Works of Alexander Pushkin (11 page)
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Authors: Alexander Pushkin
And yet, with you, free nature’s sons.
True happiness can ne’er be found;
And humblest tents are oft the haunt
Of troubled dreams and hopes destroyed;
And nomad camps, though pitched in wilds,
From nature ravin give no shield;
There, too, will human passions rage,
And naught protect men from their-fate.
POLTAVA
A POEM IN THREE CANTOS.
Translated by Charles Edward Turner
This narrative poem was written in 1828 and concerns Ivan Mazepa’s actions in the Battle of Poltava between Sweden and Russia. The poem intertwines a love plot between Mazepa and the beautiful Maria, with an account of Mazepa’s betrayal of Peter I and the Tsar’s ultimate victory. The poem is celebrated for its depth of characterisation and employs the use of several different genres, inspiring the composer Tchaikovsky to compose the 1884 opera
Mazeppa
.
Poltava
opens with an epigraph from Byron’s 1819 ballad
Mazeppa
, which depicts the Hetman as a Romantic hero, exiled from Poland for his love affair with a married noblewoman. Pushkin follows this epigraph with a passionate dedication to an anonymous lover. The poem is divided into three cantos of equal length. The first canto opens on the estate of the nobleman Vasily Kochubei and describes Kochubei’s beautiful daughter Maria, who has fallen in love with the Hetman Mazepa. As he is her godfather and much older than her, they decide to keep their love for each other secret. However, they are soon discovered and are forced to elope…
Ivan Stepanovych Mazepa (1639 – 1709), the protagonist of the poem
CONTENTS
The Battle of Poltava, 27 June 1709
POLTAVA. CANTO THE FIRST.
Rich and famed is Kotzubei.
Boundless and large his spacious fields,
Whereon his droves of horses graze
At their free will and all unwatched.
Around Poltava’s fairest plains
Stretch far his gardens and his parks;
And in his house are treasures rare
Satins, furs and dishes silver,
Exposed to view or safely locked.
But Kotzubei, rich and proud,
Cares little for his long-maned steeds,
The tribute paid by Tartar horde,
Or lands bequeathed him by his sires;
But in Marie, his daughter fair,
The old man finds his dearest pride.
In vain you’ll seek Poltava through
Her peer in loveliness and grace.
Fresh as primal flower of spring,
Warm-nurtured in the forest’s shade;
As Kieff poplar tall and stately;
Her every motion like the course
Of floating swan on lonely lake,
Or deer’s quick flight across the mead:
Her breasts as white as foam of sea;
Around her forehead high and broad,
Thick clustered lie her jet-black locks,
Veiling her eyes that gleam like stars;
Her lips as red as full-blown rose.
But not the charm of beauty rare,
That blooms a moment and then fades,
Had made Marie beloved by all;
But fame had crowned her with the name
Of maiden modest, pure and wise.
And rival suitors sought her hand,
The youths of Russia and Ukraine;
But from the marriage-crown, as from
The fetters of a slave she shrank.
And all had been repulsed.... but now
His messengers the Hetman sends.
No longer young, and worn with years,
With toils of war and cares of state,
But young and warm in heart, once more
Mazeppa feels the force of love.
A boyish love will fiercely burn,
Its fierceness spent, as quickly die;
The passion cools, to be renewed,
And finds each day some fancy fresh.
An old man’s heart disdains to burn
With such obedient, lightsome ease,
The victim of a moment s whim:
But dulled and dimmed with thoughtful years,
The fire of passion tempered flames;
The heart is proof against its force,
And slow to burn; but once ‘tis stirred,
The love born late can ne’er grow cold,
And only dies with parting breath.
It is no deer that seeks a refuge sure,
Alarmed by eagle’s heavy flight;
It is a bride her chamber roams,
And, trembling, waits her parents’ word.
All filled with angry discontent,
The mother comes, as one distraught,
Seizes her hand, and sharply cries:
“Now, shame befall the godless wretch!
Can such things be? No, whilst we live,
He ne’er shall wreak his foul desire!
Well fit to play the father, or
The friend to god-child young and pure,
The senseless fool, in dotage years,
Forsooth would ape the husband’s part!”
Naught spake Marie. But o’er her face
A creeping pallor slowly flushed;
And cold and stiff, like lifeless corpse,
Prone on the floor the maiden fell.
She woke to life, and then once more
Her eyes were closed, nor did she speak
One single word. With busy care,
They seek to ease and cheer her soul,
To drive away her fears and grief,
To peace bring back her unhinged mind;
But all in vain. For two whole days,
Now weeping sad, now choked with sobs,
She neither spake, nor eat, nor drank,
But pale and sleepless, like a ghost
Compelled to walk, sne knew no rest.
The third morn they went to seek her,
But found her chamber bare and lone.
None knew, or when, or how, Marie
Had fled. That night, a fisher said,
He heard the tramp of swiftest steeds,
The Cossack speech, and woman’s voice:
Next morn the marks of eight horse-hoofs
Were traced along the dew-wet mead.
‘Tis not alone the first soft down,
The curling, wavy locks of youth.
But oft the look serene of age,
The deep-streaked brow, and snowy hairs.
That win a maiden’s fancy free.
And light her soul with dreams of love.
Too soon the hateful tale of shame
Assailed the ear of Kotzubei:
She had forgot disgrace and fame,
To wanton in a wretch’s arms!
