Part 5

Ask not why with sad reflection 'Mid gayety I oft am darkened, Why ever cheerless eyes I raise, Why sweet life's dream not dear to me is; Ask not why with frigid soul I joyous love no longer crave, And longer none I call dear: Who once has loved, not again can love; Who bliss has known, ne'er again shall know; For one brief moment to us 't is given: Of youth, of joy, of tenderness Is left alone the sadness.

1817.

DESPAIR.

III. 41.

Dear my friend, we are now parted, My soul's asleep; I grieve in silence. Gleams the day behind the mountain blue, Or rises the night with moon autumnal,-- Still thee I seek, my far off friend, Thee alone remember I everywhere, Thee alone in restless sleep I see. Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call; Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear.

And thou my lyre, my despair dost share, Of sick my soul companion thou! Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string, Grief's sound alone hast not forgot.... Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou! Let thine easy note and careless Sing of love mine and despair, And while listening to thy singing May thoughtfully the maidens sigh!

1816.

A WISH.

III. 38.

Slowly my days are dragging And in my faded heart each moment doubles All the sorrows of hopeless love And heavy craze upsets me. But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur. Tears I shed ... they are my consolation; My soul in sorrow steeped Finds enjoyment bitter in them. O flee, life's dream, thee not regret I! In darkness vanish, empty vision! Dear to me is of love my pain, Let me die, but let me die still loving!

1816.

[RESIGNED LOVE.]

IV. 99.

Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps is In my heart entirely quenched But trouble let it thee no more; Thee to grieve with nought I wish. Silent, hopeless thee I loved, By fear tormented, now by jealousy; So sincere my love, so tender, May God the like thee grant from another.

[LOVE AND FREEDOM.]

III. 157.

Child of Nature and simple, Thus to sing was wont I Sweet the dream of freedom-- With tenderness my breast it filled.

But thee I see, thee I hear-- And now? Weak become I. With freedom lost forever With all my heart I bondage prize.

[NOT AT ALL.]

IV. 118.

I thought forgotten has the heart Of suffering the easy art; Not again can be, said I Not again what once has been.

Of Love the sorrows gone were, Now calm were my airy dreams.... But behold! again they tremble Beauty's mighty power before!...

[INSPIRING LOVE.]

IV. 117.

The moment wondrous I remember Thou before me didst appear Like a flashing apparition, Like a spirit of beauty pure.

'Mid sorrows of hopeless grief, 'Mid tumults of noiseful bustle, Rang long to me thy tender voice, Came dreams to me of thy lovely features.

Went by the years. The storm's rebellious rush The former dreams had scattered And I forgot thy tender voice, I forgot thy heavenly features.

In the desert, in prison's darkness, Quietly my days were dragging; No reverence, nor inspiration, Nor tears, nor life, nor love.

But at last awakes my soul: And again didst thou appear: Like a flashing apparition, Like a spirit of beauty pure.

And enraptured beats my heart, And risen are for it again Both reverence, and inspiration And life, and tears, and love.

1825.

[THE GRACES.]

III. 160.

Till now no faith I had in Graces: Seemed strange to me their triple sight; Thee I see, and with faith am filled Adoring now in one the three!

Poems: miscellaneous.

THE BIRDLET.

IV. 133.

In exile I sacredly observe The custom of my fatherland: I freedom to a birdlet give On Spring's holiday serene. And now I too have consolation: Wherefore murmur against my God When at least to one living being I could of freedom make a gift?

1823.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

IV. 145.

In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the night Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale; But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it, But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers.

Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold? Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding? She neither listens, nor the bard she feels. Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?-- Answer none she gives!

1827.

THE FLOWERET.

IV. 95.

A floweret, withered, odorless In a book forgot I find; And already strange reflection Cometh into my mind.

Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? And how long ago? And plucked by whom? Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? And wherefore left thus here?

Was it in memory of a tender meeting? Was it in memory of a fated parting? Was it in memory of a lonely walk? In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?

