Delphi Collected Poetical Works of Nikolay Nekrasov (Illustrated) E-Book

Nikolay Nekrasov

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 474

Beschreibung

Nikolay Nekrasov was a Russian poet, critic and publisher, whose deeply compassionate poems about peasant Russia made him the hero of liberal and radical circles of the intelligentsia. He is credited with introducing into Russian poetry ternary meters and the technique of dramatic monologue; working as the editor of several literary journals, Nekrasov was also singularly successful and influential, launching the career of Leo Tolstoy. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Nekrasov’s complete poetical works, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Nekrasov's life and works
* Concise introduction to Nekrasov’s life and poetry
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Rare poems translated by Juliet M. Soskice, first time in digital print
* Includes Nekrasov’s epic poem WHO CAN BE HAPPY AND FREE IN RUSSIA?, translated by Juliet M. Soskice
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Features a bonus biography - discover Nekrasov's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of Nikolay Nekrasov
INTRODUCTION: Nikolay Nekrasov
POEMS OF Nikolay Nekrasov
WHO CAN BE HAPPY AND FREE IN RUSSIA?

The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Biography
NICHOLAS NEKRASOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE by David Soskice

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of poetry titles or buy the entire Delphi Poets Series as a Super Set

Leseprobe

Nikolay Nekrasov

(1821-1878)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of Nikolay Nekrasov

INTRODUCTION: NIKOLAY NEKRASOV

POEMS OF NIKOLAI NEKRASOV

WHO CAN BE HAPPY AND FREE IN RUSSIA?

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Biography

NICHOLAS NEKRASOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE by David Soskice

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2017

Version 1

Nikolay Nekrasov

By Delphi Classics, 2017

COPYRIGHT

Nikolay Nekrasov - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2017.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78656 211 1

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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The Life and Poetry of Nikolay Nekrasov

Nekrasov’s birthplace, Nemyriv, Podolia Governorate, Russian Empire

Nemyriv is today known as Vinnytsia Oblast in Ukraine

INTRODUCTION: NIKOLAY NEKRASOV

by Lascelles Abercrombie

THE works of the great Russian novelists have long been international property; and though poetry must, as a rule, travel beyond its native language more slowly than prose, some of the great Russian poets, such as Pushkin and Lermontov, have long been at least international names. But until Mrs. Soskice published, in a previous volume of this series, her translation of Who Can be Happy in Russia, Nekrasov, the author of this ‘epic’ (it is not an epic: but what else can one call it?) — Nekrasov, whom Russians regard as one of the very greatest of their poets — was, except for professed students of things Russian, a name entirely unknown in England. The fact was deplorable, first because Nekrasov can tell us what nobody else has told us; secondly, and chiefly, because Nekrasov is a poet whom no lover of poetry can afford to miss. But it was a very explicable fact. Tolerable translators of prose are not uncommon. A great prose author, obviously calling for translation, is pretty sure to find it. Even a mediocre translation will do. For in translating prose there is not so much that is liable to be lost, and of what survives there is not so much that is liable to be changed, as in translating poetry. The person who can re-create in another language the more complex, more highly organized and subtle life of poetry is a very unusual person. It is not surprising, therefore, that we should have had to wait so long for a translation of Nekrasov’s poems. That, however, does not altogether explain why Nekrasov’s name should have been so long a blank to us; for it is an odd fact, that the names and reputations of poets often go far beyond any knowledge of their work. Of those who know the name of Hafiz, what proportion knows anything of his poetry? Pushkin and Lermontov are international names; but is their work international? Nevertheless, it seems that, however the reputation of it may have got abroad, and however vaguely it may have been understood, it has been some international quality in their work that has given these names their great momentum. But in the case of Nekrasov, there was no such quality, the reputation of which might carry his name abroad. Of all Russian poets he is perhaps the most distinctively Russian; of all modern poets, it might possibly be said, he is the most national. Outside Russia, his reputation as a poet could only await the chance of an adequate translation.

Russians, we are told, find in Nekrasov something analogous to that which we may suppose the ancient Greeks found in Homer. The analogy, at first sight, might seem injudicious. But the suggestion is not that Who can be happy in Russia compares, or was ever meant to compare, with the splendour of the Homeric art or the grandeur of the Homeric theme. It is simply that in Nekrasov, as in Homer, a nation recognizes, typified once for all, and rendered into a shapely comprehension, its own peculiar manner of being conscious of its own peculiar life, as history, geography, ethnology, and a hundred other factors, have determined it. Nekrasov’s critics, I understand, even his Russian critics, accuse him of being ridden — perhaps hag-ridden — by a single idea. The accusation refers, apparently, to what we may roughly call his political attitude; and will certainly be ignored by those who are to decide whether translations from Nekrasov are worth making — whether, in fact, he shall take his place among the great poets of Europe as well as of Russia. For that, he will simply be judged as a poet; the judges will have no knowledge of and no concern with Russian politics, past or present. We may share his indignation against the censorship, because the mutilations it inflicted on his poetry are injuries to us as well as to him. But what does it matter, for Nekrasov’s poetic reputation outside Russia, what the politician in him thought about serfdom? As little as it matters, for Shakespeare’s poetic reputation, what he thought about the monarchy. Nevertheless, that Nekrasov was, as a poet, ridden by a single idea is the most obvious truth about him; and that idea was Russia. We are not to expect in him those ideas which bear the unmistakable stamp of international currency, like the ideas of Goethe, Shelley, or Leopardi. His theme is simply Russia: what life in Russia is, and means; and even if it is what life in Russia wants, the want is as Russian as the fact from which it seeks to escape.

It might very reasonably be thought, then, that a person who knows nothing about Russia, Russian, or Russians could hardly be the right person to introduce this second volume of Mrs. Soskice’s translations from Nekrasov. And yet it is, perhaps, my very ignorance which makes it permissible for me to assume that honour; since, after all, it is for people like me that such work is intended. The experts do not need it; and though they can tell us whether a translation is, according to this or that theory of the business, a good one or not, it is not they who put the test by which a translation must finally justify itself. We, the ignorant, are the people to do that; for to us a translation comes simply as a poem written in our own language. That is the crucial test. No doubt we like to feel that the translation is loyal to its original; but we shall not inquire too nicely what form this loyalty takes (and it may take many forms). And as soon as we begin to read, the question how far these English verses resemble verses written in a tongue we do not know, and probably never shall know, becomes a matter that interests us but faintly. What does interest us is just this: what is it that these English verses actually and positively give us in themselves? What new experience in the realm of poetry have we here?

