Chapter 1
_Books by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi_
THE KISS OF APOLLO
GABRIELLE AND OTHER POEMS.
THE SIN OF ANGELS: A Novel
A COSSACK LOVER: A Novel
THE CUCKOO'S NEST: A Novel
A MODERN PROMETHEUS: A Novel of Italy. With a frontispiece
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS.
RUSSIAN LYRICS
SONGS OF COSSACK, LOVER, PATRIOT AND PEASANT
_DONE INTO ENGLISH VERSE_
BY MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI
_Author of "Within the Hedge," "The Cathedral," "A Modern Prometheus," "The Cuckoo's Nest" etc_.
NEW YORK DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 1916
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
_To "A soul of passion, mirth and tears_."
CONTENTS
The Song of the Kazak................................ Pushkin Cradle Song of a Cossack Mother................... Lermontoff The Dagger........................................ Lermontoff Don't Give Me the Wine!..........(From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze) The Delibash......................................... Pushkin To the Don........................................... Pushkin The Caucas........................................... Pushkin The Cloister on Kasbek............................... Pushkin Goblins of the Steppes............................... Pushkin Under a Portrait of Jukowsky......................... Pushkin The Vision........................................... Pushkin I Loved Thee......................................... Pushkin Serenade............................................. Pushkin A Winter Evening..................................... Pushkin The Last Flower...................................... Pushkin Stanzas from "Onegin" Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer................ Pushkin Sometimes He read Aloud with Olga.................. Pushkin Love Condescends to Every Altar.................... Pushkin How Sad to Me is Thine Appearing................... Pushkin The Memorial......................................... Pushkin Tamara............................................ Lermontoff The Gift of the Terek............................. Lermontoff On Departure for the Caucas....................... Lermontoff To the Clouds..................................... Lermontoff To My Country..................................... Lermontoff To Kasbek......................................... Lermontoff The Angel......................................... Lermontoff A Prayer.......................................... Lermontoff The Sail.......................................... Lermontoff I Am Not Byron.................................... Lermontoff Like An Evil Spirit............................... Lermontoff To A.C.S.......................................... Lermontoff A Song............................................ Lermontoff From Démon........................................ Lermontoff The Prayer........................................ Lermontoff The Palm Branch of Palestine...................... Lermontoff The Dispute....................................... Lermontoff Heaven and the Stars.............................. Lermontoff On Napoleon's Death............................... Lermontoff On the Death of Pushkin........................... Lermontoff Russia, O My Russia, Hail!........................... Tolstoy The Wolves........................................... Tolstoy Autumn............................................... Tolstoy Burnt Out Is Now My Misery........................... Tolstoy In Hours of Ebbing Tide.............................. Tolstoy Swans................................................. Maikow To Sleep.............................................. Maikow In Memory of My Daughter.............................. Maikow Mother and Child...................................... Maikow An Easter Greeting.................................... Maikow At Easter............................................. Maikow O Mountains of My Native Country!..................... Maikow The Aeolian Harp...................................... Maikow Ye Songs of Mine!.................................. Nekrassow In War............................................. Nekrassow A Song of Siberian Exiles.......................... Nekrassow Freedom............................................ Nekrassow A Farewell......................................... Nekrassow The Love Letter.................................... Nekrassow What the Sleepless Grandam Thinks.................. Nekrassow To Russia............................................ Nikitin The Song of the Spendthrift.......................... Nikitin The Spade is Deep Digging a Grave in the Mould....... Nikitin Gossip............................................... Nikitin In a Peasant Hut..................................... Nikitin Winter Night in the Village.......................... Nikitin The Birch Tree....................................... Nikitin North and South...................................... Nikitin Hunger............................................... Fofanow Faded the Footstep of Spring from Our Garden......... Fofanow The Beggar........................................... Fofanow With Roses...................... (From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze) The Stars........... (From the Caucasian of Prince Oberlaine) Whispers and the Timid Breathing.......... ("Fete Chenchine") The Tales of the Stars.............................. Fofanow One Dearest Pair of Eyes I Love................. (Gipsy Song) A Gipsy Song........................................ Polonsky At Last.......................................... Plestcheeff By An Open Window................. The Grand Duke Constantine With the Greatness of God All My Heart Is On Fire!.... Nadson The Poet.............................................. Nadson To the Muse........................................... Nadson A Fragment............................................ Nadson In May................................................ Nadson In Memory of N.M.D.................................... Nadson At the Grave of N.M.D................................. Nadson In Dreams............................................. Nadson The Old Grey House.................................... Nadson Call Him Not Dead,--He Lives!......................... Nadson
Brief Biographical Notes: Alexander Sergjewitsch Pushkin Michail Jurjewitsch Lermontoff Count Alexis Constantinowitsch Tolstoy Apollon Nikolajewitsch Maikow Nikolai Alexajewitsch Nekrassow Ivan Ssawitsch Nikitin Constantine Michailowitsch Fofanow Semijon Jakolowitsch Nadson
To the Reader.
