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

night, on Neva wharf he slept.

      Now summer days toward autumn crept;

      A wet and stormy wind was blowing,

      And Neva’s sullen waters flowing

      Plashed on the wharf and muttered there

      Complaining – beat the slippery stair

      As suitors beat in supplication

      Unheeded at a judge’s door.

      In gloom and rain, amid the roar

      Of winds, – a sound of desolation

      With cries of watchmen interchanged

      Afar, who through the darkness ranged, —

      Our poor Evgeny woke; and dounted,

      By well-remembered terrors haunted,

      He started sharply, rose in haste,

      And forth upon his wanderings paced;

            – And halted on a sudden, staring

      About him silently, and wearing

      A look of wild alarm and awe.

      Where had he come? For now he saw

      The pillars of that lofty dwelling

      Where, on the perron sentinelling,

      Two lion-figures stand at guard

      Like living things, keep watch and ward

      With lifted paw. Upright and glooming,

      Above the stony barrier looming,

      The Image, with arm flung wide,

      Sat on his brazen horse astride.[3]

      And now Evgeny, with a shiver

      Of terror, felt his reason clear.

      He knew the place, for it was here

      The flood had gamboled, here the river

      Had surged; here, rioting in their wrath,

      The wicked waves had swept a path

      And with their tumult had surrounded

      Evgeny, lions, square, – and Him

      Who, moveless and aloft and dim,

      Our city by the sea had founded,

      Whose will was Fate. Appalling there

      He sat begirt with and air.

      What thoughts engrave his blow! What hidden

      Power and authority he claims!

      What fire in yonder charger flames!

      Proud charger, whither art thou ridden,

      Where leanest thou? And where, on whom,

      Wilt plants thy hoof? – Ah, lord of doom

      And potentate, ‘twas thus, appearing

      Above the void, and in thy hold

      A curb of iron, thou sat’st of old

      O’er Russian, on her haunches rearing!

      About the Image, at its base,

      Poor mad Evgeny circled, straining

      His wild gaze upward at the face

      That once o’er half the world was reigning.

      His eye was dimmed, cramped was his breast,

      His brow on the cold grill was pressed,

      While through his heart a flame was creeping

      And in his veins the blood was leaping.

      He halted sullenly beneath

      The haughty Image, clenched his teeth

      And clasped his hands, as though some devil

      Possessed him, some dark, power of evil,

      And shuddered, whispering angrily,

      “Ay, architect, with thy creation

      Of marvels… Ah, beware of me!”

      And then, in wild precipitation

                                                         He fled.

      For now he seemed to see

      The awful Emperor, quietly,

      With momentary anger burning,

      His visage to Evgeny turning!

      And rushing through the empty square,

      He hears behind him as it were

      Thunders that rattle in a chorus,

      A gallop ponderous, sonorous,

      That shakes the pavement. At full height,

      Illumined by the pale moonlight,

      With arm outflung, behind him riding

      See, the bronze horseman comes, bestriding

      The charger, clanging in his flight.

      All night the madman flees; no matter

      Where he may wander at his will,

      Hard on his track with heavy clatter

      There the bronze horseman gallops still.

      Thereafter, whensoever straying

      Across that square Evgeny went

      By chance, his face was still betraying

      Disturbance and bewilderment.

      As though to ease a heart tormented

      His hand upon it he would clap

      In haste, put off his shabby cap,

      And never raise his eyes demented,

      And seek some byway unfrequented.

      A little island lies in view

      Along the shore; and here, belated,

      Sometimes with nets a fisher-crew

      Will moor and cook their long awaited

      And meagre supper. Hither too

      Some civil servant, idly floating,

      Will come upon a Sunday, boating.

      That isle is desolate and bare;

      No blade of grass springs anywhere.

      Once the great flood has sported, driving

      The frail hut thither. Long surviving,

      It floated on the water there

      Like some black bush. A vessel plying

      Bore it, last spring, upon her deck.

      They found it empty, all the wreck;

      And also, cold and dead and lying

      Upon the threshold, they had found

      My crazy hero. In the ground

      His poor cold body there they hurried,

      And left it to God’s mercy, buried.

      Ruslan and Ludmila

      Dedication

      For you, queens of my soul, my treasured

      Young beauties, for your sake did I

      Devote my golden hours of leisure

      To writing down, I’ll not deny,

      With faithful hand of long past ages

      The whispered fables… Take them, pray,

      Accept these

3

See the description of the monument in Mickiewicz. It is borrowed from Ruban, as Mickiewicz himself observes (Pushkin’s note).