ALEXANDER PUSHKIN THE QUEEN OE SPADES AND SELECTED WORKS

Translated from the Russian by Anthony Briggs

Pushkin Press LONDON The Queen of Spades [Pikovaya dama) CONTENTS originally published in Russian in 1834

The Stationmaster {Stanisionnyy smotritel’) originally published in Introduction Russian in The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin {Povestipokoynogo Ivana Petrovicha Belkina) in 1830 The Queen of Spades The Stationmaster All English language translations in this volume Extract from the Blank-Verse © A.D.P. Briggs, 2012 Tragedy Boris Godunov This edition first published in 2012 by Mozart and Salieri Pushkin Press The Bronze Horseman 71-75 Shelton Street Tsar Nikita and His Forty Daughters . London WC2H9JQ, Extract from Tevgeny Onegin The Prophet ISBN 978 1 908968 03 6 To Anna Kern All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be Winter Evening reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any The Upas Tree form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, Man Found Drowned recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing ‘Winter. What Shall We Do?’ from Pushkin Press ‘When I Stroll Down a Busy Street’ ‘Oh, I Have Loved You’ Frontispiece: Portrait of Alexander Pushkin ‘No, Not for Me the Stormiest by Vasili Andreevich Tropinin, © State Russian Museum, Pleasures of the Senses’ St Petersburg/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library ‘When I Reach Over to Enfold You’ Set in 10 on 13 Monotype Baskerville ‘The Time Has Gome, Dear Friend’ by Tetragon, London Autumn (A Fragment) and printed in Great Britain on Munken Premium White 90 gsm Elegy by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall Remembrance ‘I Have My Monument’ www.pushkinpress.com Ignore them, please. Keep playing, move on quickly To fill my spirit overfull with sounds... MOZART. If only everyone could feel the power Of harmony, like you. But no. The world THE BRONZE HORSEMAN Could not exist if that were so. Nobody Would bother with the squalid cares of life. And all would wallow lavishly in art. We chosen men are few, we happy idlers Who disregard base functions of the day. Foreword We priests of nothing but the beautiful... Is it not true?... The occurrence described in this story is based on real events. But I’m not feeling well... Details of the flood are taken from contemporary journals. A heavy pain inside... I’ll have a sleep... Anyone interested may consult the report by V.N. Berkh. I’ll say goodnight. SALIERI. Goodnight. Introducthn Alone Gazing across a watery waste. You’ll go to sleep, Mozart, for a long time... But is he right? He of the mighty visions faced Perhaps I’m not a genius. Maybe genius The farthest deeps. Vast in its scope. Is incompatible with evil. No! The river carried, as it raced. Take Michelangelo... Or was that story One miserable little boat. Dreamt up by hoi polloi? The Vatican The swampy banks were mossy green May not have been created by a killer! Wfith dark huts few and far between. The homes of lowly Finnish folk. The forests, through their misty screen. Where hidden sunbeams never broke. Murmured with noises.

89 And he pondered: Dark, decorating every isle. “We’ll scare the Swedes away. This place Green were the gardens which had grown. Shall see a city strongly founded, The capital, of younger life. Flung in our brazen neighbour’s face. Outshone the Moscow that had been. A window into Europe we As an ascendant ruler’s wife Shall cut by Nature’s own decree, Outshines the purpled, widowed queen. And build a soHd sea-shore station. Borne here across the unknown main. All vessels we shall entertain. 0 Peter’s work, I love you so! And freely spread our celebration.” 1 love your stateliness and strength. The Neva’s soft, majestic flow. The granite bordering her length. A century saw the city’s birth, Your iron railings’ hard design. A lovely wonder of the north. And through the thoughtfulness of night From darkest woods and swampy earth Your limpid twilight’s moonless shine. Magnificently rising forth. When in my room I stay to write Where Finnish fishermen before. Or sit, without a lamp, to read. Stepsons of Nature, all alone. The sleeping streets shine clear indeed. Stood sadly on the shallow shore Vast masses emptied of their people; And cast into the depths unknown Briglit, too, the Admiralty steeple. Their rotting nets—in this place now The darkness is denied possession Along the living banks see how Of this, the golden firmament. Huge, shapely buildings throng and rise. Dawn follows dawn in swift succession; Tower and palace: vessels race Night’s borrowed half-hour is soon spent. In fleets from earth’s remotest place I love your cruel winter, too. To quaysides rich with all supplies. The still air and the frosty shiver. The Neva now was clad in storie. Girls’ cheeks with more than rosy hue, New bridges crossed the water, while. The sledging down the Neva river.

