH THE UNLAWFUL COPYING APPEARED TO HAVE OCCURRED. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING THE RIGHTS OF COPYRIGHT OWNERS.
Will you, poet, who is mocked, reawake!
Or, will you never avenge against those who spurn—
From the golden scabbard unsheathe your blade,
Covered with the rust of scorn?
-- from ‘The Poet,’ 1838
E’er since the judge eterne
The prophet’s omniscience gave me,
In people’s eyes do I discern
The pages of malice and enmity.
To proclaim love I came
And the pure truths of learning:
All my neighbors, enraged,
At me stones were hurling
With embers I strewed my head,
From the cities did I flee
And thus I live in the desert;
Like the birds, on food divine and free.
-- The Prophet, 1841
The Poet
by Mikhail Lermontov (1830, age 16)
translated by Denise M. Henderson
And when Raphael, so inspired,
The pure Virgin’s image, blessed,
Completed with his brush afire,
By his art enraptured
He before his painting fell!
But soon was this wonderment
In his youthful breast tamed
And, wearied and mute,
He forgot the celestial flame.
Thus the poet: a thought flashing,
As he, heart and soul, his pen dashing,
With the sound of his famed lyre
Charms the world; in quiet deep
It sings, forgetting in heavenly sleep
Thou, thou! The idol of his soul!
Suddenly, his fiery cheeks grow cold,
All his tend’rest passions
Are quiet, and flees the apparition!
But how long, how long the mind holds
The very first impression.
The Prophecy
by Mikhail Lermontov
translated by Yevgeny Bonver
A year will come, the year of Russia, last,
When the monarchs' crown will be cast;
Mob will forget its former love and faith,
And food of many will be blood and death;
When the cast off law will not guard
A guiltless woman and a feeble child;
When the plague on bodies, sick or dead,
Among the gloomy villages will spread,
To call from huts with pieces of a rag,
And dearth will maim this poor earth as plague;
And on the lakes will fateful glow lay:
A mighty man will come in this black day.
You'll recognize this man and understand,
Why he will have the shining knife in hand:
And woe for you! -- Your moans and appeals
He will consider just as funny things;
And all his image will be awful now,
As his black mantle and his lofty brow.
The Sail
by Mikhail Lermontov (1832, 18 years old)
by Denise M. Henderson
Gleams white a solitary sail
In the haze of the light blue sea.—
What seeks it in countries far away?
What in its native land did leave?
The mast creaks and presses,
The wind whistles, the waves are playing;
Alas! It does not seek happiness,
Nor from happiness is fleeing!
Beneath, the azure current flows,
Above, the golden sunlight streaks:—
But restless, into the storm it goes,
As if in storms there is peace!The Angel
by Mikhail Lermontov (1834)
translated by Denise M. Henderson
An angel flew in the midnight sky,
And sang a lullaby;
And all around, the stars and the moon,
Heeded that holy song.
He sang of the blessedness of the innocent,
’Neath Eden’s tents,
About the great God he sang,
And his praise was unfeigned.
A young soul he held in his hands,
For the world of tears and sadness,
And the sound of his song in the young soul
Remained—without words, but whole.
And for a long time on earth that soul stayed,
But never could he trade
Heaven’s music, soaring,
For the songs of earth so boring.
In Lermontov's first year as a student no exams were held: the University closed for several months due to the outbreak of cholera in Moscow. In his second year Lermontov started to have serious altercations with several of his professors. Thinking little of his chances of passing the exams, he opted to leave, and on June 18, 1832, received the two-year-graduate certificate.[5][7]
1832–1837
In mid-1832 Lermontov, accompanied by grandmother, traveled to Saint Petersburg, with a view of joining the Saint Petersburg University's second-year course. This proved impossible and, unwilling to repeat the first year, he enrolled into the prestigious School of Cavalry Junkers and Ensign of the Guard, under pressure from his male relatives but much to Arsenyeva's distress. Having passed the exams, on November 14, 1832, Lermontov joined the Life-Guard Hussar regiment as a junior officer.[20][22] One of his fellow cadet-school students, Nikolai Martynov, the one whose fatal shot would kill the poet several years later, in his biographical "Notes" decades later described him as "the young man who was so far ahead of everybody else, as to be beyond comparison," a "real grown-up who'd read and thought and understood a lot about the human nature."[16]
Lermontov in 1834. Portrait by Pyotr Zakharov-Chechenets
The sort of glittering army career which tempted young noblemen of the time proved a challenge for Lermontov. Books there were a rarity and reading was frowned upon. Lermontov had to indulge mostly in physical competitions, one of which resulted in a horse-riding accident which left him with a broken knee that produced a limp.[20] Learning to enjoy the heady mix of drills and discipline, wenching and drinking sprees, Lermontov continued to sharpen the poisonous wit and cruel humour which would often earn him enemies.[9][22] "The time of my dreams has passed; the time for believing is long gone; now I want material pleasures, happiness that I can touch, happiness that can be bought with gold, that one can carry it in one's pocket as a snuff-box; happiness that beguiles only my senses while leaving my soul in peace and quiet," he wrote in a letter to Maria Lopukhina dated August 4, 1833.[20]
Concealing his literary aspirations from friends (relatives Alexey Stolypin and Nikolai Yuriev among them), Lermontov became an expert in producing scabrous verses (like "Holiday in Peterhof" "Ulansha", and "The Hospital") which were published in a school's amateur magazine Shkolnaya Zarya (School-Years' Dawn) under monikers "Count Diarbekir" and "Stepanov". These pieces earned him much notoriety and, with a hindsight, caused harm, for when in July 1835 for the first time ever his poem "Khadji-Abrek" was published (in Biblioteka Dlya Chteniya, without its author's consent: Nikolai Yuriev took the copy to Osip Senkovsky and he furthered it to print), many refused to take the young author seriously.[5][22]
Upon his graduation in November 1834, Lermontov joined the Life-Guard Hussar regiment stationed near St. Petersburg in Tsarskoye Selo, where his flatmate was his friend Svyatoslav Rayevsky. Grandmother's lavish financial support (he had his personal chefs and coachmen) enabled Lermontov to plunge into a heady high-society mix of drawing-room gossip and ballroom glitter.[9] "Sardonic, caustic and smart, brilliantly intelligent, rich and independent, he became the soul of the high society and the leading spirit in pleasure trips and sprees," Yevdokiya Rostopchina remembered.[23] "Extraordinary, how much youthful energy and precious time had Lermontov managed to spare upon wanton orgies and base love-making, without seriously damaging his physical and moral strength", biographer Skabichevsky marvelled.[23]
By now Lermontov had learnt to lead a double life. Still keeping his passions secret, he took a keen interest in Russian history and medieval epics, which would be reflected in The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov ...The Lay of Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich, His Young Oprichnik and the Stouthearted Merchant Kalashnikov
by Mikail Lermontov
Hail to thee, all hail, Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich!
Tis of thee our lay we did make, O Tsar!
Aye, of thee, and thy well-liked oprichnik,
And the stouthearted merchant Kalashnikov.
In the ancient manner we made the lay,
To the strains of the psaltery sing it we did,
We intoned it loud and we chanted it,
And all good Christian folk took delight in it.
As for boyar Matvei Romodanovsky,
He to each gave a goblet of foaming mead,
And his lady fair did to us present,
On a silver tray laid out prettily,
A right handsome towel sewn with silken thread.
For three days and three nights in the feast we joined
Sing we did 'thout end, but they clamoured for more
I
Nay, 'tis not the sun shining bright in the sky,
With the clouds at its beauty marvelling;
Tis the Tsar at his board seated, proud of mien,
Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich in his crown of gold.
And behind him there stand his serving men,
And before him the boyars and princes sit,
His oprichniks they sit to each side of him.
To the glory of God does the good Tsar feast,
Merry makes the Tsar to his heart's content.
With a smile does he now bid his serving men
Fill his own gold cup full of rich, sweet wine,
Full of rich, sweet wine from beyond the seas,
And to pass it round to his henchmen bold -
The oprichniks drink and the Tsar they praise.