Well, we have Russia: that seems to be the plain answer; and it seems to be also an answer that contradicts a good part of what I have just been saying. If Russia is Nekrasov’s gift to us, who can value the gift but those who already know something about it? Must not the value of it lie in its truth? And how can the ignorant judge of that? But poetry is nothing if it does not transmute the local and temporary into the universal and permanent; every time a poet expresses his experience in his art, he effects that, whatever his experience may have been. What is this Russia which Nekrasov gives us? — for we are not now concerned with any other Russia. We must admit, in the first place, that when poetry so national as Nekrasov’s is translated, the result for us must be very different from the effect of the original on his own people. Everything that is circumstantial in Nekrasov — the climate, the scene, the manners, the social structure, the average mentality — everything, that is to say, that must seem to a Russian entirely homely and familiar, has on us an effect clean contrary; it strikes us as wholly strange and outlandish. But it is not my business to speculate what Nekrasov may mean to his countrymen; I am merely trying to suggest, judging from myself, how a translation of Nekrasov is likely to appeal to the intelligent ignorant, to whom the whole notion of Russia is foreign. What will be the result of this sense of the strange and outlandish in the setting of his poetry? Will it be the annoyance, or perhaps the fascination, of the incomprehensible? I am sure it will be neither. About anything that can be brought under the heading of that disastrous word ‘psychology’, nonsense is sure to be talked. A great deal of nonsense has been talked about ‘Russian psychology’; by which is simply meant the behaviour of Russian temperament under Russian conditions. This is certainly, to us, strange enough; but, I believe, only superficially; and I doubt whether it is any more incomprehensible than the behaviour of Elizabethan temperament under Elizabethan conditions.

Now the effect of this outlandish setting and circumstance of Nekrasov’s poetry seems to be just this: it throws into unusual imaginative isolation its essential humanity; so that every gesture it mentions, every movement in it of thought and feeling, take on an air of important emphasis, and seem somehow vivid with significance. That is how it appeals to us; but it is the mark of great poetry that it can adapt its appeal to all sorts of readers. The final result, however, is no doubt the same for all. Nekrasov’s poetry can no more appeal to Englishmen in the same way as it does to Russians, than Paradise Lost (which is, or was, popular in Russia) can appeal to Russians in the same way as it does to Englishmen. But in each case, the difference of appeal will doubtless be found to lead to the same conclusion. In Nekrasov, by whatever means his poetry makes its effect on us, it is plain that we have a poet who is entirely content to abide by the reality of things; and reality, for him, is humanity. But his artistic contentment with reality proceeds from his extraordinary capacity not merely for seeing it but for seeing into it. In the lucid, lively movement of his art, we seem to have before us the very passage of reality, with its infinite pathos strangely complicated with infinite humour; and we watch this poetic reality with a clairvoyance which makes the familiar reality of everyday things seem, by comparison, a mist of baffling illusion. Let Red-Nose Frost, that masterpiece of a kind that cannot be paralleled in any other poet, typify what Nekrasov has to say, whether to Russian or to Englishman, whether by means of entirely national or by means of entirely foreign circumstance. There is astonishing penetration here into the inmost nature of humanity; there is an equally astonishing faithfulness to the harsh simplicity of mere fact. And by whatever means the appeal has been made, what comes home is a unique moment of understanding what an inexplicable world this is, and what an inexhaustible miracle in it human nature is. We can scarcely be too grateful to Mrs. Soskice for enabling us to share with Nekrasov the depth and riches of his sense of the mysterious and tragic privilege of being alive in this world.

LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE

Zinaida Nekrasova

Nekrasov, 1865

Leo Tolstoy, aged 20, c. 1848 — Nekrasov discovered Leo Tolstoy, helping him debut in his periodical ‘Sovremennik’ with his trilogy ‘Childhood, Boyhood and Youth’.

The title page of an issue of ‘Sovremennik’, printed after the death of Alexander Pushkin

Avdotya Panayeva

Krajewski House, Liteiny Prospect, St. Petersburg, which housed the editorial board of the journal “Notes of the Fatherland” and Nekrasov’s apartment.

‘Nekrasov and Panayev visiting sick Belinsky’ by A. Naumov

POEMS OF NIKOLAI NEKRASOV

Translated by Juliet M. Soskice

CONTENTS

PART I. RUSSIAN WOMEN (GRANDMOTHERS’ MEMOIRS)

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE CONCERNING RUSSIAN WOMEN

PRINCESS TROUBETZKOY (1826)

PRINCESS VOLKHONSKAYA (1826-7)

PART II. THE PEDLARS, ETC.

THE PEDLARS

PEASANT CHILDREN

POEMS DEDICATED TO RUSSIAN CHILDREN

UNCLE JAKE

THE NIGHTINGALES

GRANDAD MARZÁY AND THE HARES

GENERAL TOPTIGGIN

THE BEES

RED-NOSE FROST

VLASS

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

ON THE ROAD

THE MOTHER

THE RAILWAY

THE SVAT AND THE BRIDEGROOM

Portrait of Nikolay Nekrasov by Nikolay Gay, the Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia

PART I. RUSSIAN WOMEN (GRANDMOTHERS’ MEMOIRS)