90 91 The brilliance, noise and talk there is May Finland’s waters soon forget. At balls; the single fellow’s turn Nor with their futile rage upset To feast, when glasses foam and fizz. Tsar Peter’s everlasting sleep. And in the punch the blue flames burn. I love, in lively, warlike duty. A time of dread there was. We keep Cadets upon the Martian field. A memory of it not yet old... Foot soldiers, cavalry, revealed And of these times, my reader friend. In level and unchanging beauty. The story shall I now unfold The rippling, orderly array From sorry start to grievous end. Of banners torn, victorious ones. Their helmets, wrought in shining bronze. Shot through by bullets in the fray. I love you, capital of Mars, Part One When fortress cannons smoke and roar To welcome to the house of tsars On Petrograd the dark mists rose, A son, the northern queen’s gift, or November blew and autumn froze. To greet new victories in war The noisy Neva splashed ahead And raise triumphant Russian voices. And in her shapely confines heaved. Or when the Neva starts the motion As does a sick man, in his bed Of cracked blue ice towards the ocean Tossing and turning, unrelieved. And, with a sense of spring, rejoices. And in the midnight darkness rain Beat bitterly upon the pane. The keening tempest howled and squalled. O Peter’s town, like Russia, here After a visit homeward came Stand splendidly and firmly founded! A youth. Yevgeny was his name. Peace with the elements is near. Our present hero shall be called The elements which you confounded. By such a title, since its sound The wrath and chains of yesteryear Delights the ear: my pen has found

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Before a friendly air about it. From off the river, as it lifted. His surname? We can do without it, The Neva bridges had been shifted. Though years ago it might have been He and Parasha some few days In something of a bright position, Would walk in separated ways. And in the hands of Karamzin Yevgeny gave a heartfelt sigh. A great sound in our land s tradition. And set off dreaming like a poet: And yet the world and tongues of men Do not recall it now as then. “Marriage? Why should I never know it? Somewhere our hero is employed. Life would be hard, of course, but I, The great he chooses to avoid, With youth and health, am well prepared lives in Kolomna, never weeping To labour night and day, unspared. For ages lost or kinsfolk sleeping. And I shall find a way to build Yevgeny, then, arriving home. A humble shelter, plain to see. Took off his overcoat, undressed. Where all Parasha’s cares are stilled. Lay down, but couldn’t sleep or rest. And in a year or two, maybe. So widely did his wild thoughts roam. I’ll get a littie job and give What did he think about? That he Parasha care of where we live Was poor; that honest toil might see And also of the children: thus Him grow to be of good repute We shall live, and, hand in hand. And of the self-sufficient kind; Together till the grave we’ll stand. That God might further contribute Our grandchildren shall bury us...” To fill his pocket and his mind; That many a lucky man displays A lack of wit and lazy ways Thus did he dream that night, alone And yet lives easy and secure! In sadness. If the wind and rain That he had worked two years together. Would only ease their plaintive moan He also thought about the weather, And not attack the window pane Relendess still; by now, for sure. With such a fury...