One amongst them all, he, a fine, brave youth,
But a wilful one, of unruly heart,
In the golden cup did not wet his lips;
Dark of face he sat, with his head bowed low
And his eyes cast down to the very ground,
Plunged in gloom sat he and in trying thought.
And the mighty Tsar sorely vexed was he,
Knit his brows he did, and with piercing gaze,
Like the hawk that, grim, from the heights above
Eyes the grey-blue dove, so the youth he eyed.
But the youth sat on, with his head bowed low....
In his wrath the Tsar brought his thick staff down;
With a deafening crash did its iron point
Full it sink and deep in the oaken floor -
Still the youth sat on, not a start gave he.
Then in thunderous tones did the Tsar speak up -
And the youth was roused from his revery.
"Hark and list, Kiribeyevich, brave my lad,
Is it treacherous thought thou dost harbour, say?
Dost thou envy the Tsar his glory and fame?
Of thy faithful service art weary grown?...
When the moon appears, the bright stars rejoice
That the paths of heaven wax luminous.
But should one amongst them hide its face,
To the shadowed earth it will, flashing, fall....
'Tis not meet for thee, Kiribeyevich,
Thus to scorn thy Tsar and his revelry;
Art thou not a Skuratov man by birth,
In Malyuta's own house and home brought up?..."
To his Tsar the oprichnik answer made,
'Fore him low, to the very ground, he bowed:
"Hear me out, my Tsar, hear me out, I pray!
Be not wroth with me, thy unworthy slave!
Wine won't quench the flames of a burning heart,
Gloomy thoughts and dark it will not drive off.
If I vex thee, sire, let thy will be done,
Bid them seize thy slave and his head chop off -
Heavy weighs it, Tsar, on my shoulders broad,
Of itself it bows to the grass-grown earth..."
Said to him the Tsar, with a laugh said he:
"What is there that grieves one so brave and young?
Is thy silken coat frayed and worn with age?
Is thy sable cap, once so fine, now torn?
Is thy purse, once full, free of jingling coin?
Has thy sword, once sharp, tarnished grown and blunt?
Has thy steed gone lame? Was he poorly shod?
Did a merchant's son knock thee off thy feet
In a fist fight fought on the river bank?"
Kiribeyevich of the curly locks
Proudly tossed his head as reply he made:
"Not a merchant's son, nor a boyar's son,
Nay, no man is there that can knock me down;
Fast my good steed runs, never falters he;
Bright as polished glass gleams my sabre sharp;
By thy favour, sire, on a festive day
Boast I do of dress rich as any man's;
When my steed I mount and go riding him
By the Moskva Stream and beyond as well,
With my silken sash round my waist wound tight
And my velvet cap trimmed with sable fur
On my curly head sitting rakishly,
At their gates appear fair young maids and wives,
By their gates they stand and they gaze at me,
And in whispers soft to each other speak.
Only one of them turns away from me,
With a striped silk veil her dear face she clothes...
"Search the whole of Russ, this our holy land,
And you'll never find one as fair, O Tsar:
Moves she gracefully as a white-winged swan,
Gentle is her gaze as a sweet young dove's,
Tender is her voice as a nightingale's,
Pink as dawn's first ray in the heavens high,
Bloom the roses two on her fresh young cheeks;
Twined with ribbons gay is her golden hair,
Tightly bound is it into silken plaits.
Down her shoulders, sire, run they playfully
And her bosom white touch caressingly.
Born was she in a merchant's house and home
And is named Alyona Dmitrevna.
"When I look at her I am not myself:
Strengthless grow my arms, limp they grow and weak,
And my eyes so keen, turn they dark and dim;
Sorrow fills my heart at the fearful thought
That the world alone I must roam, O Tsar.
In my charger swift I delight no more,
Nor in costly garb and in finery,
Little do I care for a well-stuffed purse....
Who is there the gold that is mine to share?
Before whom shall I of my prowess boast?
Tore whose gaze shall I my rich garb display?
"Give me leave to go to the Volga steppe,
Let me lead the life of a Cossack free.
My hot head will I there in battle lose,
By a Tatar hand 'twill be smitten off,
And the infidels for themselves will they
Take my sabre sharp and my goodly steed
And my saddle rich of Circassian make.
At my eyes the ravens will tear and peck,
On my lonely bones dreary rains will fall,
Without burial will my poor dust be
Blown across the steppe by a gusty wind... ."
To these words the Tsar with a laugh replied:
"Faithful servant mine, I will soothe thy pain,
To thy aid thy Tsar in thy grief will come.
Take my ruby ring and this necklace take -
Made of pearls is it full a Joy to see;
Find a clever wife for a matchmaker,
And these precious gifts have her bear in haste
To thy lady fair Alyona Dmitrevna:
If she'll have thee, lad, hold a wedding feast;
If she'll have thee not, be not sore of heart."
Hail to thee, all hail, Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich!
By thy cunning slave thou'rt deceived this day!
Aye, the truth has he from his Tsar withheld.
He has told thee not that his lady fair
Is another's wife, is a merchant's spouse
That in church was she to her husband wed
By our holy rites, by the Christian law.
* * *
Drink deep, my lads! Sing out in glee!
Come, lads, tune up the psaltery!
With your ringing music drive away care,
Bring cheer to our host and his lady fair!
II
In the market place the young merchant sat,
Tall and handsome Stepan Paramonovich
Of the honest house of Kalashnikov.
His gay silken wares laid he smartly out,
And his moneys he counted carefully,
In soft tones he called to the passers-by.
But 'twas little luck that the merchant had:
By his shop the rich folk they tarried not,
No one glanced within, no one bought his wares.
In the churches the vesper bells have rung,
O'er the Kremlin domes glow the sun's last rays;
Driven on by a singing, moaning wind,
Grey clouds scurry near and the heavens veil....
The great market place it has emptied fast,
And the merchant Stepan Paramonovich
Shuts behind him the massive oaken door,
Turns the figured key in the foreign lock,
And beside the shop, on an iron chain
His old watchdog, a snarling beast, he leaves.
Then, in thought immersed, off the merchant goes
To his home and wife across Moskva Stream.
Comes he soon enough to his fine, tall house,
And amazed he looks to all sides of him:
For his fair young wife does not welcome him,
Bare the table stands, with no cloth on it,
Tore the icon a single candle gleams.
Calls he then the aged servant woman:
"Come, speak up and say, Yeremeyevna,
Where's thy mistress gone that I see her not?
Where's my wedded wife, Alyona Dmitrevna?
And my children dear, did they weary grow
Of their noisy games, of their play and sport?
Were they put abed at an early hour?"
"O my master dear, Stepan Paramonovich,
Tis a full strange thing I will say to thee:
To the vespers went Alyona Dmitrevna;
But the priest and his wife are back from church,
They have lit a candle and at supper sit,
Yet thy lady fair she has not returned....
And the little ones they are not at play,
Nor are they abed and asleep, the dears;
It is wailing they are and sobbing loud,
For their mother crying and calling her."
By a fearful thought was he visited,
Was the youthful merchant Kalashnikov.
By the window he stood with troubled heart,
At the snow-clad street gazed he fretfully.
It was dark without, and the snow swept down.
And it covered the tracks of the passers-by.
Of a sudden he hears a door slam shut,
And a hurried step to his ear it comes....
Spins he round, and there - Heaven help us all! -
Stands his fair young wife, white of face she stands,
With her headpiece gone and her plaits untwined
And with hoarfrost powdered and melting snow,
And a look in her eye as of one insane,
And her ashen lips forming soundless words....
"Where hast thou been a'wandering, wife, my wife?
To what courtyard or square didst thou stray, come,
speak,
That thy head is bare and thy plaits undone
And thy clothing torn and in disarray?
From a wanton feast dost thou come this day?
With the boyars' sons hast thou, wife, caroused?
It was not for this we did plight our troth,
It was not for this 'fore the holy shrine
On our wedding morn we exchanged our rings.
Behind oaken doors will I put thee, wife,
With an iron lock I will lock thee fast.
Ne'er the light of day shalt thou see again,
Nay, nor cast a slur on my honest name."