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE CONCERNING RUSSIAN WOMEN

DURING the reign of Alexander I (1801-25), a liberal movement sprang up in Russia, the members of which were recruited principally from the ranks of military commanders, of the most aristocratic Russian families, who had distinguished themselves in the war against Napoleon, and had been influenced by liberal ideas during the prolonged stay in France of the victorious Russian armies. The sudden death of Alexander I, who was childless, and his brother Konstantin’s renunciation of his rights to the throne, after the troops and the high bureaucracy had already sworn allegiance to him, created great confusion in St. Petersburg. The leaders of the liberal movement seized this occasion to attempt a rising, with the object of obtaining a constitution from the new Tsar, Nicholas I. They gathered in a public square of St. Petersburg on the 14th December 1825, with the troops under their command fully armed. After a famous general, Miloradovitch, had been shot by the mutineers, the Tsar, Nicholas I, ordered an attack upon them by artillery. Hundreds were killed or wounded, and the rest dispersed. A great number of officers, including generals and colonels, were arrested, and confined to the fortress of SS. Peter and Paul. Five of the arrested were executed on the 24th July 1826, and scores of others were exiled. This event became famous in Russian history as the Decembrist Revolution. Prince Troubetzkoy and Prince Volkhonsky were sent to the Siberian mines, and it was the heroic action of their wives in following them to Siberia that inspired Nekrasov to write the poem, one of his most famous — Russian Women.

PRINCESS TROUBETZKOY (1826)

I

OF wondrous build, so light, so strong,The little carriage speeds along.The Father-Count since it was made,Has more than once its worth essayed.Six horses draw it in a team,Within its depths a lantern’s gleam.The Count has piled the cushions round,And spread the bearskin on the ground;The sacred image, with a prayer,Has fastened in the corner there.And... sobbed.... His daughter, the Princess,Must voyage into the wilderness.

‘Our hearts we tear apart, ’tis true,But tell me, Father dear,What else would’st thou have had me do?Would grief avail, or fear?The one who could have helped I trowMust be.... Oh, Father, pray,Forgive and bless thy daughter now,To cheer her lonely way!‘God knows if we shall meet again!My hopes are faint. But yet,Thy last behest, thy care, thy pain,I never shall forget.Thy memory I’ll cherish deep,Whate’er my fate may be;’Tis hard, although I do not weep,To tear myself from thee.

‘But other duties summon me,More sacred, more severe,Forgive me, love, I beg of thee,Shed not that fruitless tear!My future fraught with woe I feel,My path lies drear and wild,My breast I have encased in steel,Be proud.... I am thy child!

‘My birth-place dear unto my breast,Forgive me too! Oh, why,Ill-fated town, wert thou the nestOf all these ills?... Good-bye!Thou wilt not dazzle those who’ve beenTo London or to Rome,Who Venice, Paris may have seen;To me — thou wert my home.

‘My youth with many joyous thrillsWas spent within thy wallsI loved the sledging on thy hills,Thy festivals, thy balls,The Neva’s tuneful rippling courseOn evenings still and fair,The hero mounted on his horseIn the adjacent square.

‘I can’t forget.... In times to comeOur story will be told....’(Several lines have here been omitted by the censor.) (Trans.)Of wondrous build, so firm, so fast,The carriage through the town has passed.

Within it sits the young princess,Her face is pale and black her dress.

Her father’s secretary (deckedWith orders to inspire respect)With servants gallops on before.The whistling lash, the coachman’s roar

‘Make way!’ has swept the roadway clear.The capital is in the rear....

But far ahead the journey lies,Forbidding are the wintry skies.

As every posting-station nears,The traveller herself appears:

‘ Fresh horses. Quickly!’ she enjoinsAnd freely scatters golden coins.But twenty days of arduous strainHave scarcely brought them to Tiumeyn.

For ten days more they make their wayAt topmost speed: ‘ Here’s Yenissey!’

The secretary says at last,‘ The Tsar himself rides not so fast!’

Drive on! Her soul is full of grief,The road has grown more wild,But soothing dreams have brought relief:She sees as when a childThe wealth, the brilliancy, the pride,The house on Neva’s shores,The stairways, carpeted and wide,The lions before the door.The rooms are decked with faultless choice,And vivid light abounds,There is a children’s ball. Rejoice!Already music sounds.With ribbons rosy-red they twineHer plaits of yellow hair,And flowers and silks and velvets fineThey bring, of beauty rare.Her father comes. ‘Oh — ho!’ he cries,The red-cheeked, grey-haired man,‘They’ll none of them believe their eyes,Why, what a sarafan!’Her happiness is boundless quite,The room about her whirls,Before her is a flower-bed bright,Of children’s heads and curls.The children are like flowers, so fine,The old are finer still,And feathers, ribbons, orders shine.The merry dancers fillThe air with sound of tapping heels;The children spring about,A thoughtless gaiety each feels;A gleeful childish shoutResounds. And then... the vision ends,Another ball appears,A handsome man above her bends,His whisper low she hears....And follows then ball after ball,She’s now their hostess, queen,The fashionable world are allAt her receptions seen,And great grandees of honours full....‘Depressed, my husband? Why?’‘This worldly life is bad and dull,’‘Come, darling, let us fly!’...

With the beloved afar she goes,And soon before her eyesA wondrous country dawns and grows,And — Rome eternal lies.What joy would in remembrance beOf happy days bereft,When from all bondage breaking free,The fatherland we left;Escaping from the Northern blightThe radiant South to gain,Where none would be to claim the rightOur actions to restrain.With our companion dear we mayStroll leisurely and free,An ancient temple view to-day,Tomorrow choose to seeA palace, ruin, works of art....How pleasant at the endOur new sensations to impartTo the beloved friend!

Then, under beauty’s potent sway,By sober thoughts possessed,About the Vatican we strayDespondent and oppressed,Wrapped in the shadows of the past,Far from the world of men....Quite dazzled were we, and aghastFor one brief moment, whenEmerging from the VaticanInto the brilliant dayWe heard the song of artisan.The asses strident bray,The street-sellers on left and rightMaintained their busy cry:‘See, tasty shell-fish, coral bright,Iced water! Come, who’ll buy?’The merry rabble eating sat,Or danced, and fought, and played.A bent old woman combed the plaitOf a young Roman maid:’Twas black as tar.... What stifling heatUnbearable the din!Where can one peace and shadow meet?A church! Come, let’s go in!