Lives he still? Lives she still? And where their nook this very day? Or are they too withered Like unto this unknown floweret?

1828.

THE HORSE.

IV. 271.

Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed, Why thy neck so low, Why thy mane unshaken Why thy bit not gnawed? Do I then not fondle thee? Thy grain to eat art thou not free? Is not thy harness ornamented, Is not thy rein of silk, Is not thy shoe of silver, Thy stirrup not of gold?

The steed in sorrow answer gives: Hence am I quiet Because the distant tramp I hear, The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizz And hence I neigh, since in the field No longer feed I shall, Nor in beauty live and fondling, Neither shine with harness bright.

For soon the stern enemy My harness whole shall take And the shoes of silver Tear he shall from feet mine light. Hence it is that grieves my spirit: That in place of my chaprak With thy skin shall cover he My perspiring sides.

1833.

TO A BABE.

IV. 144.

Child, I dare not over thee Pronounce a blessing; Thou art of consolation a quiet angel May then happy be thy lot....

THE POET.

(IV. 2).

Ere the poet summoned is To Apollo's holy sacrifice In the world's empty cares Engrossed is half-hearted he.

His holy lyre silent is And cold sleep his soul locks in; And of the world's puny children, Of all puniest perhaps is he.

Yet no sooner the heavenly word His keen ear hath reached, Than up trembles the singer's soul Like unto an awakened eagle.

The world's pastimes him now weary And mortals' gossip now he shuns To the feet of popular idol His lofty head bends not he.

Wild and stern, rushes he, Of tumult full and sound, To the shores of desert wave, Into the widely-whispering wood.

1827.

TO THE POET.

SONNET.

(IV. 9).

Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize! Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise; The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter-- Calm stand, and firm be, and--sober!

Thou art king: live alone. On the free road Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free: Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening, Never reward for noble deeds demanding.

In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art; Severest judge, thine own works canst measure. Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman? Content? Then let the mob scold, And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire. Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.

THE THREE SPRINGS.

IV. 134.

In the world's desert, sombre and shoreless Mysteriously three springs have broken thro': Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid; It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs. The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration In the world's deserts its exiles waters; The last spring--the cold spring of forgetfulness, Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire.

1827.

THE TASK.

IV. 151.

The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task. Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly? My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand, My wage in hand, to other task a stranger? Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine, Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?

1830.

SLEEPLESSNESS.

IV. 101.

I cannot sleep, I have no light; Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow; The beat monotonous alone Near me of the clock is heard. Of the Fates the womanish babble, Of sleeping night the trembling, Of life the mice-like running-about,-- Why disturbing me art thou? What art thou, O tedious whisper? The reproaches, or the murmur Of the day by me misspent? What from me wilt thou have? Art thou calling or prophesying? Thee I wish to understand, Thy tongue obscure I study now.

1830.

[QUESTIONINGS.]

IV. 98.

Useless gift, accidental gift, Life, why given art thou me? Or, why by fate mysterious To torture art thou doomed?

Who with hostile power me Out has called from the nought? Who my soul with passion thrilled, Who my spirit with doubt has filled?...

Goal before me there is none, My heart is hollow, vain my mind And with sadness wearies me Noisy life's monotony.

1828.

[CONSOLATION.]

IV. 142.

Life,--does it disappoint thee? Grieve not, nor be angry thou! In days of sorrow gentle be: Come shall, believe, the joyful day.

In the future lives the heart: Is the present sad indeed? 'T is but a moment, all will pass; Once in the past, it shall be dear.

1825.

[FRIENDSHIP.]

III. 201.

Thus it ever was and ever will be, Such of old is the world wide: The learned are many, the sages few, Acquaintance many, but not a friend!

[FAME.]

III. 102.

Blessed who to himself has kept His creation highest of the soul, And from his fellows as from the graves Expected not appreciation! Blessed he who in silence sang And the crown of fame not wearing, By mob despised and forgotten, Forsaken nameless has the world! Deceiver greater than dreams of hope, What is fame? The adorer's whisper? Or the boor's persecution? Or the rapture of the fool?