When the poor young wife heard these scathing
words,
Like an aspen leaf she began to shake;
She began to shake and to sob and weep;
Down her cheeks the bitter tears they rolled,
To her knees she sank at her husband's feet.
"O my lord, my own, O my radiant sun!
Hear me out or else slay me here and now.
Every word thou sayest to thy hapless wife
Is a knife of steel that doth pierce her heart.
Tis not death I fear be it e'er so cruel,
'Tis not idle rumour that frightens me,
'Tis my lord's displeasure I fear to risk.
"On my way I was from the church this night,
All alone I was when I thought I heard -
Just behind me, someone's footsteps come.
Glanced I round, and, oh, how my knees they shook! -
'Twas a man, my lord, running after me....
O'er my face my veil pulled I close in haste.
But the brazen one caught my hands in his,
In a whisper soft spoke he thus to me:
'Wherefore fearest thou me, my lovely one?
Not a robber am I, not a highwayman
But the Tsar's oprichnik Kiribeyevich,
Of Malyuta's own house and family....'
By these words was I frighted all the more,
My poor head it spun and my sight grew dim....
He embraced me then and he kissed me too,
Hold me close he did, and he whispered thus:
'Speak and tell me, love, what thou wishest for,
Speak and answer me, and it shall be thine!
Is it pearls or gold that thy heart doth crave,
Is't brocade or silk thou wouldst have from me?
I will dress thee, love, like a princess true,
Of our Moscow wives thou'lt the envy be!...
Do not let me die a poor sinner's death,
Do not let my love unrequited stay,
Love me, kiss me, do, ere we part this night!"
"And he kissed me then, kissed me many times,
Even now, my lord, when I'm safely back
In my husband's house, like a living flame
His cursed kisses burn on my cheeks and brow.
At their gates, I saw, stood the neighbours' wives,
And they gaped at us, and they laughed in scorn....
"From his grasp at last I did tear myself,
And for home I made at a run, my lord....
In the villain's hands did thy gifts remain,
Both my silken veil and my coverchief.
Me, the blameless one, hath he sorely wronged,
On my honest self hath he brought disgrace....
What wild tales of me will the neighbours spin?
To whose eyes shall I dare to show myself?...
"Pray, protect me, do, from the spiteful-tongued,
At thy faithful wife do not let them jeer!
Whom have I to trust but thy own sweet self
And to whom but thee can I turn for help?
But for thee am I in the world alone,
For my parents dear in the grave they lie,
In the cold, dark grave lie they do, alas!
Of my brothers two, one, the elder, left
For a distant shore and was seen no more,
And the younger, thou knowest, is a child in years,
Aye, a child in years and in wisdom too..."
It was thus spoke Alyona Dmitrevna,
Bitter tears she wept and her lot bemoaned.
Then the merchant Stepan Paramonovich
For his younger brothers in haste he sent,
And his brothers they came and they bowed to him,
In this wise they did speak, the two of them:
"At thy bidding we come, elder brother ours;
What misfortune is thine, tell us truthfully,
That we're summoned by thee at an hour so late
Of a frosty night in the wintertime?..."
"Hear me, brothers mine, and I'll tell you all.
Great mischance this day hath befallen me,
For the Tsar's oprichnik Kiribeyevich
On our honest name hath brought disgrace,
And a true man's heart cannot bear such wrong,
Such offence as this it cannot endure.
On the morrow the first fight is to be,
In the Tsar's own presence, on Moskva Stream....
With the Tsar's oprichnik I'll come to grips,
To the death the rascally knave I'll fight!
And should I be slain, then, my brothers dear,
Come you out in my stead and fight for truth,
Fight for honour and truth and be not afeared!
You are younger than I and of fresher strength,
You have sinned the less, and your souls are pure,
And perchance the Lord will be kind to you."
And the brothers two in reply they said:
"Where the wind it blows in the heavens high,
There the clouds, obedient, rush in haste.
When the blue-winged eagle with raucous cry
Calls his young to the field where lie the slain,
When he summons them to a gory feast,
At his call they come without dallying.
Thou'rt a father true, brother dear, to us,
'Tis for thee to say and for us to do;
That by thee we'll stand thou canst rest assured."
Drink deep, my lads! Sing out in glee!
Come, lads, tune up the psaltery!
With your ringing music drive away care,
Bring cheer to our host and his lady fair!
Ill
Over Moscow the great and golden-domed,
O'er the Kremlin walls, o'er its white stone walls,
Rises early morn in its crimson robes.
From beyond the hills comes the early morn,
And it steals o'er the housetops playfully,
And it drives off the clouds relentlessly.
Its gold tresses the morn o'er the blue skies spreads,
And its face it bathes in the snows so white,
Like a proud young beauty in a looking glass
It beholds itself in the heavens clear.
Why art thou awake, crimson morn so bright?
Why dost thou rejoice, early morn so fresh?
From the whole of ancient Moscow-town
Came the fighters bold, came the fighters brave,
For the fisticuffs on the holiday
Gathered they by the frozen Moskva Stream.
And the Tsar himself with his retinue,
His oprichniks all and his boyars came,
And he bade them stretch a long silver chain,
A long silver chain soldered fast with gold,
And to measure off on the river ice
A large open place for the sporting match.
Then the mighty Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich
Bade his heralds call out in ringing tones:
"Come ye forth, brave lads, come ye forth and fight
For to please the good Tsar, our father own!
Come ye forward, do, to the boxing ring;
Him who wins the match the Tsar will reward,
Him who loses it the Lord will forgive!"
'Thout a word Kiribeyevich now stepped forth,
Bowed he low to the Tsar and silently,
From his shoulders his velvet coat he flung,
His right hand on his hip he proudly placed,
With his hand his crimson hat set straight,
Stood he waiting so for a challenger....
Once, and twice, and thrice rang the heralds' cry,
But the fighting men, doughty fellows all,
Only nudged each other and never stirred.
Round the ring the oprichnik audacious walks,
To his rivals he calls disdainfully:
"Why so timid, ye men, why so thoughtful, say?
With your lives, ne'er you fear, I will let you off,
Give you time I will to repent your sins,
Only let us fight and amuse the Tsar."
Of a sudden the crowd it silent parts,
And the merchant Stepan Paramonovich
Of the name and house of Kalashnikov
Steps he boldly forth for all eyes to see.
First Stepan Paramonovich bows to the Tsar,
To the Kremlin then and its churches all,
To the Russian folk bows he afterward.
Like a falcon's eyes so his eyes they burn,
On the young oprichnik he rivets them,
And before him his stand takes loftily.
Now, he pulls on his gauntlets, his fighting gloves,
And his mighty shoulders he proudly squares,
And his curly beard strokes he languidly.
The oprichnik then spoke, and this he said:
"Tell me, valiant youth, of what house thou art
And what name is thine, speak and tell me plain,
For how otherwise will I know, my lad,
Over whom the priests are to chant their prayers,
And how I'm to boast of my victory."
And Stepan Paramonovich answered thus:
"By the name of Kalashnikov am I known,
Twas an honest man that did father me,
By the Lord's commands have I ever lived:
Never brought disgrace on another's wife,
Never stalked, a thief, in the dark of night,
Never hid myself from the light of day....
Thou hast said a truthful word and just:
Over one of us will the priests they chant,
On the morrow, at noon, and no later, mind,
At a merry feast with his comrades bold,
One of us will boast of his victory.
Not in jest or sport, for the folk to watch,
Do I challenge thee, thou infidel's son,
But to wage a fight to the bitter end!"
At the merchant's speech, Kiribeyevich
Turned he nigh as grey as the snow of spring,
And his sparkling eye darkened all at once,
Down his mighty back ran a sudden chill,
On his parted lips froze his words, unsaid....
Now the rivals two, silent, moved apart,
Thout another sound did the fight commence.
Kiribeyevich was the first to strike;
His gloved hand he waved and a crushing blow
Struck the merchant brave on his mighty chest.
And Stepan Paramonovich staggered and reeled;
On his breast there dangled a copper cross
With a relic from holy Kiev-town,
And this cross bit deep into his firm flesh,
And like dew the blood from beneath it dripped.