The hubbub dies away in here,’Tis cool and tranquil too,The light is dim, and thoughts austereOppress the soul anew.On saints and angels overheadThe eye uplifted falls,On jasper, porphyry, we tread,Of marble are the walls.

How sweet the murmur of the sea,As peacefully we sitBeside it! Thoughts serene and freeAcross our fancy flit.

To climb the mountain path we riseBetimes, before the dawn:What morning beauties feast the eyes!The breath is lightly drawn.But hotter grows the southern day,No single dew-drop shinesUpon the valleys... come awayBeneath those spreading pines.

The princess speeding through the darkReviews those joys again,Upon her soul they’ve left a mark,Forever to remain.Such days can never more befall,Their happiness is fled,As useless were it to recallThe tears for them she shed.

The joyful visions lasted not;Her musings now depictA country by the Lord forgot:A master harsh and strict,The slaves a crushed and toiling band.How pitiable they!How used the master to command,The servants to obey!In meadows and in fields well-knownShe sees their beggared ranks,She hears the bargemens’ husky groanAlong the Volga banks.Her youthful spirit horrified,She neither sleeps nor eats,And, turning breathless to her guide:‘Pray, tell me,’ she entreats,‘Where one bright spot this blackness saves,Is all this land the same?’‘It is the realm of famished slaves....’Abrupt the answer came.

She wakes... and lo, the dream seems true:‘Stop! Stop!’ Her ear she strains,Grim sounds out of the silence grew,The mournful clank of chains:A party into exile goes.With anguish in her breastSome coins into their midst she throws,‘Our thanks! Thy path be blest!’For long their faces are beforeHer eyes. In truth it seemsShe can’t forget them, and no moreCan lose herself in dreams.Another party must have creptAlong that snowy waste;The blizzards have their traces sweptAway. Oh, driver, haste!

The further East the more severeThe frost has hourly grown,Three hundred versts again.... What’s here?A wretched little town!But even that is good to see:A row of houses dark,But where can all the people be?Not e’en a watch-dog’s bark.In such a frost at home folks stay,Drink tea to pass the time.A soldier comes. A loaded sleigh,A clock begins to chime.The windows frozen hard.... in oneA light is seen to gleam.A church.... The prison further on....The driver o’er his teamHas cracked his whip.... And now the townHas vanished. On the rightThe river and the mountains frown,The forest, black as night,Lies on the left.

          Her tortured brainBy morning is not freed.Her heart is wracked. Dazed thoughts againRush past with painful speed.And now her friends she dimly sees,Now prison’s gaping jaws,Now, something stranger far than these;(God only knows the cause!)It seems the starry skies o’er-head,Are paper thickly strewn,With sand — and there’s a circle redOf sealing-wax — the moon!The mountains vanish. She can seeA plain on either hand,Entirely dead. No living treeUpon its bosom stands....‘The Tundra, look!’ the driver says(A native Buriat he).

The princess sadly casts her gaze,Around.... ‘ Alas,’ thinks she,That men should by their greed be led,So far for gold to bid,’It lies along the river’s bed,Beneath the swamps ’tis hid.The river-toil the seeker’s curse,The bogs in summer heat,But oh — the mines, the mines are worse,Deep down beneath our feetNo ray can pierce that stifling dark,No sound can bring relief,Accursed land! Why did YermakReveal thee to our grief?

The night has fallen now, again,The moon is up once more,The princess cannot sleep, her brainIs working as before.She sleeps.... and of a tower she dreams,She stands upon its height,A well-known town before her teemsWith life; a busy sight!A crowd is making for the square,It seems a countless throng,Officials, merchants, popes are there,All hurrying along.With velvet, silks, and peasants’ coats,The picture is alive.One regiment is there, she notes,And others soon arrive — A thousand soldiers turning outAnd more. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ they shout,They’re waiting, it is seen....

The people yawn, the people yell,Yet scarce a hundred there could tellWhat all this stir may mean.But one in his moustaches grinsAnd peers with cunning glance,Untroubled he by stormy dins:A barber, come from France.New regiments post-haste arrive:‘Surrender!’ They will not.But straight rebellious answer give,With bayonet and shot.

A general, the gallant man,Advanced: to threaten them began.Him from his horse they threw.Another to their lines drew near:‘We promise pardon! Do not fear!’He cried. They killed him too.

And next the MetropolitanHimself, with Cross on high,Appears, to calm them if he can:They listen to his cry,‘Repent, my children, on your knees!’But answer to his face,‘Begone, old man! Pray as you please,But this is not your place.’

’Tis now the cannon’s turn to try:‘First! Shoot!’ resounds the fatal cry.

Then darkens the princess’s sight,She falls unconscious from her height.A corridor she follows round,At every step a guard,’Tis long and damp, deep underground,Each door securely barred.Without — the sound of waves that seemTo lap against the walls,Within — the lantern’s misty gleamOn polished rifles falls.A sound of far-off footsteps dies,The long-drawn echo mocks.A sentry calls, and there ariseThe mingled chimes of clocks.An ‘Invalid’ with whiskers greyIs set with keys to goBefore her. ‘Come, sad one, this way,He whispers to her low,‘Shalt see him!’ adds the kind old man,‘He lives, and is unharmed.’She trusts the good custodian,And follows unalarmed.For long they go.... A creaking doorIs opened wide — and see,A living corpse now stands beforeHer eyes!... Alas. ’Tis he.Upon his heart in trembling hasteShe asks, ‘What must I do?

I’ll courage find, no moment waste,Shall I for mercy sue?’‘Why dost thou speak so low, my ownThy meaning is not clear,Only the sentry’s strident tone,And chiming clocks I hear.‘Oh, why between us stands a third? ‘‘That question is too naïve.’The guard’s commanding voice is heard:‘It’s time to go. Take leave.’