The translations in this little collection make no pretension to being more than an effort to share the delight found in them; from which most of the world is debarred by the difficulty of the language in which they are written. They have been chosen at random, each for some intrinsic charm or because of its bearing upon some peculiar phase of the author. Very few of the lyrics of Pushkin have been included, for the reason that the great founder of Russian poetry has been more widely translated than any other Russian poet, and is therefore available in several languages.
Remembering always that Heine declared translation was betrayal,--the rhyme and smoothness have in every case been sacrificed when necessary to preserve the exact rhythm, and as far as possible the vigour and colour, as well as thought of the original; a task entirely beyond me save for the co-operation of an accomplished Russian linguist who has kindly assisted in the literal translation of every poem here presented.
M.G.D.B.
RUSSIAN LYRICS AND COSSACK SONGS
THE SONG OF THE KAZAK
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, Kazak has never heart for rest, Not on the field, nor in the wood, Nor when in face of danger pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, With him a mighty power brings, To win the honour of his land Kazak his life unheeding flings-- Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all Siberia At foot of Russia's throne to lie, Kazak left glory in the Alps, His name the Turk can terrify, His flag he ever carries high!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, Kazak has never heart for rest, Not on the field, nor in the wood, Nor when in face of danger pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
PUSHKIN.
_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kazák_.
CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby, Slumber calmly, sleep-- Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber, In thy cradle creep; I will tell to thee a story, Pure as dewdrop glow, Close those two beloved eyelids-- Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o'er its pebbles Blusters through the vale, On its shores the little Khirgez Whets his murdrous blade; Yet thy father grey in battle-- Guards thee, child of woe, Safely rest thee in thy cradle, Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee, Danger, slaughterous fire-- Thou shalt on a charger gallop, Curbing at desire; And a saddle girth all silken Sadly I will sew, Slumber now my wide-eyed darling, Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being, As a Cossack true, Must I only convoy give thee-- "Mother dear, adieu!" Nightly in the empty chamber Blinding tears will flow, Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one, Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I'll wait lamenting As the days go by, Ardent for thee praying,--fearing In the cards to spy. I shall fancy thou wilt suffer, As a stranger grow-- Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest, Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image 'Gainst the foe with thee, To it kneeling, dearest Being, Pray with piety! Think of me in bloody battle, Dearest child of woe, Slumber soft within thy cradle, Lullaby, By-low!
LERMONTOFF.
THE DAGGER
I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence-- I love the beauty of thy glitter cold, A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war, Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold.
A lily hand, in parting's silent woe, Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade; Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade.
Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul, Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain-- Like thine own steel within the fire's glow, Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again.
For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed, In my life's night to guide me to my end; Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever, Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend!
LERMONTOFF.
DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE!
Don't give me the wine! I am drunk of my love, With the force of my passion for you! Don't give me the wine! Or my tongue will betray All the love no one dreamed hitherto; For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast, All the bitter hot tears that were mine, My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest-- I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine!
You promise me roses now, if I will drink But one drop of the wine;--if you please Give only one breath from the rose of your lips! And death's cup I will drain to the lees. All passions are raging at once in my blood, Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine. You seem for my suffering only to wish-- I am drunk of my love! Don't give me the wine!
_From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze_.
THE DELIBASH
With the hostile camp in skirmish Our men once were changing shot, Pranced the Delibash his charger 'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot.
Trifle not with free-born Cossacks! Nor too o'er foolhardy be! Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for-- On his pike he'll skewer thee!
'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound, Off thy head, at lightning speed With his scimitar he'll sever From thy trunk! He will indeed!
What confusion! What a roaring! Halt! thou devil's pack, have care! On the pike is lanced the horseman-- Headless stands the Cossack there!
PUSHKIN.
_Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur_.
TO THE DON
Through the Steppes, see there he glances! Silent flood glad hailed by me,-- Thy far distant sons do proffer Through me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother, Don, thou river boasted wide! The Araxes and Euphrates Send thee greeting as they glide.
Fresh and strengthened for pursuing, Scenting home within thy gleam-- Drink again the Don'ish horses, Flowing boundary, of thy stream!
Faithful Don! There also greet thee Thy true warriors bold and free-- Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles In the glass be spilled to thee!
PUSHKIN.
_The valley of the Don is the home of the Russian Cossack_.
THE CAUCAS
The Caucas lies before my feet! I stand where Glaciers gleam, beside a precipice rock-ribbed; An eagle that has soared from off some distant cliff, Lawless as I, sweeps through the radiant air! Here I see streams at their sources up-welling, The grim avalanches unrolling and swelling!