And he said to himself, said the merchant brave:
"What is fated to be is bound to be;
For the truth will I stand to the very end!"
And he steadied himself as he made to strike,
And he gathered his strength and with all his force
Fetched his hated rival a round-arm blow,
Hit him full he did on the side of the head.
And the young oprichnik he softly moaned,
And he swayed and dropped to the icy ground,
To the icy ground like a pine he fell,
Like a slender pine in a wintry grove
By an axe cut down at the very roots....
To the ground he fell, and he lay there, dead.
At this fearful sight was the Christian Tsar
Overcome by a blinding rage and fierce,
And he knit his brows, and he stamped his foot,
And he bade his men seize the merchant bold,
And to bring the knave 'fore his face at once.
Said the mighty Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich:
"Answer honestly, for I want the truth:
Was't with full intent or against thy will
Thou hast coldly slain my most trusted man,
My oprichnik, my Kiribeyevich?"
"I will tell thee true, o most righteous Tsar:
With intent have I slain thy trusted man;
But I'll tell thee not wherefore did I this,
To the Lord alone will I this disclose....
Have me put to death; bid me place my head
On the butcher's block for the axe to smite;
But I pray thee, Tsar, to my widowed wife
And my children dear show thou clemency,
To my brothers two be thou merciful."
'"Tis a right good thing, my brave lad and true,
And is well for thee, honest merchantman,
That so truthfully thou hast answered me.
To thy orphans young and thy widowed wife
From my treasury I'll allot a share.
And throughout the length and the breadth, my lad,
Of the Russian realm shall thy brothers two
From this day and on trade 'thout tithe or tax.
As for thee, brave heart, on the block shalt thou
Thy wild head lay down by the Tsar's command;
I will have the blade made keen and sharp,
I will have the headsman wear fine, rich dress,
The great bell for thee will I bid them ring
That all Moscow-town, all the folk might know
That thy Tsar to thee of his goodwill gave..."
To the market square the good townsfolk stream,
The bell's mournful knell o'er it, booming, floats,
Throughout Moscow-town evil tidings spreads.
On high ground the wooden scaffold rears;
In his scarlet blouse with its jeweled links
Does the headsman strut in front of the crowd
And await his victim right merrily.
His axe is well honed and made keen and sharp,
And he rubs his hands in open glee....
And the stouthearted merchant Kalashnikov
Bids his brothers farewell and embraces them.
"O my brothers own, dear are you to me!
Let me hold you close, let us now embrace,
For 'tis soon you and I will forever part....
Bow you low to my wife Alyona Dmitrevna,
Bow you low 'fore the house of our parents dear,
Bow you low to our friends and kinsmen all,
And then pray for me in the holy church,
For your brother pray and his sinful soul!"
And the merchant brave he was put to death,
'Twas a cruel death and a shameful one:
O'er him high the headsman raised his axe,
And his head rolled down from the bloody block.
Beyond Moskva Stream they buried him,
In the wide, open field where three roads meet:
To Tula, Ryazan and Vladimir towns;
O'er his grave a mound of damp earth they heaped,
And on that they set a maplewood cross,
And the boisterous winds cannot be stilled,
O'er his nameless grave they sing and play.
By the grave the good folk pass they do:
When an old man goes by, he crosses himself;
When a young man goes by, his shoulders he squares;
When a young maid goes by, she heaves a sigh;
When a minstrel goes by, he sings a song.
* * *
Ho, ye brave lads and true,
The makers of song,
Ye whose voices ring merry and loud and strong!
You began right well, and so end you must;
Sing in praise of the worthy, the honest and just!
To the freehanded boyar, glory and fame!
To his lovely lady, glory and fame!
And to all Christian folk, fame and glory!
and Borodino ...Borodino
by Mikhail Lermontov
Now tell me, Uncle, how'd it chance that
Our Moscow could be burnt to ashes
And captured by the French?
For up until the bitter end there
Were battles fierce and great in number,
And all of Russia still remembers
Borodino’s great clash!
-- You see, the chaps that I once chummed with
Were not like these saps now among us:
Real men, unlike you lads!
They battled, but their luck turned ill, and
So many brave young men were killed then.
But Moscow, if God had not willed it,
Would never have changed hands!
We stood there long in silence, waiting,
With hearts aflutter, wildly beating;
The old guard carped and fussed:
"Should we forget this whole affair, then?
Do our commanders not yet dare to
Impale French uniforms and tear them
With Russian bayonets?"
And then we found a wide, wide meadow,
Where we could see for miles ahead, so
We built there a redoubt.
Let’s keep our ears and eyes wide open!
No sooner had the dawn’s light shone on
The treetops and the Russian cannons –
The French were all about!
I packed the cannon full to bursting
And thought, well, let’s impress our guests, then!
Just wait, our dear Messieurs!
Why shrink from danger? Play along, now,
And like a wall we’ll fall upon you!
We’ll risk our lives and stand up strong now,
For this here land is ours!
We shot at them, they shot back at us
For two whole days – what utter madness!
We waited for the third.
“Go get the buckshot!” someone shouted.
And then upon the fateful meadow,
So filled with lawlessness, the shadow
Of nighttime dimmed the earth.
I lay me down to catch some shut-eye,
And I could hear throughout the night how
The Frenchmen laughed and played.
But we were silent, no one chattered;
One cleaned a cap that was all battered,
Another bit his lip and muttered
While sharpening his blade.
No sooner did the heavens brighten
Than everyone began to rise, and
The soldiers moved in rows.
Our colonel was so bold, determined:
The soldiers’ sire, the Tsar’s true servant!
We all shed tears when we interred him;
In peace he’s resting now.
He said to us, his eyes like candles,
“Men! Isn’t Moscow there behind us?
Let's die for Moscow now,
Just as our brothers died before us!”
We gave our oath in one great chorus
And then we did just as we promised
Throughout Borodino.
Well, what a day! Through the confusion
The Frenchmen moved, like strange illusions,
All straight towards our redoubt!
The lancers with their brilliant colors,
Dragoons in caps with tails of horses,
And all these figures flashed before us,
Not one of them stayed out.
You'll never see such ruthless battles!
The banners floated by like shadows
And flames glared through the smog;
The sabers rang and buckshot howled as
The fighters wore their strong arms out, and
The slain were stacked up in a mountain
So wide it stopped the balls.
The Frenchmen learned a fair amount that
They didn’t know of Russian combat,
For we fought tooth and nail!
The earth, just like our chests, was quaking;
The horses howled, their manes were shaking;
A thousand shouts and shots were making
One neverending wail …
Then dusk came. Everyone was ready
To start again when morning reddened
And fight until the end …
But suddenly the drumroll sounded,
The French fiends stopped and turned around, and
We then began to count the wounded –
We counted our dead friends.
Yes, there were folks in that brave era
Who had the hearts and souls of heroes:
Real men, unlike you lads!
They battled, but their luck turned ill, and
So many brave young men were killed then.
But Moscow, if God had not willed it,
Would never have changed hands!
... as well as a series of popular ballads. During what he later referred to as "four wasted years" he finished "Demon", wrote Boyarin Orsha, The Tambov Treasurer's Wife and Masquerade, his best-known drama. Through Rayevsky he became acquainted with Andrey Krayevsky, then the editor of Russky Invalid's literary supplement, in a couple of years' time to become the editor of the influential journal Otechestvennye Zapiski.[5]
Death of the Poet
Self-portrait, 1837
The death of Pushkin, who, as it was generally suspected, had fallen victim to an intrigue, ignited Russian high society. Lermontov, who himself never belonged to the Pushkin circle (there is conflicting evidence as to whether he'd met the famous poet at all), became especially vexed with Saint Petersburg dames' sympathizing with Georges-Charles de Heeckeren D'Anthès, a culprit whom he even considered challenging to a duel.[5]
Outraged and agitated, the young man found himself on the verge of nervous breakdown. Arsenyeva sent for Arendt, and the famous doctor who had spent with Pushkin his last hours related to Lermontov the exact circumstances of what had happened. The poem Death of the Poet, its final part written impromptu, in the course of several minutes, was spread around by Rayevsky and caused uproar.Death of A Poet
by Mikhail Lermontov
translated by Denise M. Henderson
The poet’s murd’red!—slave of honor,
He fell, by rumor defamed,
With lead in the breast, and his proud head bowed
By a thirst for vengeance!