The princess glances round. Her eyesDistraught with terror seem,Her heart within her frozen lies:Not all was here a dream.The moon was sailing overhead,’Twas dull, and threw no ray,To left the gloomy forest spread,To right the Yenissey.How dark! No living soul they meet,The driver slumbers on his seat,In forest depths as they go byA wolf sets up a famished cry.The wind’s abroad, with gust and moan,Across the river springs,A native in a tongue unknownNear by them faintly sings.The song of unfamiliar sound,Of wistful pathos full,Tore in the listener’s heart a woundLike shriek of storm-blown gull.She shook with cold. The frost that nightUnbearable had grown,She could no longer with it fight,Her strength was nearly gone.By doubt her anguish was increased:Would she survive or no?Long time the driver’s song had ceased,The horses’ pace was slow,The other sledge unseen ahead,‘Hey, driver! Dost thou sleep?Why dost not answer? Art thou dead?’

‘Fear not. Good watch I keep.’

They fly... and through the frozen paneNow nothing can be seen,Her lids are drooping once againHer struggle vain has been:A tortured woman, weak and ill,It is not hard to sway,And like a sorcerer, at willSleep carries her awayTo that dear land of early daysThat she has loved so long,To sunshine’s warm and brilliant raysAnd waves’ melodious song.It greets her now as in her youthWhere’er she turns her eyes,‘This is the South! This is the South!’It rapturously cries.No cloud is in the heavens blueThe plains with flowers are brightAnd bathed in sunshine... every viewIn valley or on heightFlush of triumphant beauty bears,Sea, sun and flowers rejoice:‘It is the South!’ their choir declaresIn rich harmonious voice.Through valleys twixt the sapphire seaAnd curving mountain chainAt topmost speed away flies sheWith her heart’s choice again.Through flowering gardens lies their road,Neath perfume-breathing trees,On every branch a sumptuous loadOf ruddy fruit she sees.Through branches dark a glimpse she hailsOf azure sea and skyUpon the waves the flash of sailsAs ships go sailing by.The mountains in the distance seenIn pearly mists retire,What wondrous tints! Where late has beenThe ruby’s glowing fireThe topaz hangs and sparkles brightUpon the ridges pure and white....A loaded mule goes by, entwinedWith bells and flowery strands,A woman with a wreath behind,A basket in her hands:‘God send you many happy hours! ‘She hails the young princess,And laughing, casts at them some flowers,This is the South, ah, yes....The land of classic maidens dark,Where roses never die....Why, there’s some music sounding, hark!A song begins near by:

‘The land of flowers, the land of sun!’(Thus sounds the dream-refrain)‘I am with thee, my dearest one,And thou art free again!........

II

Two months or nearly lasts their flight,And they have ridden day and night,

The carriage is both swift and strong,The road, though, is so bad, so long.

The secretary’s strength gave wayBefore Irkutsk, and sick he lay.

They stopped. Two precious days were goneThe princess started out alone.

The governor of Irkutsk was thereTo meet her. Tall he stood,As dry as withered bones, and spare,Straight as a stick of wood.His uniform, with orders brightBeneath his furs, was clear,His hat with cock-feathers bedight,A gallant brigadier!

He’s swearing at the driver... nowLeaps to the carriage side,And, for the princess, with a bowThe door he opens wide....

The Princess(entering the posting-station)

Fresh horses for Nerchinsk, I pray!Governor(with dignity)

To meet you.... I am here.Princess

Command fresh horses, please, straightway.Governor

You are too rash, I fear:The road is bad, and very long,Pray rest an hour or so.Princess

I thank you, sir, but I am strong,And have not far to go.Governor

Eight hundred versts, princess, there areBefore you can arrive.The roads are worse than this, by far:Unsafe it is to drive.A word I’m bound to say to youIn honour... understandThe count, your father, well I knew:I served in his commandFor seven years.... A man most rareIn heart as well as brain,The gratitude to him I bearWill, all my life, remain.To serve his daughter now, indeedIs my most earnest thought.Princess

But there is nothing that I need.(Opening the door of the station)Have they my carriage brought?Governor

For my permission they must wait,And that has been deferred.Princess

And why, pray, do you hesitate?Governor

A hindrance has occurred:A paper has been brought to meBy post.Princess

With what behest?That I sent home again should be?Governor

Ah, that, indeed were best.Princess

But who would dare to stay my path,My progress to impede?Incurring thus my father’s wrath?An insult ‘twere indeed.Governor

Excuse me, that I did not say;But what will be the end. — Princess

Why must we fritter time away?Bid them my carriage send.Governor

I cannot give the order yet.And here.... I’m Tsar. I’ve toldYou once, Princess, I can’t forgetI knew the count of did.And mark — although he let you goThrough love, to spare you pain,Your act will mean his death, I know,Turn back. Go home again.Princess

No. That which has decided beenI swear to carry through.’Twould be an idle thing, I ween,To strive to paint for youMy love for Father, his for me,But other duties moreCompelling urge me. Set me free,Tormentor, I implore.Governor

Forgive me. I myself confessDelay is hard to bear,But I would have you know, Princess,What fate awaits you there.The lands down here poor harvest bring,But there — no life is seen,A shorter spell than ours their spring,Their winters thrice as keen.Eight months of arctic cold they stand,What will that mean for you?Few men there are without a brand,And souls are branded too.Of vagabonds consist the free,Like dogs they nose and creep:A hell the prison-house must be,The mines are dark and deep.Your husband not one hour may hopeAlone with you to pass,In common barracks you will mope,Your food dry bread and kwass.Five thousand convicts foul that spaceAll brutalized by fate,Fierce fighting every night takes place,With murder, violence, hate,Their judgement’s short and merciless.No tale more tragic rings,And how will you endure, Princess,To live among such things?Not one will seek to spare you shameThrough all that grievous time,Your husband — he has been to blame,But you — what was your crime?Princess

A life of deep and boundless woeMy husband’s fate will be,And I do not desire to knowMore happiness than he.Governor

But you, Princess, will not surviveConditions so severe,You must, indeed my wish forgiveTo turn you back from here.Ah! Can you in a land existWhere cold is so extreme,That breaths in clouds of frozen mistFrom out mens’ nostrils stream?A land where frost and darkness reign,Where, in each short, hot spellThe boggy lands that damp remainA poisonous steam expel?A frightful land, where beasts in fearFrom out the forest flyWhen three months, black as night, drawOver the earth to lie.Princess

