Полная версия
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, Number 358, August 1845
The following lines (which are not without a kind of fantastic prettiness of their own) do not seen to need any remark or explanation, unless it be the circumstance of the poet's qualifying the sky of St Petersburg with the epithet of pale-green. It may be observed that this peculiar tint (exactly enough expressed by the adjective) has struck almost all the strangers who have visited the northern capital, and has been repeatedly noticed by travellers; as, for instance, Kohl, Custine, &c. &c. Our readers will find the singular colour of the St Petersburg atmosphere (particularly observable in the winter, or at night) very well described in Sir George Lefevre's amusing "Notes of a Travelling Physician." This greenish tint is as peculiar to the banks of the Neva, as is the reddish-black to the neighbourhood of Birmingham or the Potteries; or the yellowish-brown (in November—"let rude ears be absent!") to the environs of the Thames:—
"Town of Starving, Town of Splendour!"Town of starving, town of splendour,Dulness, pride, and slavery;Skyey vault of pale-green tender,Cold, and granite, and ennui!With a pang, I say adieu t'yeWith a pang, though slight—for thereTrips the foot of one young beauty,Waves one tress of golden hair.In the short and rapid sketch of Púshkin's life and writings which will be found prefixed to this selection, we made particular mention of the strong impression produced upon the Russian public by the appearance of the noble lines addressed to the Sea. We beg to subjoin a translation of this short but vigorous poem, which has become classical in the author's country; an honour it certainly deserves, not only from the simple grace and energy of the language, but from the weight, dignity, and verity of the thoughts. The lines were written by the poet on his quitting the shores of the Caspian, where he had so long dwelt in solitude, gathering inspiration from the sublime Nature by which he was surrounded; and the poem cannot but be considered as a worthy outpouring of the feelings which a long communion with that Nature was so capable of communicating to a mind like that of Púshkin. Of the two great men whose recent death was naturally recalled to the poet's recollection by the view of the ocean, the name of one—Napoleon—is specifically mentioned; that of the other is—Byron. Seldom, in the prosecution of his difficult but not ungrateful task, has the translator felt the imperfection of his art, or the arduous nature of its object, more keenly than when attempting to give something like an adequate version of the eleventh and twelfth stanzas of this majestic composition. In order to give some idea of the fidelity of his imitation, we will subjoin the literal English of these eight lines:—
He vanish'd, wept by liberty,Leaving to the world his crown.Roar, swell with storm-weather;He was, O sea, thy bard!Thine image was stamp'd upon him,He was created in thy spirit;Like thee, mighty, deep, and gloomy,Like thee, untameable!To the SeaFarewell, free sky, and thou, O Ocean!For the last time, before my sightRoll thy blue waves in ceaseless motion,And shine with a triumphant light!Like friend's farewell in parting hour,And mournful as his whisper'd word,Thy solemn roar—that voice of power—Now for the last time I have heard.Bound of my spirit's aspiration!How often on thy shore, O Sea!I've roved in gloomy meditation,Tired with my mighty ministry!Thine echoes—oh, how I have loved them!Dread sounds—the voices of the Deep!Thy waves—or rock'd in sunset sleep,Or when the tempest-blast had moved them!The fisher's peaceful sail may glide—If such thy will—in safety gleaming,Mid thy dark surges rolling wide;But thou awak'st in sportful seeming—And navies perish in thy tide!How oft was mock'd my wild endeavourTo leave the dull unmoving strand,To hail thee, Sea; to leave thee never,And o'er thy foam to guide for everMy course, with free poetic hand.Thou calledst … but a chain was round me;In vain my soul its fetters tore;A mighty passion-spell had bound me,And I remain'd upon thy shore.Wherever o'er thy billows lonelyI might direct my careless prow,Amid thy waste one object onlyWould strike with awe my spirit now;One rock … the sepulchre of glory …There sleep the echoes that are gone,The echoes of a mighty story;There pined and died Napoleon.There pined he, lone and broken-hearted.And after, like a storm-blast, thenAnother Mighty One departed,Another Ruler among Men.He vanish'd from among us—leavingHis laurels, Freedom, unto thee!Roar, Ocean; swell-with tempest-grieving;He was thy chosen bard, O sea!Thine echoes in his voice resoundedThy gloom upon his brow was shed,Like thee, his soul was deep, unbounded,Like thee 'twas mighty, dark, and dread.The earth is empty now, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *Farewell, then, Sea! Before me gleamingOft wilt thou float in sunny pride,And often shall I hear in dreamingThy resonance, at evening-tide.And I shall bear, to inland meadowsTo the still woods, and silent caves,Thy rocks, thy cliffs, thy lights, thy shadows,And all the language of the waves.The following lines we think elegantly and prettily expressed.