The poet’s soul had not withstood
The disgrace of petty-minded insults.
He rose against the opinion of the world
Alone, as formerly . . . and he’s murdered!
Murdered! . . . Now to what purpose is sobbing,
A useless chorus of empty praises,
And the pitiful prattle of excuses?
Fate’s sentence has been imposed!
Was it not you who first thus persecuted
So cruelly his free, bold gift,
And for amusement fanned
The fire that had somewhat abated?
So? Be happy. . . . He could not
Bear the final torments.
Extinguished, like a lamp, is the
Marvellous genius,
Withered the ceremonial crown.
His murderer, coldblooded,
Took aim . . . There was no salvation:
That empty heart beat steadily,
In the hand the pistol did not tremble
And how is that strange? From afar,
Like a thousand fugitives,
He, hunting for fortune and rank,
Thrown among us by the will of fate
Laughing, impudently despised
The language and customs of this alien land;
He could not spare our glory,
He could not understand in that bloody instant,
Against what he raised his hand!
And he is slain—and taken to the grave,
Like that bard, unknown but dear,
The prey of dull envy,
Whom he praised with such wonderful force,
Struck down, like him, by a pitiless hand.*
Why from peaceful delights and open-hearted friendship
Did he enter into this envious world—stifling
For a free heart and fiery passions?
Why did he extend a hand to petty slanderers,
Why did he believe the false words and caresses,
He, who from his youthful years understood people?
They removed the former garland, and a crown of thorns
Entwined with laurel put they on him:
But the secret spines harshly
Wounded the famous brow;
His last moments were poisoned
By the insidious whispers of derisive fools,
And he died—thirsting in vain for vengeance,
Secretly besieged by false hopes.
The sounds of his wonderful songs fell silent,
They will not ring out again:
The bard’s refuge is cramped and sullen,
And his lips are sealed.
Postscript to ‘Death of A Poet’
And you, stubborn heirs
Of fathers renowned for meanness,
Who with servile heel trod underfoot the shards Of families by Fortune frowned upon!
You, greedy crowd standing near the throne,
Of Freedom, Genius and Glory the hangman!
You hide behind the protection of law,
Before you, the court and truth—all is silent!
But there is also divine judgment, you cronies of corruption!
There is a terrible judge: he waits;
He is not swayed by tinkling gold,
And knows your thoughts and affairs beforehand.
Then in vain will you resort to slander:
It will not help you again,
And with all your black blood you shall not wash away
The righteous blood of the poet!
The last 16 lines of it, explicitly addressed to the inner circles at the court, all but accused the powerful "pillars" of Russian high-society of complicity in Pushkin's death. The poem portrayed that society as a cabal of self-interested venomous wretches "huddling about the throne in a greedy throng", "the hangmen who kill liberty, genius, and glory" about to suffer the apocalyptic judgment of God.[24]
The poem propelled Lermontov to an unprecedented level of fame. Zhukovsky hailed the "new powerful talent"; popular opinion greeted him as "Pushkin's heir". D'Anthes, still under arrest, felt so piqued he was now himself prepared to challenge the upstart to a duel. Alexander von Benckendorff, Arsenyeva's distant relative,[20] was willing to help her grandson out, but still had no choice but to report the incident to Nicholas I, who, as it turned out, had already received a copy of the poem (subtitled "The Call for the Revolution", from an anonymous sender). The authorities arrested Lermontov, on January 21 he found himself in the Petropavlovskaya fortress and on February 25 got banished as a cornet to the Nizhegorodsky dragoons regiment to the Caucasus.[7][25] During the investigation, in an act he considered cowardice, Lermontov faulted his friend, Svyatoslav Rayevsky, and as a result the latter suffered a more severe punishment than Lermontov did: was deported to the Olonets Governorate for two years to serve in a lowly clerk's position.[5][20][24]
First exile
An 1837 landscape by Lermontov. Tiflis, 1837
In the Caucasus Lermontov found himself quite at home. The stern and gritty virtues of the mountain tribesmen against whom he had to fight, no less than the scenery of the rocks and of the mountains themselves, were close to his heart. The place of his exile was also the land he had loved as a child. Attracted to the nature of the Caucasus and excited by its folklore, he studied the local languages, wrote some of his most splendid poems and painted extensively.[9] "Good people are here aplenty. In Tiflis, especially, people are very honest... The mountain air acts like balsam for me, all spleen has gone to hell, the heart starts beating, the chest heaves," Lermontov wrote to Rayevsky. By the end of the year he had travelled all along the Caucasian line, from Kizlyar Bay to Taman Peninsula, and visited central Georgia.[5]
Lermontov's first Caucasian exile was short: due to Benkendorff's intercession the poet was transferred to the Grodno cavalry regiment based at Nizhny Novgorod. His voyage back was a prolonged one, he made a point of staying wherever he was welcome. In Shelkozavodskaya Lermontov met A. A. Khastatov (his grandmother's sister's son), a man famous for his bravery, whose stories were later incorporated into A Hero of Our Times. In Pyatigorsk he had talks with poet and translator Nikolai Satin (a member of Hertzen and Ogaryov circle) and with some of the Decembrists, notably with the poet Alexander Odoyevsky (with whom, judging by "In Memoriam", 1839, he became quite close); in Stavropol became friends with Dr. Mayer who served as a prototype for Doctor Werner (a man Pechorin meets in "town S."). In Tiflis he drifted towards a group of Georgian intellectuals led by Alexander Chavchavadze, Nina Griboyedova's father.[5]
Lermontov took delight in painting mountain landscapes
The young officer's demeanor did not enchant everybody, though, and at least two of the Decembrists, Nikolai Lorer and Mikhail Nazimov, later spoke of him quite dismissively. Nazimov wrote years later:"Lermontov often visited us and talked of all sort of things, personal, social and political. I have to say, we hardly understood each other... We were unpleasantly surprised by the chaotic nature of his views, which were rather vague. He appeared to be a low-brow realist, unwilling to let his imagination fly, which was strange, considering how high his poetry soared on its mighty wings. He mocked some of the government's reforms – the ones we couldn’t even dream of in our poor youth. Certain essays, promoting the most progressive European ideas which we were so enthusiastic about, – for who could have ever thought it possible for such things to be published in Russia? – left him cold. When approached with a straightforward question, he either kept silent or tried to get away with some sarcastic remark. The more we knew him, the more difficult it was for us to take him seriously. There was a spark of original thought in him, but he was still very young."[26]
The Novice*
by Mikhail Lermontov
Translated by Charles Johnston
*Lermontov's title for the poem is Mtsyri. He explains in a note: "Mtsyri in the Georgian language means 'a monk who does not serve,' something in the nature of a 'novice.'"I did but taste a little honey, and, lo, I must die.
-- 1 SAMUEL XIV:43
I
Once, not so many years ago,
where soundingly together flow
Aragva and Kura -- the place
where, like two sisters, they embrace -- there
stood a monastery. Still
the traveller who comes down the hill
sees pillars of a crumbling gate,
towers, a church's vaulted state;
but from it now there's no perfume
of incense smoking in the gloom;
and late at night no chanting rolls,
no monks are praying for our souls.
Just an old watchman, feeble, grey,
attends the ruined church today;
by men forgotten he has been,
also by death, as he sweeps clean
gravestones with legends which keep green
tales of past fame -- of how, worn down
beneath the burden of his crown,
a certain king conveyed his land,
in such a year, to Russia's hand.
And so heaven's benediction fell
on Georgia! -- it has blossomed well;
the hedge that friendly bayonets made
since then has kept it unafraid,
enclosed in its own garden-shade.
II
Down from the mountains rode one day
a Russian general, on his way
to Tiftis, with a prisoner-child --
the boy was ill, the road had piled
up too much effort for him: wild
as mountain chamois, about six,
pliant and weak as kindling-sticks.