The soft cloudy convoys are stretched forth below, Tattered by thronging mad torrents descending; Beneath them the naked rocks downward are bending, Still deeper, the wild shrubs and sparse herbage grow; But yonder the forests stand verdant in flora And birds are a'twitter in choiring chorus.
Yonder, cliff-nested-are dwellings of mortals, There pasture the lambs in sweet blossoming meadows-- There couch the herds in the cool deepening shadows-- There roar the Aragua's blue sparkling waters, And lurketh the bandit safe hid in lone caverns, Where Terek, wild sporting, is cutting the azure!
It leaps and it howls like some ravening beast At first sight of feeding, through grating of iron-- It roars on the shore with a furious purring, It licks on the pebbles with eagerest greed. Vain struggle and rancor and hatred, alas! 'Tis enchained and subdued by the unheeding mass.
PUSHKIN.
THE CLOISTER ON KASBEK
KASBEK, thy regal canopy High o'er all peaks revealed I see By an eternal icy glare. Hanging in cloudless glory ever-- Like to an ark thy cloister there; This world disturbing thy peace never, Blest realm of joy remote in air! Ah could I at thy mercy's threshold, From durance cursed set myself free, And in thine own etherial cloisters Near thy Creator ever be!
PUSHKIN.
GOBLINS OP THE STEPPES
Stormy clouds delirious straying, Showers of whirling snowflakes white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Further speeds the sledge, and further, Loud the sleighbell's melody, Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming, 'Mid these snow fields now to be!
Hasten! "That is useless, Master, Heavier for my team their load, And my eyes with snow o'er plastered Can no longer see the road! Lost all trace of our direction, Sir, what now? The goblins draw Us already round in circles, Pull the sledge with evil claw!
See! One hops with frantic gesture, In my face to grin and hiss, See! It goads the frenzied horses Onward to the black abyss! In the darkness, like a paling One stands forth,--and now I see Him like walking-fire sparkling-- Then the blackness,--woe is me!"
Stormy clouds delirious straying, Showers of snowflakes whirling white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Sudden halt the weary horses, Silent too the sleighbells whirr-- Look! What crouches on the ground there? "Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir."
How the wind's brood rage and whimper! Scenting, blow the triple team; See! One hops here! Forward Driver! How his eyes with evil gleam! Scarce controllable the horses, How the harness bells resound! Look! With what a sneering grimace Now the spirit band surround!
In an endless long procession, Formless, countless of their kind Circle us in flying coveys Like the leaves in Autumn wind. Now in ghastly silence deathly, Now with shrilling elfin cry-- Is it some mad dance of bridal, Or a death march passing by?
Stormy clouds delirious straying Showers of snowflakes whirling white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Cloudward course the evil spirits In unceasing phantom bands, And their moaning and bewailing Grip my heart with icy hands!
PUSHKIN.
UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY
The charm and sweetness of his magic verse Will mock the envious years for centuries! Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns, The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees, And careless joy to wistful musing turns.
PUSHKIN.
_Jukowsky was a Russian poet_.
THE VISION
I remember a marvellous instant, Unto me bending down from above, Thy radiant vision appearing As an angel of beauty and love. 'Mid the torments of desperate sadness, In the torture of bondage and sighs, To me rang thy voice so beloved-- And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes. But the years rolled along--and life's tempests My illusions, my youth overcame, I forgot that sweet voice full of music-- And thy glance like a heavenly flame. In the covert and grief of my exile, The days stretched unchanged in their flight, Bereft inspiration or power, Bereft both of love and of light. To my soul now approaches awakening, To me thou art come from above, As a radiant and wonderful vision-- As an angel of beauty and love. As before my heart throbs with emotion, Life looks to me worthy and bright, And I feel inspiration and power-- And again love and tears and the light!
PUSHKIN.
I LOVED THEE
I loved thee; and perchance until this moment Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal, Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!
I loved thee with a silent desperation-- Now timid, now with jealousy brought low, I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion-- Ah may God grant another love thee so!
PUSHKIN.
A SERENADE
I watch Inesilla Thy window beneath, Deep slumbers the villa In night's dusky sheath.
Enamoured I linger, Close mantled, for thee-- With sword and with guitar, O look once on me!
Art sleeping? Wilt wake thee Guitar tones so light? The argus-eyed greybeard My swift sword shall smite.
The ladder of ropes Throw me fearlessly now! Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet, Been false to thy vow?
I watch Inesilla Thy window beneath, Deep slumbers the villa In night's dusky sheath!
PUSHKIN.
A WINTER EVENING
Sable clouds by tempest driven, Snowflakes whirling in the gales, Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, Hark--now like a child it wails! Creeping through the rustling straw thatch, Rattling on the mortared walls, Like some weary wanderer knocking-- On the lowly pane it falls.
Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen, Drear and lonely our retreat, Speak a word and break the silence, Dearest little Mother, sweet! Has the moaning of the tempest Closed thine eyelids wearily? Has the spinning wheel's soft whirring Hummed a cradle song to thee?
Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, Thou true-souled companion dear-- Let us drink! Away with sadness! Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. Sing the song how free and careless Birds live in a distant land-- Sing the song of maids at morning Meeting by the brook's clear strand!
Sable clouds by tempest driven, Snowflakes whirling in the gales, Hark--it sounds like grim wolves howling, Hark--now like a child it wails! Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime, Thou true-souled companion dear, Let us drink! Away with sadness! Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!
PUSHKIN.
THE LAST FLOWER
Rich the first flower's graces be, But dearer far the last to me; My spirit feels renewal sweet, Of all my dreams hope or desire-- The hours of parting oft inspire More than the moments when we meet!
PUSHKIN.
THE COMING OF THE WINTER
_Stanzas from "Onegin"_
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer, Than Southern Winter scarce more bland-- Is undeniably withdrawing On fleeting footsteps from the land. Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens, The light of sunbeams rarer grown-- Already every day is shorter, While with a smitten hollow tone The forest drops its shadow leafage; Upon the fields the mists lie white, In lusty caravans the wild geese Now to the milder South take flight; Seasons of tedium draw near, Before the door November drear!
From shivering mist ascends the morning, The bustle, of the fields declines, The wolf walks now upon the highway, In wolfish hunger howls and whines; The traveller's pony scents him, snorting-- The heedful wanderer breathless takes His way in haste beyond the mountains! And though no longer when day breaks Forth from their stalls the herd begins To drive the kine,--his noon-day horn recalls. The peasant maiden sings and spins, Before her crackling, flaming bright The pine chips,--friend of Winter night.
And see! The hoar frost colder sparkles And spreads its silver o'er the fields, Alas! the golden days are vanished! Reluctant Nature mournful yields. The stream with ice all frozen over Gleams as some fashionable parquét, And thronging hordes of boyish skaters Sweep forward on its crystal way. On her red claws despondent swimming, The plump goose parts the water cold, Then on the ice with caution stalking She slips and tumbles,--ah behold! Now the first snowflake idling down Stars the depressing landscape brown.
At such a season in the country, What can a man's amusements be? Walk? And but more of empty highway And of deserted village see? Or let him through the far Steppes gallop, His horse can scarcely stand at all-- His stamping hoofs in vain seek foothold, The rider dreading lest he fall! So then remain within thy paling, Read thou in Pradt or Walter Scott, Compare thy varying editions, Drink, and thy scoffing mood spare not! As the long evenings drag away So doth the Winter too delay.
PUSHKIN.
_[Pradt was a French political writer, Minister to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw in 1812. Nine editions of his History of the Embassy at Warsaw were demanded_.]
FROM "ONEGIN"
Sometimes he read aloud with Olga A latter day romance discreet, Whose author truly painted nature, With cunning plot, insight complete; Oft he passed over a few pages, Too bald or tasteless in their art-- And coloring, began on further, Not to disturb the maiden heart. Again, they sat for hours together, With but a chess board to divide; She with her arms propped on the table, Deep pondering, puzzled to decide-- Till Lenski from his inward storm Captured her castle with his pawn!
PUSHKIN.
FROM "ONEGIN"
Love condescends to every altar, Ah when in hearts of youth it springs, Its coming brings such glad refreshment As May rain o'er the pasture flings! Lifted from passion's melancholy The life breaks forth in fairer flower, The soul receives a new enrichment-- Fruition sweet and full of power. But when on later altars arid It downward sweeps, about us flows-- Love leaves behind such deathly traces As Autumn tempests where it blows To strip the woods with ruthless hand, And turn to soggy waste the land!
PUSHKIN.
FROM "ONEGIN"
How sad to me is thine appearing, O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! Within the soul what nameless languors! What passions hid within the breast! With what a heavy, heavy spirit From the earth's rustic lap I feel Again the joy of Springtide odors-- That once could make my spirit reel! No more for me such pleasures thrilling, All that rejoices, that has life, All that exults,--brings but despondence To one past passion as past strife, All is but prose to such as he, Wearied unto satiety.
Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed That which in Autumn drooped and pined, Now radiant in verdure springing, Since it must of our loss remind; As with a tortured soul we realize In Nature's glad awakening, That we shall never find renewal, Who evermore are withering. Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, Our own most dear and lyric dream, Another long forgotten Springtime-- And trembling neath this pang supreme, The heart faints for a distant country And for a night beside the sea!
PUSHKIN.
THE MEMORIAL