But others with that fate have met.I shall grow reconciled.Governor

They have. But do you, then, forgetYour youth, your youth?... you child.The mother bathes with melted snowHer new-born infant weak,The babe as lullaby will knowThe tempest’s savage shriek,By hungry beasts be waked againThat round the hovel yell,Or blizzard dashing at the paneLike spirits loosed from hell.From forests dense and desert streamsThe native wrests his food,His stubborn fight with nature seemsTo weld his hardihood.But you — Princess

Come, death. I do not mind.No weak regrets have I.My husband only let me findThat near him I may die!Governor

Yes, die you will. But first of allWhat torment will you causeTo him who’s lost beyond recall?For his sake you should pause.Oh, think again! Once more I ask — Alone, less cruel his fate:Returning from his crushing taskHe gains the prison gate,Upon his wooden plank he lies,Behind the prison bar,And, when kind sleep has closed his eyesThe captive is — a Tsar.In dreams he flies to home, to friends,You, too, he will behold,Next day into the mine descendsWith heart serene and bold.If you are there he will no moreSuch comfort find, Princess,But his existence will deploreAs cause of your distress.Princess

Ah! These considerations, pray,For those who need them keep.Torment me cruelly as you may,You will not make me weep.Have I not separation borneFrom home, from father, too,Because within my soul I’ve swornMy duty thus to do?Then need you fear that I shall laveHis chains with tears? Not so.His pride, his pride, I mean to save,And strength on him bestow.Governor

Ah, not for long such dreams survive.You will not always grieve:Your wish for life will still revive,My words you may believe.Here, need, distress of every sort,And shame you must expect.At home — the brilliant life at court,And freedom, and respect.Perhaps... who knows... if God approve(By law you gain release)Another you may grow to love.Princess

Ah, God! Ah, hold your peace!Governor

Sincere opinions I’ve expressed:Let thoughts of home entice.Princess

I thank you for your interest,And excellent advice.

Nay, in that forest stripped and deadI will not be ensnared,Where mighty oaks once towered and spreadNow stumps alone are spared.Go back? A barren life to spendMid empty deeds and lies?It is no place, it holds no friendFor one with opened eyes.

Forgetting him whose love was true?Forgiving all — go back?Governor

My child, but did he think of you?It seems not so, alack!For whom this love and this despair.Princess

I pray you, General, cease!Governor

Indeed, if less illustrious wereYour house I’d hold my peace.It seems on hastening you are setWithout sufficient thought.Perhaps your pride might save you yet:Think what to him you brought:Your wealth, your brain, your noble race,Your soul of simple trust.Yet thoughts of you, your ruin, disgraceAway from him he thrustTo empty dreams he owes his fall.Well, him one could not save.But you? Why should you cling and crawlLike miserable slave?Princess

A woman and a wife you see,No slave as you portray.However hard my fate may beMy heart will not give way.Ah, if he had my faith betrayed,Another woman loved,My pride would then have brought me aid,No slave I should have proved.But well I know our country’s woesMy only rivals were,And if again the need aroseNo grudge to them I’d bear.The princess finished speaking, andThe old man frowned in thoughtThe princess urged. ‘Pray, now commandMy carriage to be brought.’The General gave no reply,His gaze was downward bent,And then he uttered musingly,‘To-morrow’. And he went.Governor

Next day to her again he cameTo plead with her began,But his reception was the same,The venerable man!When all his efforts proved but wasteAnd strength he had no more,He silently and gravely pacedFrom end to end the floor.At length he said: ‘Well, be it so,If you to perish choose,But, thus persisting, you must knowAll privilege you lose.’Princess

‘What have I still to lose that’s mine?’Governor

‘Continuing this flightYou must renunciation signFrom every worldly right.’He silent waited the effectOf this arresting thought,He seemed a conquest to expect,But gained not what he sought,‘Old man, old man, your hair is grey,Yet like a babe you prate,What, do our rights impress you, pray?Are they not sorry state?I for their loss shall not repine,Pray take them — all I have.Where is the paper? Let me sign!Then horses, quick, I crave!’Governor

‘ You’ll sign it? Oh, my God, but thinkA beggar you’ll become!How can your pride so let you sink?One of the common scum!You must relinquish everythingBestowed by father’s care,All that inheritance would bringIn future to your share,All rights of property reject,All claim to noble state,Oh, I beseech you to reflectBefore it is too late.’

He went, and came not back that day,And when the light grew dim,Exhausted, tortured by delay,The princess went to him.Vainly to see him did she try,Was told that he was ill,Then passed five days of agonyBut he was ailing still.Upon the sixth day he returned,In tones abrupt and dryHe said, ‘I’m sorry. I have learnedHenceforth no right have ITo give you horses. You will goOn foot, with convict train.’Princess

Oh, God! But that will mean, I know,Some months’ delay again!Governor

You may arrive in spring, perchance,Unless you die before:In chains the party can advanceFour versts an hour, — no more.At mid-day first a halt they call,At dusk: ‘Prepare for sleep!’If heavy snow should chance to fallYou dig yourselves in, deep.Yes, obstacles on every handArise: some fall, too weak...Princess

All this I do not understand,Pray you, more plainly speak...Governor

Well, criminals in chains we sendTo exile in that way,With Cossack guards to superintend,Armed to the teeth are they.The convicts restless are... have hopesOf flight... Attempts are made,So they are tightly bound with ropesTogether... thus conveyed.A fearful journey! When we sendFive hundred I have heardThat when they reach the journey’s endThere won’t remain a third,When winter is severe as nowThey drop like flies, I know,Turn back! Forget your senseless vow,Princess, how can you go?Princess

I tell you ’tis the fate I choose.Why, tyrant should you thenCompel me thus a week to lose?How pitiless are men!To hide the truth why was there need?How far I now might be!Pray form the party with all speed.I’ll walk. ’Tis nought to me.