94 95 Heavy-eyed, Petropolis was soon to be At last he slept. The stormy grey Waist-deep, like Triton, in the sea... Fades from the misty night outside, And thins before a pale new day... A siege! The wicked waters strike, A day of horror! Climbing through windows, burglar-like. AU that night The Neva faced both storm and sea. The stems of boats in full career Crushed by their wild stupidity. Smash panes. Now hawkers’ trays appear Until she could no longer fight... With covers soaked; beams, roofs go past From broken huts; cheap things amassed By poor, pale beggars, few by few; By morning crowds were teeming by Storm-shattered bridges; coffins, too. Along her banks to watch and wonder From steeping cemeteries exhumed. At waters splashing mountains high Swim down the streets!.. And foaming furiously asunder. The people fear But gales were blowing from the bay God’s wrath and sense his judgement near. To block the Neva; coming round. Their food, their shelter, all is doomed! She stormed and seethed, and in her way Where shall they turn? The islands, one by one, were drowned. In that dread year The weather raged with greater force. The glorious Tsar, now at his rest. The Neva, rising in her course, Ruled Russia still. Then out came he. A roaring cauldron, swirled and spat. Sad, stricken, on the balcony. Then, like a savage beast, leapt at “The Tsars,” he said, “may not contest The city... All that stood before God’s elements.” In deep remorse Recoiled and ran. The space around He sat and watched, with pensive air. Soon stood deserted. Underground, Disaster take its evil course. The cellars filled before the spate. A lake had formed in every square. Canals gushed up at every grate. With great, wide torrents rushing there

96 97 Down all the streets. The palace lay, Arising from the angry deep. The raging waters towered high. A sorry island now. The Tsar The tempest howled there, sweeping by Spoke out; and, hurrying away To thoroughfares both near and far. With wreckage. Lord! There by the bay, A stone’s throw (alas! no more) away His geperals went up and down In peril from the storming tide From the water’s edge, he seems to see A plain fence and a willow tree, To save the people, terrified And waiting in their homes to drown. A little house in poor repair. Parasha, whom he dreams of seeing. Lives with her widowed mother there... And at this time in Peter’s square .. .Or has he dreamt them into being? A great new corner-house stood, where. Is all life empty, merely worth Paw raised, each like a living cat. A dream where heaven mocks the earth? Above the elevated entry, A pair of lions stood on sentry. And he, as if he were enchanted. Astride one marble beast here sat. Arms folded and without his hat, As if the marble held him planted. Yevgeny, still and deathly white, Cannot climb down! At every quarter A wretched figure, filled with fright Lies an unbroken stretch of water. _^Not for his own sake. And although And with its back towards him, why. Above the Neva’s-stormy course, A wave rose hungrily below. Rearing implacably on high. Lapping the very shoes he wore. Though winds began to howl and blow. One arm outflung across the sky, And lashed his face with rain, and tore The Idol straddles his bronze horse. His hat away... he did not know. His eyes were brimming with despair. Fixed rigid on one place to keep A constant watch. Like mountains, there.

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Breathed heavily like some great horse Galloping from the battlefield. Part Two Yevgeny looks, a boat he spies. And runs up to this lucky prize. At length destruction was to pall Hailing the ferryman, and he. And then—the taste of fury cloying— Who ferries on without a care. The Neva stole away, enjoying Agrees for only a modest fare Her very insolence and gall, To row him through the fearsome sea. Indifferently letting fall With stormy wave on stormy wave Her loot behind. In this way, too, Long did the expert oar contend; A robber with his vicious crew Through them the crew, however brave, Bursts on a village, sacking, routing. Risked constantly a plunging grave Gutting, smashing, to screams and shouting, In such a craft, till... in the end Teeth-gritting clashes, frightened faces It reached the shore. And savage frenzy... Piled with loot He rushes through And fearing possible pursuit. A well-known street to well-known places. The weary vandal homeward chases Not recognizing what he faces. And strews his plunder down the street. Wretched before the awesome view. With everything in disarray And all torn down or swept away. The roadway, on the waves’ retreat. Some cottages stand all awry. Lies open. My Yevgeny races, Some are in ruins, others lie His spirits sinking, bittersweet Demolished by the waves. All round With fear and hope, till he draws near The scene is like a battleground, The torrent’s half-subdued career. With bodies strewn to left and right. But, filled with their victorious thrill. Yevgeny, failing in his mind. The waters seethed with evil still, Weak from his agonizing plight. As if a fire lay deep-concealed. Runs straight to where he is to find The Neva, foam-flecked in her course.