But in him his exhausted plight
had called forth some ancestral might
of spirit. For however faint
he felt, no groan, no least complaint
passed those young lips; he thrust aside
all ordinary food; in pride
and in silence he all but died.
A monk took pity on the waif,
tended his malady, and safe
in sheltering walls he lived on there,
brought back to health by loving care.
At first, detesting childish fun,
he ran away from everyone,
and, roaming silent, all alone,
looked to the east with sigh and groan --
yearnings too deep to understand
turned him towards his native land.
But soon his prison sentence grew
familiar, the strange language too;
then, christened by that holy man,
he never knew the world; his plan
in the full prime of youth was now
to utter the monastic vow;
when suddenly, one autumn night,
he vanished -- disappeared from sight.
Hills darkly wooded rose all round.
For three long days they searched the ground,
in vain; then on the steppe they found
him fainted, once more brought him in
back to the cloister; he was thin
and deathly pale and feeble too,
as from some fever he'd been through,
some hunger, while he'd been away,
or some ordeal. No word he'd say
to questions, visibly each day
he faded and approached his end.
Then came to him his reverend friend
with exhortation and with prayer;
proudly the sufferer heard him there,
then raised himself with all the strength
still left him, and thus spoke at length:
III
"I thank you, sir, for coming here
for my confession. In your ear
words are the medicine that best
will ease the burden of my chest.
To others I have done no ill,
and so my actions for you will
be profitless to hear about --
or can a soul be detailed out?
I've lived my short life in duress.
No, two such lives -- for one of stress
and terror, willingly I would
exchange them if I only could.
I've known one thought, one and the same,
a thought of passion and of flame:
worm-like, it lived in me; it ate
my soul away like fire in grate.
My dreams, from stifling cell's estate,
my prayers, it called to that brave world
where fears and battles are unfurled,
where lost in cloud are cliff and scree,
and where, like eagles, men are free.
This passion, in the dark midnight
nourished on tears, with all my might
to heaven and earth I shout today,
and for no pardon do I pray.
IV
"Often I've heard how you did save
me, sir, from an untimely grave --
for what? ... alone, and glum, and pale,
a leaf torn off by blast of gale,
I've grown up within walls of gloom,
in soul a child, a monk by doom.
'Mother' and 'father' -- holy sounds --
could call no one; in the bounds
of sanctuary you hoped I'd lose
the natural human wish to use
these sweetest of all names. In vain:
they were inborn. Once and again
others I saw on every hand
with home, friends, parents, native land;
for me, not only no one dear --
not even dear ones' tombs were here!
Then, without wasting time to weep,
I took an oath I swore to keep:
that at some time my burning breast
just for a moment should be pressed
against someone's, perhaps unknown,
yet from a land that was my own.
But now, alas, they're dead, those dreams
in the full beauty of their gleams,
and, as I've lived, I'll find my grave
in alien soil, an orphaned slave.
V
"I have no horror of the tomb:
they say that suffering, in that room,
sleeps in cold, everlasting calm.
But, to stop living, ... there's the harm.
I'm young, young . .. Have you never known
the dreams to which wild youth is prone?
Have you not known, have you forgot,
how hate was sharp, how love was hot;
how the heart beat more keenly while
from some tall battlemented pile
you saw the sun, the fields spread round,
and air was nipping, and you found
deep in the wall's recess sometimes
a huddled nursling from far climes --
a young dove that, driven in by fear
of raging storms, has fluttered here?
Perhaps the glorious world today
has cooled for you: you're weak, you're grey,
you've lost the habit of desire.
But you no longer need that fire.
You've got things to forget -- for you,
you've lived -- I wish I could live too!
VI
"You ask what I contrived to see
during the days while I was free?
Rich plains, and hills that trees had crowned,
woods running riot all around,
in whispering clusters, fresh as spring,
like brothers dancing in a ring.
And frowning cliffs I saw, whose heart
cleft by the torrent, beat apart;
I guessed their thoughts: diviner's art
was given to me from on high!
their stone embracings in the sky
long since cut off, each day, each night,
they long, they thirst to reunite;
but years and ages pass in vain --
and never they shall join again!
And I saw mountain crests that seem
fantastical as any dream,
where, at the earliest hour of dawn,
as if from altars, smoke was drawn
up from the peaks into the blue,
and little clouds came swarming through,
leaving their secret sleeping-place,
turning to east their hurrying face --
in a white caravan, like bands
of birds flown in from distant lands!
Far off I saw, through vapoury strands,
where, glittering diamond of the snows,
grey bastion -- Caucasus arose;
and then, for some strange reason, I
felt light of heart; in days gone by --
a secret voice so prompted me --
I'd lived there. I began to see
ever more clearly, now at last,
places and things from time long past.
VII
"And I remembered father's hall,
and our ravine, our village, all
in cool shadow dispersed around;
I heard the evening thunder-sound
as homing horses galloped through,
the distant bark of dogs I knew.
On moonlight evenings, memory traced
the row of elders, swarthy-faced,
who sat with serious looks before
my father's porch; no, I saw more,
I saw the chiselled scabbards gleam,
on their long daggers ... Like a dream
a row of pictures, indistinct,
came and before my vision winked.
My father, as in life, all prinked
in armour, stood there; chain-mail clinked
as I remembered; light ablaze
from rifle-barrels, and that gaze,
that proud, indomitable stare;
and my young sisters too were there
their sweet eyes shone, their voices rang,
once more I listened as they sang
over my crib ... A torrent sprang
down our ravine; it roared, it rolled,
but it was shallow; on its gold
sands I would play at noon; my sight
pursued the swallows in their flight
as, when a storm of rain was due,
they grazed the water while they flew.
I saw again our peaceful hall;
at evening, round the hearth, we all
listened to tales that would recall
how men lived in days long since gone,
days when the world still brighter shone.
VIII
"What did I do, you seek to know,
while I had freedom? I lived -- so
my life were sadder far than this
dotage of yours, had it to miss
those three days of perfected bliss.
It's long since I began to yearn
to see far fields, and to discern
if earth was beautiful -- to learn
whether for freedom or for gaol
we come to this terrestrial vale.
So in that dreadful hour of night
when thunder struck you down with fright,
when by the altar, pressing round,
you lay all prostrate on the ground,
I fled. I'd have been glad to race,
to enfold in brotherly embrace
that storm! My gaze pursued each cloud,
my hands caught lightning-bolts ... Speak loud,
tell me, inside this walled-in space
what would you give me to replace
the friendship, keen, though brief and frail,
that stormy hearts feel for the gale?
IX
"And so I ran, long hours and far,
I know not where! No single star
lighted me on my stumbling way.
Joyful it was for me to stray,
to let my tortured chest assay
the midnight freshness of the wood --
no more than that. I ran a good
long while, and then, worn out at last,
lay on a tussock thickly grassed,
and listened: no sounds of a chase.
The storm had died. A feeble trace
of light, a radiance, seemed to lie
between the earth and the dark sky,
and, patterned on it, stood out plain
the peaks of a far mountain-chain.
Silent, unmoving and unseen,
I lay; at times, from the ravine,
like a small child, a jackal wailed,
and smoothly, glitteringly scaled,
between the stones a serpent slipped;
and yet my soul was never gripped
by fear: wild as a beast, I slid,
snakelike, away from man, and hid.
X
"Storm-swollen, on the lower ground
a torrent roared, and its dull sound
resembled closely, so I found,
a hundred angry voices. I
could understand this wordless cry,
this unformed murmur -- endless shock
of wrangling with hard-fronted rock.
Now all at once the tumult fell
silent, now it began to swell
and break the stillness all about;
soon, on that misty height, rang out
the song of birds, and then the east
turned golden; suddenly released,
a breath shook leaves on every bough;
the sleepy flowers breathed perfume now,
and, like them, I saluted day,
looked out . .. and it's no shame to say,
as I peered round, I quaked with fear:
I had been lying on the sheer
brink of a frightful cliff; from here
an angry torrent, far below,
went whirling onward, and to show
the way down, steps cut in the face;
only a fiend expelled from grace,
thrown down from heaven, could ever dare
to seek hell's caverns down that stair.