EchoTo roar of beast in wild-wood still,To thunder-roll, to bugle-trill,To maiden singing on the hill,To every soundThy voice, responsive, straight doth fillThe air around.Thou hearkenest when the storm-blasts blow,To thunder peal, to billow's flow,And shepherd's call from hamlet low,Replying straight;But thee nought answers … Even so,Poet, thy fate!There are few things more curious than to observe how universally the same legends are to be found in the popular traditions of very distant ages and nations, under circumstances which render it extremely difficult for the most acute investigator to trace how, when, and where they were communicated, or even to give any plausible account of the origin of the legend itself. So difficult indeed is this task, that we are almost driven to account for so singular a phenomenon, by attributing to the human mind an exceedingly small endowment of originality; and by supposing that, however the details of these ancient traditions may have been modified and adapted to suit the peculiar nature, the scenery of each particular country, or the manners, customs, and character of its inhabitants—the fundamental idea, and the leading incident, remaining the same under the most dissimilar conditions of time and place, must have a common and a single origin. This doctrine, if carried to its legitimate consequences, would lead us to consider the number of the original legends common to all times and many races, as singularly limited; and that a very short list indeed might be made to embrace the root-stories—the uhrsagen, as a German might call them. And really when we reflect that many of the most threadbare jests which figure in the recondite tomes of Mr Joseph Miller are to be found, crystallized in attic salt, in the pages of Hierocles, and represented as forming part of the "Hundred merye Talis and Jeastis" which delectated the citizens of ancient Greece; when we reflect, we repeat, that the same buffooneries, still retailed by after-dinner cits in the Sunday shades of Clapham or Camden-Town, may have raised the easy laugh of the merry Greek beneath the portico and in the Agora; it makes us entertain a very humble idea respecting the amount of creative power given to man, even for the production of so small a matter as a pleasantry, not to speak of pleasantries so very small as some of these mysterious and time-honoured jokes. If we remember, still further, that the pedigree of these trifling insects of the brain, these children of the quip, does not stop even in the venerable pages of Hierocles—that Greek "Joe"—but loses itself, like a Welsh genealogy in the darkest gloom of antiquity, we ought not to be surprised that ancient legends, being often shattered fragments and dim shadowings-forth of mystic and hierophantic philosophy, should be found, with many of their principal features unaltered, in the popular traditions of different ages and countries.
The tale embodied in the "Lay of Olég the Wise," is identical in all its essentials with the legend still extant upon the tomb of an ancient Kentish family, in the church of (we believe) Minster, in the Isle of Sheppey. The inimitable Ingoldsby has made the adventure the subject of one of his charming "Legends," and has shown how the Knight came by his death in consequence of wounding his foot in the act of contemptuously kicking the fatal horse's skull, thus accomplishing the prophecy many years after the death of the faithful steed. The reader will perceive, that in the Russian form of the legend the hero dies by the bite of a serpent, and not by the less imposing consequences of mortification in the toe; but the identity of the leading idea in the two versions of the old tale, is too striking not to be remarked. It is only necessary to observe that Olég is still one of the popular heroes of Russian legendary lore, and that the feast, to which allusion is made at the end of the poem, is the funeral banquet customary among the ancient Slavons at the burial of their heroes; and resembling the funeral games of the heroic age in Greece. The Slavonians, however, had the habit, on such occasions, of sacrificing a horse over the tumulus or barrow of the departed brave. The Perún mentioned in the stanzas was the War-God of this ancient people.