‘ Not so. By Heaven you shall ride!’With sudden force the old man cried,His hand before his eyes.‘My God, how brutal I have been!’Beneath his hand a tear is seen,On whisker grey it lies.‘Forgive me! Though I made you grieveMyself I suffered more.But strict commands did I receiveAll obstacles beforeYour feet to place. Did I obey?I did what man could do,My conscience is in every wayAt rest, God knows it’s true.The prison life, the convict fare,Did I to you display,The shame, the labour, the despair,The torments on the way.All this I tried to make you see,You met it with contempt.Although my head should forfeit beI will no more attemptTo tyrannize, or to dissuade:In three days’ time, I swear,Your journey shall be safely made.[Opening the door he shouts)Bring horses! Do you hear?’

PRINCESS VOLKHONSKAYA (1826-7)

I

MY grandchildren, truly, of fancies are full:To-day they came in from their walkAnd cried: ‘Little Grandmother, we are so dull,Oh, don’t you remember our talkThat morning when we were kept in by the rain?You told us a tale. It was fine!Dear Granny, please tell us a story again!’My mood did not that way incline.I drove them away: ‘You are foolish as yet,My tales would soon cease to delight you,But when a true knowledge of life you will getWhole volumes of tales I will write you.I’ve told you as much as ’tis meet you should know.So now then, be off, all together,Away to the meadows and fields you must go,Make use of this fine summer weather.’Fulfilling this promise I’ll write, till at lastMy life for the children I’ve painted,Preserving them pictures of those in the pastWith whom I was closely acquainted.I’ll leave them this album, these flowers from the graveOf Zina, my sister, so true,This boxful of butterflies, too, they shall have,These plants from Chita, and this viewRevealing that country forbidding and stern....This bracelet of iron I’ll bequeath them, they’ll learnTo reverence it beyond measure:Their grandfather made it in cruel days of yore,He fashioned it out of the chains that he woreTo give to his wife as a treasure.

Near Kiev, dear children, I first saw the light,The country was pleasant and healthy.Perfection I was in my family’s sight,Our race was both ancient and wealthy.But highest of all in my father’s esteemWas war — deeds audacious and striking.His fatherland always came first it would seem,For peace and repose he’d no liking.The rank, at nineteen, of commander he gainedBy courage and daring surprising,Renown and the laurels of conquest attainedRanked high, in the world’s way of prizing.The Persian and Swedish wars led to his fame,And high his compatriots placed them,The great year of ‘ twelve ‘ then amazingly came,In glory surpassed and effaced them.Perpetual battle henceforward his life,We followed the troops, ever fearing,Some months not a day would be passed without strife,And dread lest his death might be nearing.Where danger was greatest our hero was found,By fevered unrest he seemed haunted,At Leipsic he fell with a breast bullet-wound,Next day saw him back, nothing daunted.In writings ’tis said when is mentioned his nameThat honour to him we shall renderSo long as our fatherland lives, and acclaimOur Russia’s intrepid defender.The poets have covered my father with praiseAnd rendered immortal his glory,Jukhovsky has hailed him in rapturous laysWhen singing our champions’ story.He speaks of my father’s great valour and skillNeath Dashkova, genius showing,His daring, his sacrifice, resolute will,In verses impassioned and glowing.My father’s deep knowledge of war was displayedBy conquests in numbers astounding,Through masterly skill, not alone, it was said,Through courage and vigour abounding.In warfare absorbed, he did not take much partIn family trifles — they bored him.He sometimes was stern. From the depth of her heartMy mother revered and adored him.My father was deeply attached to her too.We young his celebrity treasured.Campaigns at an end he came home and he grewWith years more resigned and more leisured.We lived in a great country house near the townWe children were taught and attendedBy English instructors. All things I was shownFor wealthy young ladies commended.I ran to the garden when freed, to rejoice,I loved it when summer attired it,I sang all day long. People said that my voiceWas good, and my father admired it.His memoirs completed attention he gaveTo papers and journals, my father,And banquets he held, at which generals graveAs grey as himself used to gather.Then endless discussions began, straightaway,We young people danced, and how heartyOur mirth and our laughter. And I — shall I say?Was always the queen of the party.My languorous eyes held a glow of deep blue,My cheeks by rich colour were graced,My plait, thick and black, had a sheen on it too,Tall figure and pliable waist,The gait of a queen — well, the beaux of that day,Hussars and uhlans stationed round,Were all at my feet, but I really must sayNo joy in their worship I found.My father was secretly making a plan:“Tis time you were wed’ he said gravely,‘ The bridegroom is waiting, a suitable man,At Leipsic he fought very bravely.He’s loved by our Father the Tsar as are few,A general now he has made him,A mighty fine fellow... though older than you — Volkhonsky... attention you paid himOne day on parade... He was here at a ball...You two in the park went astraying...’‘Ah, yes... I remember... A general tall...’‘That’s him,’ he replied, and so sayingHe laughed. I was blushing. ‘ But, Father,’ I criedSo little he spoke to me, truly,’‘Well, you will be happy with him’ he replied...I dared not oppose him unduly,And so it was settled. Two weeks from that dayWe stood ‘neath the wedding-crown sainted,And little I knew of my bridegroom, Sergéy,Was little with husband acquainted:So short was the time neath one roof that we spent,So brief were our meetings together,His regiment scattered, to outposts were sent,And all through the harsh winter weatherSergéy to inspect them incessantly drove.Then I in the summer was ailing,My doctor said I to Odessa should moveFor sea baths a tonic unfailing.That winter Sergéy came a few days to pass,Then I stayed a week as a guestWith him at head-quarters. Misfortune, alas,Beset us. I’d sunk once to restWhen suddenly close to me whispered Sergéy,(It must have been just before morning):‘Get up! Find my keys for me. Do not delay,Set light to the fire.’ At the warningI sprang to my feet. He was pale and distraught,The fire then I hastily lighted.Sergéy from his boxes some documents brought,To burn in the stove. They ignited.On some ere they perished his glance rested brief,But others he burnt without reading,I tremblingly helped him to thrust in each leaf,The flames were rapaciously feeding...And when all was finished he said, ‘Let us go,’My hair he was gently caressing,Our things were all packed in a moment or so,At daybreak we left, not addressingOne word to a soul. For three days we rode fast,Sergéy seemed dejected and worried,My father’s estate we arrived at, and lastHe kissed me. Away then he hurried.