XI
"And, all around, God's garden bloomed.
Flowers that in bright raiment loomed
still kept a trace of tears divine,
and curling tendrils of the vine
wound brilliantly amid the sheen
cast by the leaves' pellucid green;
while, on them, heavy clusters slung
were like rich earrings as they hung
in splendour; sometimes to them flew
a flock of birds in timorous crew.
Once more I lay back on the ground,
once more I listened to that sound,
to those strange voices in the scrub
whispering away to every shrub
as if they had, by magic spell,
secrets of earth and sky to tell;
all nature's voices there were blurred
together; nowhere to be heard
one single human tongue to raise
the morning hour's majestic praise.
All that I felt then, all my mind
was thinking, left no trace behind;
if only I could tell it -- then
just for a flash I'd live again.
Heaven's vault, it was so clear and chaste
that morning, sharp eyes could have traced
the flight of angels; through and through,
such even, deep, translucent blue!
My eyes and my soul drowned; but soon
under the blaze of sultry noon
my reveries were all dispersed
and I began to pine with thirst.
XII
"Then to the torrent from that height,
from crag to crag, as best I might,
clutching the pliant bushes, I
set off downhill. A rock would fly
from underfoot, and roll and bound;
smoking, the dust behind it wound;
it rumbled down, with jump and thud,
and then was swallowed in the flood;
dangling, I hung above the scree,
but death held no alarms for me,
for hands are strong when youth is free!
As I groped down the steep descent,
the mountain water's freshness went
aloft to meet me, and I fell
thirstily on the torrent-swell.
Then, all at once, a voice -- and light
footfalls ... and in instinctive fright
I ducked behind the scrub, and out
timidly I peered round about,
I listened with a kind of thirst.
And ever nearer, burst by burst,
the Georgian maiden's singing rang;
with such an artlessness she sang,
so sweet and clear and free her tone,
you'd think she'd learnt to sing alone
the names of loved ones of her own.
Nothing more simple than that strain,
but in my thought it lodged; again
at nightfall I can hear it ring,
as if, unseen, her soul should sing.
XIII
"Holding her pitcher on her head,
the maiden took the path that led
down to the mountain torrent's bed.
Sometimes, on rock, her foothold slipped;
she laughed as awkwardly she tripped.
Her dress was humble; down the track
she walked lightfooted and brushed back
her winding chadra. Sultry days
had covered in a golden haze
her face, her breast; and summer's glow
breathed from her mouth and cheeks. But so
deep was the darkness of her eyes,
so full of secrets to surmise,
love-secrets, that my head went round.
All I remember is the sound
the jug made as it slowly drowned,
a murmuring through the torrent flood ...
When I came to, and when the blood
had flowed back from my heart, she'd gone
some distance off; as she walked on,
slow, yet lightfooted, straight and trim
beneath her load, she was as slim
as any poplar-tree that stands
and queens it over neighbouring lands!
Not far away, in close embrace,
two cabins grown from the rock-face
loomed through the chilly evening mist;
above one's roof, in a blue twist,
smoke rose. As now, I see again
how the door gently opened, then
it shut once more! .. . For you, I know,
it's past conceiving why I'm so
brimful of yearning and so sad --
it's past conceiving, and I'm glad;
the memory of those moments I
would wish in me, with me to die.
XIV
"By the night's travail quite worn out
I lay down in the shades. Without
effort my eyes were sealed about
by blissful sleep ... I saw once more
that Georgian girl and, as before,
a strange, sweet yearning came to break
my heart and make it pine and ache.
I fought, I fought to breathe -- but soon
I woke up. And by now the moon
was high and shining; after it
a single cloudlet seemed to flit
with arms wide open for the embrace.
And the dark world was still; in space
far distant, ranges tipped with snow
sparkled away, and seemed to throw
a silhouette of silvery glow.
Splashing its banks, I heard the stream;
and in the cabin a faint gleam
would flicker up, and once more die;
just so, across the midnight sky,
a bright star shines, then dies up there!
I longed to ... but I didn't dare
go over to the hut. I'd planned
one thing -- to reach my native land;
one thing alone -- so hunger's pain
I quelled as best I could. Again
I started on the straightest way,
timid, without a word to say --
but all at once began to stray
as soon as in the forest's night
I'd lost the mountains from my sight.
XV
"In my despair, to no avail,
I clutched, at moments on my trail,
some thorny bush, with ivy crowned:
eternal forest all around
grew denser, grimmer, every pace;
with million coal-black eyes, the face
of darkest night looked through the scrub,
peered through the twigs of every shrub ...
My head was turning; for a time
I tried the trees, began to climb;
but always, on the horizon's edge,
the same woods rose in spire and wedge.
Then I threw myself down and lay
sobbing in a despairing way,
biting the earth's damp breast; a spell
of weeping came, and my tears fell
to ground in scalding streams of dew ...
but help from men, I swear to you,
I'd have at no price ... Through and through,
like a steppe beast, to all their crew
I felt a stranger; and if my
weak tongue had by the feeblest cry
betrayed me, reverend father, why ,
I'd torn it out, as I may die.
XVI
"You will recall, no teardrop came
from me in childhood; all the same
I now was weeping without shame.
For who could see except the dark
forest, the moon high on its arc'?
Lit by its rays, all floored with sand
and moss, I saw before me stand,
impenetrably walled, a glade.
Suddenly there, a flickering shade,
two sparks of fire that darted round ...
from the dark forest in one bound
a creature sprang, rolled on its back,
lay playing on the sandy track.
It was the waste's eternal guest --
the huge snow-leopard. He caressed
a moistened bone, he gnawed it, squealed
for sheer enjoyment; then he wheeled
on the full moon his bloodshot eyes,
thumping his tail in friendliest wise --
his coat with silver gleams was shot.
I waited for the fight; I'd got
in hand a cudgel -- and on fire
my heart with sudden wild desire
for war and blood ... yes, fate, I'll say,
has led me on a different way ...
but if I'd lived at home, I swear
I'd never have been counted there
as one of those who feared to dare.
XVII
"I waited. Now, through shades of dark,
he smelt an enemy -- and hark,
a sad howl, like a groan, drawn out,
came forth ... In rage he set about
to paw and furrow up the sand,
he reared right up, as people stand,
he crouched, and his first furious leap
threatened me with eternal sleep.
But I forestalled him, and my stroke
was sure and swift. My cudgel broke
open his wide brow like an axe . ..
He toppled over in his tracks,
groaned like a man. But now once more,
though blood was streaming from his score
in a broad, thickly pulsing vein,
the mortal fight boiled up again.
XVIII
"He rushed my chest in one swift bound;
but with my weapon I had found
his throat, twice I had turned it round ...
he whined, and with his final strength
began to jerk and twitch; at length,
like a snake-couple tight-enlaced,
more closely than two friends embraced,
we fell together, in dark night
continued on the ground our fight.
And at that moment I was wild
and fiercer than the desert's child,
the snow-leopard; like him, I blazed,
I howled -- as if I had been raised
by leopards and by wolves beneath
the woods' cool overhanging sheath.
It seemed as if I'd lost the power
of human language -- in that hour
my chest brought out a wild sound -- why,
it seemed from childhood never I
had learned to make a different cry ...
But weakness now crept on my foe,
he tossed, he turned, he breathed more slow,
he crushed me one last time . .. in ire
his staring pupils threatened fire --
then gently closed up in the deep
onset of everlasting sleep;
but, meeting death, he knew to keep
facing it and his conquering foe,
the way a fighting man should go!
XIX
"You see these deep scars on my chest
scooped where the leopard-talons pressed;
they haven't grown together, still
they gape; but earth's damp cover will
bring them the freshness of the field,
by death for ever they'll be healed.
I forgot all about them then,
called my reserves of strength again,
in deepest forest plunged in straight ...
But all in vain my fight with fate:
it laughed at me and my estate!
XX
"I left the woodland. Now the day
was waking up; before its ray
the dance of travelling stars went out.