The Lay of the Wise OlégWise Olég to the war he hath bouned him again,The Khozárs have awaken'd his ire;For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plainAre devoted to falchion and fire.In mail of Byzance, girt with many a good spear,The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrere.From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array,Forth paces a gray-haired magician:To none but Perún did that sorcerer pray,Fulfilling the prophet's dread mission:His life he had wasted in penance and pain:—And beside that enchanter Olég drew his rein."Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perún,The good and the ill that's before me;Shall I soon give my neighbour-foes triumph, and soonShall the earth of the grave be piled o'er me?Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed,Choose among them—I give thee my best battle-steed.""O, enchanters they care not for prince or for peer,And gifts are but needlessly given;The wise tongue ne'er stumbleth for falsehood or fear,'Tis the friend of the councils of Heaven!The years of the future are clouded and dark,Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark:"Remember now firmly the words of my tongue;For the chief finds a rapture in glory:On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung,Thy name shall be deathless in story;Wild waves and broad kingdoms thy sceptre obey,And the foe sees with envy so boundless a sway:"And the blue sea, uplifting its treacherous wave,In its wrath—in the hurricane-hour—And the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave,To slay thee shall never have power:Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know,For a guardian unseen shall defend thee below."Thy steed fears not labour, nor danger, nor pain,His lord's lightest accent he heareth,Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain,Now o'er the red field he careereth;He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed—Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!"Olég smiled a moment, but yet on his brow,And lip, thought and sorrow were blended:In silence he bent on his saddle, and slowThe Prince from his courser descended;And as though from a friend he were parting with pain,He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane."Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold!We must part—such is Destiny's power:Now rest thee—I swear, in thy stirrup of goldNo foot shall e'er rest, from this hour.Farewell! we've been comrades for many a long year—My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere."The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be:And lead him away to the meadow;On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie,He shall drink of the well in the shadow."Then straightway departed the squires with the steed,And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead.Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow;The mead-cups are merrily clashing:Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snowOn the peak of the mountain-top flashing:They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,And the fights where together they struck side by side."But where," quoth Olég, "is my good battle-horse?My mettlesome charger—how fares he?Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;His age and his freedom how bears he?"They answer and say: on the hill by the streamHe has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:"O man, what can magic avail thee!A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:Our rage and contempt should assail thee.My horse might have borne me till now, but for theeThen the bones of his charger Olég went to see.Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside;At his bridle Prince Igor he hurried:And they see on a hillock by Dniépr's swift tideWhere the steed's noble bones lie unburied:They are wash'd by the rain, the dust o'er them is cast,And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.Then the Prince set his foot on the courser's white skull;Saying: "Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:At his funeral feast, red and gory,'Tis not thou 'neath the axe that shall redden the sod,That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood."And am I to find my destruction in this?My death in a skeleton seeking?"From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,Crept forth, as the hero was speaking:Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;And the Prince shriek'd aloud as he felt the keen sting.The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around;At Olég's mighty Death-Feast they're ringing;Prince Igor and Olga they sit on the mound;The war-men the death-song are singing:And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,And the fights where together they struck side by side.We know not whether our readers will be attracted or repelled by the somewhat exaggerated tone of thought, and the strangeness and novelty of the metre, in the following little piece. The gloom of the despondency expressed in the lines is certainly Byronian—and haply "something more." It is to be hoped, however, that they may find favour in the eyes of the English reader—always so "novitatis avidus,"—if only on the score of the singularity of the versification:—
RemembranceWhen for the sons of men is stilled the day's turmoil,And on the dumb streets of the cityWith half-transparent shade sinks Night, the friend of Toil—And Sleep—calm as the tear of Pity;Oh, then, how drag they on, how silent, and how slow,The lonely vigil-hours tormenting;How sear they then my soul, those serpent fangs of woe,Fangs of heart-serpents unrelenting!Then burn my dreams: in care my soul is drown'd and dead,Black, heavy thoughts come thronging o'er me;Remembrance then unfolds, with finger slow and dread,Her long and doomful scroll before me.Then reading those dark lines, with shame, remorse, and fear,I curse and tremble as I trace them,Though bitter be my cry, though bitter be my tear,Those lines—I never shall efface them:There is another little composition in the same key.