II

HE’D gone! Oh, what had his anxiety meant?That night? The departure next morning?And why not a word to his wife e’er he went?Some fearful events must be dawning!For long not a moment’s repose did I know,My soul by suspense was afflicted:Again I’m alone! Oh, why, why did he go?My parents to calm me predictedThat all would be well. That his hurry aroseThrough some unforeseen expedition;‘Our Father the Tsar may have sent him, who knows?Abroad, with some secret commission.Don’t cry. In your childhood you’d reason to learnThat women who fighting-men marryLive always uncertain. He soon will return,A pledge in your bosom you carryMore precious than gold. And remember, my own,Your strength you must harbour to greet him,The wife bade farewell to her husband alone,But she with her baby will greet him.’That radiant moment was never to come — My husband, alas, was not fatedTo dwell with his wife and first-born in the homeOf old by our fathers created.A terrible price for my child did I pay:For eight weeks without intermissionIn torture of soul and of body I lay.On nurse fell my first recognition:‘What news of my husband?’‘So far there is none.’‘A letter?’ No letter I gather,‘And where is my father?’‘He galloped to town.’‘My brother?’‘He followed your father.’‘No word from my husband — yet nothing be wrong?In Petersburg father and brother?I’ll hasten myself. ‘I have waited too long!’I cried in despair to my mother.And though she besought me to tarry againHer tears and her prayers I resisted,That sinister night had been haunting my brain,The doubt and alarm had persisted.But now I was sure: I saw clearly at lastThat fate some disaster had brought us,The spring had set in, and through floods rising fastWe crept with the speed of a tortoise.Half dead I arrived in the city one night,‘What news of Sergéy?’ I demanded.My father replied, ‘He was ordered to fight,He was to Moldavia commanded.’‘But has he not written? ‘ He frowned and went out,My brother despondent received me,The servants looked sad, and crept silent about...I knew that my father deceived me.Pretending that I was in need of repose,No friends to my room they admitted,A wall of complete isolation arose,No newspapers I was permitted.My husband, I knew, had relations close by,I wrote them my terror imparting,But weeks passed away — not a word in reply,I wept. My last strength was departing.

No feeling there is more tormenting to bearThan dread of a threat that is hidden.In spite of my promise to shed not a tear,Enlightenment still was forbidden.

Through love my dear father despair on me cast,Through pity he fostered and fed it...I learnt — oh, I learnt the whole story at last,Alas! in the sentence I read it:Sergéy had, it seemed, a conspirator been,With others had long contemplatedTo deal his poor country a blow unforeseen,The sentence denouncing him statedThat he — but no longer my eyes could I trust — My reason, I thought, was affected,That he? That Sergéy?... ’twas like sharp daggers thrust — Sergéy with dishonour connected?I read that dread sentence a hundred times o’er,Its meaning endeavoured to master,I ran to my father. Dear father, once moreHe calmed me in face of disaster.A stone as we talked from my heart fell away,At one thing alone I still wondered:Why never a word to his wife did he say?That too I forgave as I pondered:For I was still young. Could he secrets betray?And reason there was still another:He knew that our babe ‘neath my bosom then lay,He feared for his child and its mother.I thought to myself, although heavy the blow,In one thing I’ll not be resisted:Siberia’s fearful, yet people, I know,Have gone even there and existed.All night I lay burning and thinking how wellSergéy I would shelter from sorrow,At dawn into slumber refreshing I fellAnd woke with new strength on the morrow.Then quickly and fully my vigour returned.From friends and from sister now gleaningOne fact and another at last I discernedThe tragedy’s terrible meaning.‘Alas!’ said my sister, ‘in prison SergéyNow lies. Not a soul had permissionTo see him till now. But it seems, yesterdayHis father at last gained admission.Now you, it appears, have the right with theThough prisoners, once sentence pronouncedWere stripped of their crosses, in prison garb dressed,Their right to see friends was announced.’

My sister and I hurried straight to the fortWere first to the ‘Governor’ invitedAnd then with an elderly general’s escortWere led to a hall dimly lighted.‘Wait here please, Princess.We’ll be back in a trice.’Politely to us he inclinedAnd left. On the door I had fastened my eyes,Each minute an hour to my mind.His footsteps died faintly away by degrees,Behind them my thoughts followed seeking — I dreamt... some one carried a huge bunch of keys,

A rusty old door begins creaking,A window with bars in a miserable cell,The captive — a corpse he resembles...‘Your wife has arrived.’ The pale face I know wellGrows living. His whole body trembles...‘My wife!’ Down the corridor fast comes his stride,

He doubts what his jailer has told him,‘ You see! Here he is!’ the old General cried.My husband! At last I behold him...The storm has not passed o’er his head without trace,Deep lines on his forehead now cluster,And pale with the paleness of death is his face,His eyes have been robbed of their lustre.More evident now than of old could be seenTheir quiet, habitual sadness.They fell on my face with a glance brief and keen,Then shone of a sudden with gladness.It seemed that they searched to the depths of my heart,And I on his bosom fell crying,He clasped me, and hurriedly whispered apart,‘Remember, love, strangers are spying.’He said that for him it was useful and goodTo learn resignation; and told meThat life in the prison was easily stood,Spoke comforting words to uphold me.The jailer paced near us with regular tread,His presence deprived us of ease,Sergéy to his prison garb pointed and said,‘Admire my new clothes, Masha, please.’‘Reflect and forgive me,’ he whispered in haste,And tears in his eyes I saw gleaming,(The jailer just then very near to us paced)Sergéy hung his head down, and seemingTo jest, I cried loudly, ‘Indeed, who could tellThat you in such guise would receive me?’And hurriedly whispered, ‘ I understand well,My love is still greater, believe me!’‘What then? In the mines I can live very long.’(‘Until I no longer can bear it.’)‘Of course! Why despond?You are young, you are strong.’(‘That life shall be sweet. We will share it.’)‘So that is your spirit! my Masha,’ he said,His face was with happiness glowing,His handkerchief near to the window he laid,