Then the dark forest all about
began to talk. From an aul*
far off, smoke started up. A full
boom from the gorge, a voiceless hum
blew on the wind ... I heard it come,
I sat and listened; but it died
just as the breeze did. Far and wide
I turned my gaze: that countryside,
surely I knew it? And a strong
terror came over me, for long
I couldn't credit that once more
I'd headed back to prison; or
that all these days I'd spent in vain
nursing my secret hope -- the pain,
the yearning patience every hour,
and all for what? ... That in the flower
of years, and hardly having seen
God's world, that having scarcely been
allowed in murmuring woods to know
the bliss of freedom, I must go
and carry with me to the tomb
the longing for my home, the gloom
of cheated hope and of self-blame,
of your compassion and its shame! ..
Still sunk in doubt, I lingered there,
I thought it all was some nightmare
Suddenly in the silence fell
once more the distant tolling bell
and all was lucid in no time ...
At once I'd recognised its chime!
How often from my childish eyes
it had chased out the bright disguise
of dreamland, forms of kith and kin,
the steppe's wild liberty, the spin
of lightfoot horses, and the shocks
of splendid fights among the rocks,
and I the winner! ... So I heard,
tearless and strengthless. In a word
it seemed my heart was where the chime
came from -- as if someone each time
struck it with iron. Then I knew,
though vaguely, nothing I could do
would to my homeland bring me through.
_______________
Note:
* Moslem village.
XXI
"Yes, I've deserved my destined course!
On the strange steppe a mighty horse,
with its unskilful rider thrown,
from far off will find out alone
the straightest, shortest homeward way ...
I cannot equal him. Each day
in vain my heart desires and yearns;
feeble the flame with which it burns,
plaything of dreams, malaise of mind.
On me my prison left behind
its brand ... Just so there grows in gaol
on the wet flags, alone and pale,
a blossom, and long time puts out
no youthful leaves, but waits about,
languishing for life-giving rays.
It waits, and there pass many days
till some kind hand, touched by the grief
of the poor bloom, to bring relief
moves it to a rose-garden, where
from every side there breathes an air
of life and sweetness ... But, once there,
no sooner comes the sunrise hour
than with its incandescent power
it scorches the gaol-nurtured flower.
XXII
"Just like that blossom, I was burned
by day's remorseless fire. I turned
to no avail my weary head,
I hid it in the grass; instead
my brow by withered leaf was wreathed
in thorny crown, and the earth breathed
into my face its breath of flame.
High up above me circling came
motes in the sun; the vapour steamed
from the white rocks. God's whole world seemed
numbed in a heavy slumber there,
the deep dull slumber of despair.
If only a cornerake from the hill
had called; if only the quick trill
of dragonfly wings, or a rill
childishly chattering ... Just a snake
was rustling through the dried-up brake;
across its yellow back, light played
as if upon a golden blade
engraved all down with letters, and
scattering a small wake of sand
it crawled meticulously, then
it played, it basked, it writhed again
in triple coil, then gave a start,
just as if scalded, in one dart
it dived inside the bushes' heart,
and deep in scrub it disappeared.
XXIII
"But now the sky was calm, and cleared
of cloudscape. Far, through mists that steamed,
rose two dark mountains, and there gleamed
underneath one of them a wall --
our cloister's battlemented hall.
Aragva and Kura below
were lapping with their silvery flow
at feet of islands cool and fresh,
at whispering bushes and their mesh
of roots, and pulsing on their way
in gentle harmony ... but they
were too far off! I tried to rise --
everything whirled before my eyes;
I tried to shout -- my dried-up tongue,
voiceless and motionless it hung ...
I seemed to die. Herald of death,
a madness crushed me, squeezed my breath.
And then it seemed to me that I
on the moist bed had come to lie
of a deep river -- there I found
mysterious darkness all around.
And quenching my eternal thirst
the ice-cold stream, in bubbling burst,
into my chest came flowing deep ...
My only fear, to fall asleep,
so sweet, so blissful was my plight ...
And there above me in the height
wave thronged on wave, and through the bright
crystal of water the sun beamed,
with a moon's graciousness it gleamed ...
From time to time, across its ray
fish in bright flocks began to play.
And one, more friendly than her mates,
caressed me. Backed with scaly plates
of gold, I still can see her coat,
as round my head she came to float;
and, deeply gazing, her green eyes
were sweetly sad ... and a profound
amazement seized me at the sound
of her small voice's silvery strain:
it sang to me, then ceased again.
That voice, it seemed to say: 'My child,
do thou stay here with me:
our life down in this watery wild
is cool, and rich, and free.
'My sisters all I will enrol
and with our circling dance
we shall divert thy weary soul
and cheer thy fainting glance.
'Now sleep away, soft is thy bed,
thy sheet, shot through with gleams.
The years, the ages o'er thy head
will pass in wondrous dreams.
'Beloved, let me tell thee true,
I love thee, as down here
the current flowing freely through
and my own life are dear ... '
Long, long I listened; and I found
the stream had set its quiet sound,
the tale its lilting whisper told,
to music from that fish of gold.
I swooned. The light that God had lit
quenched in my eyes. The raving fit
passed from my fainting body then.
XXIV
"So I was found, brought here again ...
I've finished, for you know what more
there is to tell. Believe me or
believe me not -- I do not care.
Just one thing grieves me, this I swear:
my body, lifeless, cold and dumb,
will never to my homeland come
to moulder there; my grievous thrall
in the deaf circle of this wall
will never be rehearsed, or claim
a sad repute for my dim name.
XXV
"Father, your hand, please, in farewell;
mine is on fire, as you can tell . ..
Since childhood, well-concealed, suppressed,
this flame has lived inside my breast;
but now there's nothing left that burns;
it's blazed its way out, and returns,
returns once more to Him who gives
just measure, to each man who lives,
of pain and peace ... but what do I
care? Yes, in realms behind the sky
my soul will find its refuge due ...
alas! I'd barter, for a few
moments among those steep and strange
rocks where my childhood used to range --
heaven and eternity I'd change ...
XXVI
"But when I'm dying -- for that date,
believe me, there's not long to wait --
give orders I be carried out
into our garden, just about
where bloom two white acacias, where
the turf's so thick, and the cool air
so perfumed, and the leaves that play
so limpid-gold in the sun's ray!
There bid them set me; of bright day
and the sky's radiant blue I will
there for the last time drink my fill.
Thence Caucasus is clear to see!
perhaps, down from his summit, he
will send me, on the wind's cool breath,
his farewell ... and before my death
perhaps near by once more I'll hear
my native tongue! and someone dear,
I'll dream, some brother, or some friend,
how, gently, over me he'll bend,
how, tenderly, he'll wipe my brow
clean of death's icy sweat, and how
he'll sing to me in undertone
of that dear country, once my own ...
and so I'll sleep -- no curse, no groan!"
The Prophet
by Mikhail Lermontov (1841)
translated by Denise M. Henderson
E’er since the judge eterne
The prophet’s omniscience gave me,
In people’s eyes do I discern
The pages of malice and enmity.
To proclaim love I came
And the pure truths of learning:
All my neighbors, enraged,
At me stones were hurling
With embers I strewed my head,
From the cities did I flee
And thus I live in the desert;
Like the birds, on food divine and free.
Earth’s obedient creature
Of the eternal preserver calls to me
And the stars do hear,
Their rays play joyfully.
And so in the noisy town, while
I hastily make my way,
With a self-satisfied smile,
Then the old men to the children say:
Look: Here’s an example for you!
He was proud, and did not dwell among us:
He wanted us to believe—the fool—
That God speaks with his lip!
And, children, upon him look:
How ill he is, and ashen,
Look how naked he is, and poor,
[_______]
by Mikhail Lermontov (1841)
translated by Denise M. Henderson
Farewell, unwashed Russia,
Land of slaves, land of lords,
And you,* blue uniforms,
And thou, a people devoted to them.
Perhaps, beyond the wall of the Caucasus,
I will be concealed from your pashas,
From their eyes all-seeing,
And ears all-hearing.
_______________
Note:
* Lermontov uses the polite form of “you” in Russian in the first instance, and the familiar form of “thou” in the second instance. The blue uniforms are those of the Third Department secret police.
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