The Demon / Демон. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Лермонтов

camels after him

      So weighted down with costly gifts

      They scarce from hoof to hoof could shift

      Wound down the pathway, rank on rank,

      Now clear to view, now lost to sight,

      Bells chiming softly as they plod.

      Their master rode on in the van

      To guide his laden caravan

      That followed where his horse had trod…

      Erect, the lithe waist girdled tight;

      Sabre and dagger-hilts shine bright

      Beneath the sun; and on his back

      A gleaming rifle, notched in black.

      The wind is fluttering the sleeve

      Of his chukhá[5] – all bravely braided

      His saddle-cloth of richest weave,

      The saddle with gay silks is broidered

      The reigns are tasseled – and his steed

      Is of a priceless, golden breed.

      Nostrils dilated, twitching ears

      He glances down and snorts his fears

      Of the deep drop, the flying foam

      That crests the rapids' leaping waves.

      How perilous the path they follow,

      The cliff o'erhangs the way so narrow,

      The deep ravine the torrent paves.

      The hour is late. – The sunset glow

      Is fading on the peaks of snow.

      The caravan makes haste for home.

      XI

      But see – a chapel by the way…

      Here now has rested many a day

      Some prince, now canonized, but then

      By vengeful hand untimely slain. —

      And here the traveller must stay

      Whether he hastes to fight, or whether

      To join the feast, here he must ever

      Rein in his horse and humbly pray

      The good saint to protect his life

      Against the lurking Moslem's knife.

      But now the bridegroom, overbold,

      Forgot his forefathers of old

      And, by perfidious dreams misled

      Of how, beneath the cloak of night,

      He would embrace his bride, instead

      Of holding by their pious rite

      He yielded to the Demon's will

      Seduced by turbid thoughts – until

      Two figures – then a shot – ahead

      What was it? Rising in his stirrups

      Cramming his high hat on his brow

      The gallant lover, at the gallop,

      Plunged like a hawk upon his foe!

      No word he spoke, his whip cracked once

      And once blazed forth his Turkish gun…

      Another shot. Wild cries. The Prince

      Goes thundering on. The groans behind

      Long echoes in the valley find…

      Not long the fight. Of timorous mind,

      The Georgians turn and run!

      XII

      Now all is silence; sadly huddled

      The camels stand and stare befuddled

      Upon their erstwhile master – man,

      Lying dead amongst these silent fells.

      The only sound their harness bells,

      Ravaged and robbed their caravan;

      And see, the owl flies softly round

      The Christian bodies on the ground!

      No peaceful tomb beneath the stones

      Of some old church will take these bones

      Like those in which their fathers lie;

      Mothers nor sisters will not come

      In their long floating veils to cry

      Over these graves so far from home!

      Instead, by zealous hands, a cross

      Was raised to mark the dreadful loss

      Just where the road hugs close the sheer

      And towering cliff-wall, close to where

      They perished in the raid…

      And ivy, growing lush in spring,

      An emerald net about it flings…

      Here, weary of the toilsome road,

      The traveller yet lays down his load

      To rest in God's good shade…

      XIII

      Swift as a stag still runs the horse

      Snorting as though he held his course

      In some fierce charge, now plunging on

      Now pulling up as though to harken

      His nostrils flared to sniff the wind:

      Then leaps up and comes ringing down

      On all four hooves, sets sparking

      The stones and, in his mad career,

      His tangled mane streams out behind.

      A silent rider he does bear

      Who lurches forward now and then

      To rest his head in that wild mane.

      The reins lie slack in useless hands,

      The feet are deep-thrust in the stirrups,

      And on his saddle-cloth the bands

      Of blood are broadening as they gallop

      Ah gallant steed, your wounded master

      You bore from battle swift as light

      The ill-starred bullet sped yet faster

      And overtook him in the night!

      XIV

      Gudaal's is now a house of mourning,

      The people crowd into the court:

      Whose horse comes galloping in terror

      To fall before the rock-hewn gate?

      The lifeless rider, who is he?

      The battle fury on his face

      Has left a deep inscribed trace

      On coat and weapons they could see

      Fresh bloodstains, and a wiry strand

      Of mane was twisted in his hand,

      Not long you waited, youthful bride,

      And looked to see your bridegroom come:

      Alas, though he has gained your side

      To join the feasting at your home

      His princely word he keeps in vain…

      Never will he mount horse again.

      XV

      Like thunder, the Lord's judgement broke

      About this unsuspecting house!

      Tamara, sobbing

5

Chukha (chokha) – a part of the traditional male dress of the peoples of the Caucasus. – Ed.