1824.

THE ANGEL.

IV. 108.

At the gates of Eden a tender angel With drooping head was shining; A demon gloomy and rebellious Over hell's abyss was flying.

The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt The Spirit of Purity espied; And a tender warmth unwittingly Now first to know it learned he.

Adieu, he spake, thee I saw: Not in vain hast thou shone before me; Not all in the world have I hated, Not all in the world have I scorned.

1827.

[HOME-SICKNESS.]

III. 131.

Mayhap not long am destined I In exile peaceful to remain, Of dear days of yore to sigh, And rustic muse in quiet With spirit calm to follow.

But even far, in foreign land, In thought forever roam I shall Around Trimountain mine: By meadows, river, by its hills, By garden, linden nigh the house.

Thus when darkens day the clear, Alone from depths of grave, Spirit home-longing Into the native hall flies To espy the loved ones with tender glance.

1825.

[INSANITY.]

III. 149.

God grant I grow not insane: No, better the stick and beggar's bag: No, better toil and hunger bear.

Not that I upon my reason Such value place; not that I Would fain not lose it.

If freedom to me they would leave How I would lasciviously For the gloomy forest rush!

In hot delirium I would sing And unconscious would remain With ravings wondrous and chaotic.

And listen would I to the waves And gaze I would full of bliss Into the empty heavens.

And free and strong then would I be Like a storm the fields updigging, Forest-trees uprooting.

But here's the trouble: if crazy once, A fright thou art like pestilence, And locked up now shalt thou be.

To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fasten And through the gate, a circus beast, Thee to nettle the people come.

And at night not hear shall I Clear the voice of nightingale Nor the forest's hollow sound,

But cries alone of companions mine And the scolding guards of night And a whizzing, of chains a ringing.

[DEATH-THOUGHTS.]

IV. 93.

Whether I roam along the noisy streets Whether I enter the peopled temple, Whether I sit by thoughtless youth, Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.

I say, Swiftly go the years by: However great our number now, Must all descend the eternal vaults,-- Already struck has some one's hour.

And if I gaze upon the lonely oak I think: the patriarch of the woods Will survive my passing age As he survived my father's age.

And if a tender babe I fondle Already I mutter, Fare thee well! I yield my place to thee. For me 'T is time to decay, to bloom for thee

Every year thus, every day With death my thought I join Of coming death the day I seek among them to divine.

Where will Fortune send me death? In battle? In wanderings, or on the waves Or shall the valley neighboring Receive my chilled dust?

But tho' the unfeeling body Can everywhere alike decay, Still I, my birthland nigh Would have my body lie.

Let near the entrance to my grave Cheerful youth be in play engaged, And let indifferent creation With beauty shine there eternally.

1829.

[RIGHTS.]

IV. 10.

Not dear I prize high-sounding rights By which is turned more head than one; Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to me The blessed lot of discussing fates, Of hindering kings from fighting one another; And little care I whether free the press is.

All this you see are _words, words, words!_ Other, better rights, dear to me are; Other, better freedom is my need.... To depend on rulers, or the mob-- Is not all the same it? God be with them! To give account to none; to thyself alone To serve and please; for power, for a livery Nor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend: Now here, now there to roam in freedom Nature's beauties divine admiring, And before creations of art and inspiration Melt silently in tender ecstasy-- This is bliss, these are rights!....

THE GYPSIES.

IV. 157.

Over the wooded banks, In the hour of evening quiet, Under the tents are song and bustle And the fires are scattered.

Thee I greet, O happy race! I recognize thy blazes, I myself at other times These tents would have followed.

With the early rays to-morrow Shall disappear your freedom's trace, Go you will--but not with you Longer go shall the bard of you.

He alas, the changing lodgings, And the pranks of days of yore Has forgot for rural comforts And for the quiet of a home.

