The bronze Horseman / Медный всадник. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Александр Пушкин

lost

      In sundry meditations – thinking

      Of what? – How poor he was; how pain

      And toil might some day hope to gain

      An honored, free, assured position;

      How God, it might be, in addition

      Would grant him better brains and pay.

      Such idle folk there were, and they,

      Lucky and lazy, not too brightly

      Gifted, lived easily and lightly;

      And he – was only in his second

      Year at the desk.

                              He further reckoned

      Those still the ugly weather held;

      That still the river swelled and swelled;

      That almost now from Neva’s eddy

      The bridges had been moved already;

      That from Parasha he must be

      Parted for some two days, or three.

      And all that night he lay, so dreaming,

      And wishing sadly that the gale

      Would bate its melancholy screaming

      And that the rain would not assail

      The glass so fiercely… But sleep closes

      His eyes at last, and he reposes,

      But see, the mists of that rough night

      Thin out, and the pale day grows bright;

      That dreadful day! – For Neva, leaping

      Seaward all night against the blast

      Was beaten in the strife at last,

      Against the frantic tempest sweeping;

      And on her banks at break of day

      The people swarmed and crowded, curious,

      And reveled in the towering spray

      That spattered where the waves were furious.

      But the wind driving from the bay

      Dammed Neva back, and she receding

      Came up, in wrath and riot speeding;

      And soon the islands flooded lay.

      Madder the weather grew, and ever

      Higher upswelled the roaring river

      And bubbled like a kettle, and whirled

      And like a maddened beast was hurled

      Swift on the city. And things routed

      Fled from its path, and all about it

      A sudden space was cleared; the flow

      Dashed in the cellars down below;

      Canals above their borders spouted.

      Behold Petropol floating lie

      Like Triton in the deep, waist-high!

      A siege! The wicked waves, attacking

      Climb thief-like through the windows;

                backing,

      The boats sternforemost smite the glass;

      Trays with their soaking wrappage pass;

      And timbers, roofs, and huts all shattered,

      The wares of thrifty traders scattered,

      And the pale beggar’s chattels small,

      Coffins from sodden graveyards – all

      Swim in the streets!

                                          And contemplating

      God’s wrath, the folk their doom are waiting.

      All will be lost; ah, where shall they

      Find food and shelter for today?

      The glorious emperor, now departed,

      In that grim year was sovereign

      Of Russia still. He came, sick-hearted,

      Out on his balcony, and in pain

      He said: “No Tsar, with God, is master

      Over God’s elements!” In thought

      He sat, and gazed on the disaster

      Sad-eyed, and on the evil wrought;

      For now the squares with lakes

               were studded,

      Their torrents broad the streets

               had flooded,

      And now forlorn and islander

      The palace seemed. The emperor said

      One word: – and see, along the highways

      His generals[2] hurrying, through the byways!

      From city’s end to end they sped

      Through storm and peril, bent on saving

      The people, now in panic raving

      And drowning in their houses there.

      New-built, high up in Peter’s Square

      A corner mansion then ascended;

      And where its lofty perron ended

      Two sentry lions stood at guard

      Like living things, and kept their ward

      With paw uplifted. Here, bare-headed,

      Pale, rigid, arms across his breast,

      Upon the creature’s marble crest

      Sat poor Evgeny. But he dreaded

      Nought for himself; he did not hear

      The hungry rollers rising near

      And on his very footsoles plashing,

      Feel on his face the rainstorm lashing,

      Or how the riotous, moaning blast

      Had snatched his hat. His eyes were fast

      Fixt on one spot in desperation

      Where from the deeps in agitation

      The wicked waves like mountains rose,

      Where the storm howled, and round were driven

      Fragments of wreck… There,

               God in Heaven!

      Hard by the bay should stand,

               and close,

      Alas, too close to the wild water,

      A painless fence, a willow-tree,

      And there a frail old house should be

      Where dwelt a widow, with a daughter

      Parasha – and his dream was she!

      His dream – or was it but a vision,

      All that he saw? Was life also

      An idle dream which in derision

      Fate sends to mock us here below?

      And he, as though a man enchanted

      And on the marble pinned and planted

      Cannot descend, and round him lie

      Only the waters. There, on high,

      With Neva still beneath him churning,

      Unshaken, on Evgeny turning

      His back, and with an arm flung wide,

      Behold the Image sit, and ride

      Upon his brazen horse

2

Count Miloradovich and Adjutant-General Benckendorff (Pushkin’s note).