Nor he nor wife dared comprehend
The whispered hints of common talk.
Ere long the story was confirmed,
Made true n all its vilest shame.
Only then was bared the secret
That long had stained the maiden’s soul:
Only then they learned and understood
Why wilfully she had rebelled
Against the curb of married life,
And, lonely grieving, pined away;
Or why the love of noble youths
Had been repulsed with silent scorn;
Or why at table Hetman’s speech
She would drink in with greedy ear,
And when the noisy chat grew gay,
And foaming goblets flowed with wine,
And she was asked to sing, she chose
No songs save those himself had made,
When he was young, unknown to fame;
Or why, with passion strange to maid,
She loved to watch the rangèd troops,
And hear the kettledrum and shouts
That hailed the golden staff and mace,
The Hetman’s signs of rule and sway.
Lordly and rich is Kotzubei,
Has hosts of friends to serve his will;
Can wash away in blood this shame,
And rouse Poltava to revolt;
With sudden blow his palace storm,
And wreak a father’s vengeance deep;
With sure and fatal aim can pierce —
With other thoughts his soul is stirred.
The times were ripe with troubled broil:
In threatened struggles hard and stern
The young empire must try her strength
And slowly reach her full manhood
Beneath great Peter’s rule. Meanwhile,
A chast’ner cruel had been sent
To teach her how to win her fame,
And more than once the Swedish King
Had sharp and bloody lesson taught.
But, trained in durance and hard toil,
She bore the harshest blows of fate,
And grew. For thus, the hammer stout
The glass will break and forge the sword.
With glory crowned that bore no fruit,
The Swedish Charles essayed his fate.
Gainst Moscow’s ancient walls he marched,
And chased the bravest Russian troops,
As whirlwind drives the valley’s dust,
And low bends down the highest grass.
The route he followed was the same
By which, in later days, the lord
Of fate pursued his hurried flight.
Ukraine was mined with discontent,
And long the spark had smouldered dull.
The children of the stormy past
Nursed hope to fan a people s war;
With murmurs grim they clamoured loud
That Hetman burst their slavish chains;
And with the zeal of untried youth
Impatiently awaited Charles.
Around the aged Mazeppa rose
The rebel cry: “To arms! to arms!”
But true the Hetman old remained,
The slave and vassal of the Tsar,
He ruled as sternly as before,
And in the Ukraine guarded peace:
Seemed blind to all that passed around,
And lived and feasted at his ease.
“What is this Hetman?” snarled the young,
“He is too old, he is too weak.
Unresting years and toil have quenched
The youthful fire that once flamed bright.
With trembling hands does he presume
To wield the lordly staff and mace?
Now is the time to wage the war
On hated Moscow, freedom’s foe,
If Doroschenko, aged in years,
Or young Samoilovitch, the exile,
Palaeus brave, or Gordienko, —
Now ruled the warriors of Ukraine,
Cossacks would ne’er be left to die
In snow-wastes of a distant land;
Our troops no more would be compelled
To serve the cause of foreign rule.”
Thus murmuring, the self-willed youths
The dangers of revolt would court,
Forgot their country’s thraldom long,
Forgot Bogdan’s successful rule,
The treaties, and the sacred war,
And all the fame of ancient times.
But old men walk with heedful care,
And calculate with cautious mind
What they should do, and what forbear,
Nor will they thoughtlessly decide.
What man can sound the depth of sea
Fast bound with massive thick-set ice?
Who hope with keenest eye to pierce
The cave profound of cunning heart,
Whose thoughts are fruit of passion crushed,
And hidden lie from common view,
Whilst secretly some cherished dream,
Perchance, is ripening all unseen?
Such none can know. The Hetman false
Was most deceitful, cunning, sly,
The simpler, more sincere, he seemed.
The franker and more true in act.
He knew the art to read, to win,
To tyrannise the souls of men;
And, whilst he seemed himself to yield,
To rule their minds and guide their thoughts.
With what false faith and simpleness
Like garrulous old man, he talked
With those who were his peers in age,
Regretting happy, olden times!
With self-willed youths he freedom preached;
With discontents he darkly spake;
Shed tears of pity with the wronged;
With fools was wise and deeply grave.
A few, it may be, knew full well
That none could tame his iron will;
That he, by foul or honest blow,
Would surely thwart and crush his foe;
That never to his dying day
He pardoned or forgot a wrong;
That love of power heartless stretched
His crime-stained deeds and selfish schemes;
That naught was sacred in his eyes;
That kindness could ne’er touch his heart;
That ties of love were weak to bind;
That blood he freely shed unmoved;
That liberty he scoffed and scorned;
And that he knew no fatherland.
Long the traitor, false and cunning,
Had planned and mused a deadly plot;
But sharper, keener eyes than his,
Those of a foe, his scheme had bared.
“Nay, base kite, breeder foul of shame!”
The old man cried and gnashed his teeth,
“Thou needst not fear, I’ll spare thy home,
My wretched daughter’s prison-house;
Thou shalt not perish in its flames,
Nor find release in easy death
From Cossack blow. Not so, vile one!
In the hands of Moscow headsman,
In vain denials of thy guilt,
In torture, writhing on the rack,
Thou shalt curse the day, curse the hour,
When thou wert sponsor to our child;
The banquet when I filled to thee,
And loving-cup of honour drank;
The night when, like a bird of prey,
Thou durst to steal our darling dove”.