THE DELIBASH.

IV. 155.

Cross-firing behind the hills: Both camps watch, theirs and ours; In front of Cossaks on the hill Dashes 'long brave Delibash

O Delibash, not to the line come nigh, Do have mercy on thy life; Quick 't is over with thy frolic bold, Pierced thou by the spear shalt be

Hey, Cossak, not to battle rush The Delibash is swift as wind; Cut he will with crooked sabre From thy shoulders thy fearless head.

They rush with yell: are hand to hand; And behold now what each befalls: Already speared the Delibash is Already headless the Cossak is!

Notes.

MY PEDIGREE.

These lines owe their origin to a public attack on Pushkin by Bulgarin, a literary magnate of those days. Bulgarin disliked Pushkin and, therefore, saw no merit in his poetry. But unable to argue against his poetry, he argued against Pushkin's person, and abused the poet for his fondness to refer to his ancient ancestry. Stung to the quick by a childish paragraph in Bulgarin's organ, "The Northern Bee," Pushkin wrote these lines. But on their publication which, I think, took place some time after they were written, though they went into circulation immediately, they made much bad blood. The Menshchikofs did not like to be reminded of the cakes their ancestor sold, nor the Rasumofskys of the fact that their countship was earned by the good voice of the first of that name. And the Kutaissoffs did not like to be told that Count Kutaissoff was originally Paul's shoe-black. The very pride in his ancestors, which made Pushkin ridiculous in the eyes of his enemies, made him forget the fact that selling cakes and blacking shoes, even though they be an emperor's, is by no means a thing to be ashamed of; and that, even if it were a thing to be ashamed of, the descendants of evil-doers are by no means responsible for the deeds of their ancestors.... The poem, therefore, is an excellent document, not only for the history of the nobility of Russia, but also for that of poor Pushkin's soul.

_Nobleman by cross._ There are two kinds of noblemen in Russia: those who inherit their title, and those who acquire it. Whoever attains a certain cross as a reward for his service under the government (not, alas, _the_ cross of true nobility, Christ's cross!) becomes thereby a "nobleman."

_Our nobility but recent is: the more recent it, the nobler 't is._ This was written fifty years ago, and thousands of miles away from here. But one would almost believe these lines written in our day, and at no great distance from Commonwealth Avenue,--so true is it that man remains, after all, the same in all climes, at all times....

_Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain._ The butcher Minin is here meant, who, with Prince Pozharsky, delivered Moscow from the Poles just before the Romanoffs were called to the throne.

_We upon it laid our hands._ Six Pushkins signed this call, and two had to lay their hand to the paper, because they could not write their own names.

_Simply Pushkin, not Moussin._ The Moussin-Pushkins of that day were a very rich and influential family.

MY MONUMENT.

In its present form, this poem did not appear till 1881. After Pushkin's death it appeared only when altered by Zhukofsky in several places. The Alexander Column being the tallest monument in Russia, Pushkin, writing for Russians, used that as an illustration; but the government could not let the sacrilege pass,--of a _poet's_ monument ever being taller, even figuratively, than a Russian emperor's. In 1837, therefore, the poet was made to say, "Napoleon's column." The line in the fourth stanza, which speaks of Freedom, was altered to "That I was useful by the living charm of verse," and in this mutilated form this stanza is engraved on the poet's monument in Moscow, unveiled in 1880.

MY MUSE.

I originally passed over this poem as unworthy of translation, because I thought it not universal enough; because it seemed to me to express not the human heart, but the individual heart,--Pushkin's heart. But the great Byelinsky taught me better. He quotes these lines as a marvel of classic, of Greek art. "See," he exclaims, "the Hellenic, the artistic manner (and this is saying the same thing) in which Pushkin has told us of his call, heard by him even in the days of his youth. Yes, maugre the happy attempts of Batushkof in this direction before Pushkin's day, _such_ verses had not been seen till Pushkin in the Russian land!" And Byelinsky is right. He _saw._ The great critic is thus an eye-opener, because he sees his author, and because seeing him he cannot help loving him. For if men truly _knew_ one another (assuming them to be unselfish), they would love one another.... A hater is blind though he sees; a lover sees though he be blind. See, also, about this piece, Introduction, § 4.