"I have outlived the hopes that charm'd me."I have outlived the hopes that charm'd me,The dreams that once my heart could bless!'Gainst coming agonies I've arm'd me,Fruits of the spirit's loneliness.My rosy wreath is rent and fadedBy cruel Fate's sirocco-breath!Lonely I live, and sad, and jaded,And wait, and wait—to welcome death!Thus, in the chilly tempest shivering,When Winter sings his song of grief,Lone on the bough, and feebly quivering,Trembles the last belated leaf.The following is a somewhat new version of the famous "E pur si muove" of Galileo.
Motion"There is," once said the bearded sage, "no motion!"The other straight 'gan move before his eyes:The contrary no stronglier could he prove.All praised the answerer's ingenious notion.Now, Sirs; this story doth to me recallA new example of the fact surprising:We see each day the sun before us rising,Yet right was Galileo, after all!In the spirited lines addressed to "The Slanderers of Russia," Púshkin has recorded a sufficiently conclusive reply to the hackneyed calumnies against his country, repeated with such a nauseating uniformity, and through so long a period of time, in wretched verse, or more wretched prose, in the leading articles of obscure provincial newspapers, and on the scaffolding of obscure provincial hustings. Whatever may be the merits or demerits, in a moral point of view, of the part played by Russia in the events alluded to by the poet, events which form the stock subject of the scribblings and spoutings we speak of, these tiresome tirades do not come with a very good grace from either England or France. There is a very excellent and venerable proverb which expresses the imprudence of the practice of throwing stones, when indulged in by the inhabitant of an abode composed of a vitreous substance, not to mention a still more greybearded and not less wise saw, specifying, in terms rather forcible than dignified, the impolicy of the pot alluding in an opprobrious manner to the blackness which characterizes the sitting part of its fellow-utensil, the kettle; and the "wisdom of ages" might, in the present instance, be very reasonably adduced to moderate the excessive moral susceptibilities of the aforesaid writers and declaimers, and to restrain the feeble flood of words—the dirty torrent of shallow declamation, so incessantly poured forth against Russia on the subject of Poland. "Judge not, that ye be not judged!" is an excellent precept for the guidance of nations as well as of individuals; and, we think, a Russian, wearied by the tiresome repetition of the same accusations against his native country, can hardly be blamed for asking, in language even more energetic than that here employed by Púshkin, whether England or France have hands so clean, or a conscience so clear, as to justify them in their incessant and insolent attempt to sit in judgment upon their European sister. We certainly think that the recollection of the Affghan war, the bombardment of Copenhagen, of the splendid exploits of Whig policy and Whig non-intervention in Spain, might make England a little more modest, and a little less inclined to declaim against the wickedness of other nations—and as to France, her whole history, from the Republic to the present day, is nothing but a succession of lessons which might teach la grande nation to abstain from exhibiting herself in the character of a moral instructress to the world.