MY DEMON.

To this poem Pushkin added a note, which he intended to send to the periodical press, as if it were the comment of a third person. Referring to the report that the poet had a friend of his in mind when he wrote this poem, and used Rayefsky as a model, he says: "It seems to me those who believe this report are in error; at least, I see in 'The Demon' a higher aim, a moral aim. Perhaps the bard wished to typify Doubt. In life's best period, the heart? not as yet chilled by experience, is open to everything beautiful. It then is trustful and tender. But by-and-by the eternal contradictions of reality give birth to doubt in the heart; this feeling is indeed agonizing, but it lasts not long.... It disappears, but it carries away with it our best and poetic prejudices of the spirit." [_Are_ they best, if they _are_ prejudices? _Is_ illusion truly poetic?--I. P.] Not, therefore, in vain has Goethe the Great given the name the Spirit of Denial to man's eternal enemy. And Pushkin wished to typify the Spirit of Denial.

REGRET.

See Introduction, §§ 16, 25.

THE BIRDLET.

This piece is not found among Pushkin's Lyrical Poems. It is a song taken from a longer Narrative Poem, called "The Gypsies."

LOVE.

This poem is Pushkin all over. In four lines he has given a whole drama with a world of pathos and tenderness in it. These four lines give more instruction in the art of story-telling than volumes on the "Art of Fiction." A magazine writer, who of the same incidents would have woven out some twenty pages (of which no fewer than nineteen and three-quarters would have been writ for the approval of check-book critic, rather than of the art critic), would have really _told_ less than Pushkin has here told,--so true is the preacher's criticism on his own sermon: "Madame, if it had been shorter by half, it would have been twice as long!"

JEALOUSY.

Of this piece I have already spoken in the Preface, § 7.

IN AN ALBUM.

This is an excellent example of Pushkin's _sentiment_, of which I spoke in the Introduction, Chapter III. It is all the more entitled to the consideration of Anglo-Saxon _a priori_ sentiment-haters (it is so easy to keep to _a priori_ judgments, they are so convenient; they save discussion!) because Pushkin wrote this piece when fully matured, at the age of thirty, when his severe classic taste was already formed.

FIRST LOVE.

These lines are taken from the Narrative Poem, "The Prisoner of the Caucasus."

SIGNS.

Of the more-than-Egyptian number of plagues with which poor Pushkin's soul was afflicted, superstition was one. He believed in signs, and sometimes gave up a journey when a hare ran across his road. Owing to this superstition he once gave up a trip to St. Petersburg, which probably would have cost him his life, had he made it. For on hearing of the December rebellion, in which many of his friends took part, he started for the capital, but the hare....

ELEGY.

The fourth volume of Pushkin's Works, in which this poem was first published, struck Byelinsky with the poverty of its contents. "But in the fourth volume of Pushkin's Poems," says he, "there is one precious pearl which reminds us of the song of yore, of the bard of yore. It is the elegy, 'The extinguished joy of crazy years.' Yes! such an elegy can redeem not only a few tales, but even the entire volume of poetry!" ... (Byelinsky's Works, ii. 194.)

LOVE AND FREEDOM.

In the original this poem is called, "To Countess N. V. Kotshubey."

INSPIRING LOVE.

In the original this piece is headed, "To A. P. Kern."

THE GRACES.

Addressed to Princess S. A. Urussov.

TO THE POET.

This is the only poem Turgenef quotes in his speech at the unveiling of the Pushkin monument in 1880. "Of course," he said, "you all know it, but I cannot withstand the temptation to adorn my slim, meagre prosy speech with this poetic gold."

THE TASK.