To the Slanderers of RussiaWhy rave ye, babblers, so—ye lords of popular wonder?Why such anathemas 'gainst Russia do ye thunder?What moves your idle rage? Is't Poland's fallen pride?'Tis but Slavonic kin among themselves contending,An ancient household strife, oft judged but still unending,A question which, be sure, ye never can decide.For ages past have still contendedThese races, though so near allied:And oft 'neath Victory's storm has bendedNow Poland's, and now Russia's side.Which shall stand fast in such commotion,The haughty Liákh, or faithful Russ?And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean—Or that dry up? This is the point for us.Peace, peace! your eyes are all unableTo read our history's bloody table;Strange in your sight and dark must beOur springs of household enmity!To you the Kreml and Praga's towerAre voiceless all—you mark the fateAnd daring of the battle-hour—And understand us not, but hate …What stirs ye? Is it that this nationOn Moscow's flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quench'd,Spurn'd back the insolent dictationOf Him before whose nod ye blench'd?Is it that into dust we shatter'dThe Dagon that weigh'd down all earth so wearily?And our best blood so freely scatter'dTo buy for Europe peace and liberty?Ye're bold of tongue—but hark, would ye in deed but try itOr is the hero, now reclined in laurell'd quiet,Too weak to fix once more Izmáil's red bayonet?Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded?Or must we meet all Europe banded?Have we forgot to conquer yet?Or rather, shall they not, from Perm to Tauris' fountains,From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland's icy mountains,From the grey Kreml's half-shatter'd wall,To far Kathay, in dotage buried—A steelly rampart close and serried,Rise—Russia's warriors—one and all?Then send your numbers without number,Your madden'd sons, your goaded slaves,In Russia's plains there's room to slumber,And well they'll know their brethen's graves!We are not sure whether we are right in yielding to the temptation of transcribing in these sheets so many of the smaller lyrics and fugitive pieces of our author; and whether that very charm of form and expression which attract so strongly our admiration to the originals, should not have rather tended to deter us from so difficult an attempt as that of transposing them into another language. The chief grace and value of such productions certainly consists less in the quantity or weight of the gold employed in their composition, than in the beauty and delicacy of the image stamped or graven upon the metal; and the critic may object against us, if our critic be in a severe mood (quod Dii avertant boni!) the rashness of the numismatist, who should hope, in recasting the exquisite medals of antique art, to retain—or even imperfectly imitate—the touches of the Ionic or the Corinthian chisel.
True as is the above reasoning with respect to the slighter productions of poetry in all languages, it is peculiarly true when applied to the smaller offspring of Púshkin's muse; and were we not sufficiently convinced of the danger and the arduousness of our attempt, by our own experience and by analogy, we should have found abundant reason for diffidence in the often repeated counsels of Russians, who all unite in asserting that there is something so peculiarly delicate and inimitable in the diction and versification of these little pieces, as to be almost beyond the reach of a foreigner's appreciation, and, consequently, that any attempt at imitation must, à fortiori, of necessity be a failure. Notwithstanding all this, and despite many sinister presages, we have obstinately persevered in our determination to clothe in an English dress those pieces, great and small—gems or flowers, productions perfumed by grace of diction, or heavy with weight of thought—which struck us most forcibly among the poems of our author; and we hope that our boldness, if not our success, may be rewarded with the approbation of such of our countrymen as may be curious to know something of the tone and physiognomy of the Russian literature.
PresentimentClouds anew have gather'd o'er me,Sad and grim, and dark and still;Black and menacing before meGlooms the Destiny of Ill …In contempt with fate contending,Shall I bring, to meet her flood,The enduring and unbendingSpirit of my youthful blood?Worn with life-storm, cold and dreary,Calmly I await the blast,Saved from wreck, yet wet and weary,I may find a port at last.See, it comes—the hour thou fearest!Hour escapeless! We must part!Haply now I press thee, dearest,For the last time, to my heart.Angel mild and unrepining,Gently breathe a fond farewell—Thy soft eyes, through tear-drops shining,Raised or lower'd—shall be my spell:And thy memory abiding,To my spirit shall restoreThe hope, the pride, the strong confidingOf my youthful days once more.Perhaps our readers would like to see a Russian Sonnet. To many the name of such a thing will seem a union of two contradictory terms; but, nevertheless, here is a sonnet, and not a bad one either.