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The hidden news, known but to Fate, Down streets where freedom had returned As in a letter sealed up fast. Walked people coldly unconcerned. Down through the suburb quickly... wait. Their shelter of the night forsaken. Here is the bay, the house just past... Clerks left for work. Bold and unshaken. The huckster opened up again What’s this?... He stopped dead in his track. His cellar, pillaged by the flood. Retraced a step or two, came back. Aiming to make his losses good He stares... moves on... another stare... With profits made from other men. Shouldn’t the house be standing there? And boats were lifted from the yard. Here is the willow, but the gate... Already Count Khvostov, the bard Swept off . .. The house cannot be found! Beloved by heaven, immortal master. With darkest cares to contemplate. Was versifying the disaster He walks in circles, round and round. With which the Neva’s banks were scarred. Only to rend the air and rave. My poor Yevgeny, wretched figure... Then, beating on his brow, he gave Alas! His mind was so hard pressed It could not stand the awful rigour A sudden laugh. Night’s mist came down Of all these shocks. The wild unrest Of Neva and the tempest’s sound And settled on the trembling town. But late the people stayed awake. Rang in his ears. Silent, obsessed Gossiping, wondering what to make With dreadful thoughts, he roamed around. Some dream tormented his mind’s eye. Of that past day. The rays of morn Although a week, a month went by From storm clouds pallid now, and worn. They never saw him homeward-bound. On a peaceful capital shone through. His empty, cosy room was hired The troubles of the day before The day the landlord’s time expired. Had left no trace. A purple hue To some poor poet. His things neglected Held the evil hidden and ignored. Yevgeny never came to claim. The former order was restored. A stranger, by the world rejected.

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All day he wandered without aim, Yevgeny gave a start. Appalled Sleeping on quays; for food he found By horrors vividly recalled. Odd morsels on some window sill. He leapt up, set off roaming, then He wore the same poor clothing still, Quite suddenly he stopped again. AU torn and rotting. At his back And slowly looked around and cowered. Stone-throwing hooligans would play. His face distorted wild with fear. The coachman’s whip would often crack A mansion house above him towered, And lash him as he made his way, A great big house with columns. Here, A figure on the highroad, blind. Raising a paw, above the entry. Oblivious to all around. Lifelike, the lions stood on sentry. It seemed, and deafened by the sound And in the darkness, high indeed Of terrors ringing in his mind, Above the rock and railing, why. Thus dragging out his sorry span. One arm outflung across the sky. Akin to neither beast nor man. The Idol straddled his bronze steed. Not anything, not earthly stuff. Not lifeless spirit... Yevgeny shuddered. Horribly clear Once, he slept Down by the Neva dockside. Rough Hisjthoughts had grown. For now he knew This place the floods had sported through, Breathed out the wind, as summer crept Where grasping waves had crowded near, To autumn. Sombre billows leapt And foamed and moaned upon the docks All round, rebellious and grim. On velvet steps, like one who knocks Those lions, and the square, and Him, Towering high, unmoving. He, At judges’ doors to press his case. Whose bronze head crowned the darkness still. Ignored by them in every place. He woke, poor creature, to the dark Had founded by his fateful will And drizzle; a sad wind howled, and hark! This city by the very sea... The watchman’s cry out yonder might Fearsome in all the darkness now! Be an echo called across the night... What contemplation in that brow!

104 " 105 What strength and sinew in him hidden! And softly, slowly, his face was turning... And in that horse what fiery speed! And out across the empty square Where do you gallop, haughty steed? He runs; behind him, he would swear, Where will those falling hooves be ridden? A crashing roll of thunder moves. O mighty overlord of fate! Of ringing and resounding hooves With iron curb, on high, like this. Upon the quaking thoroughfare. Did you not raise on the abyss And, splendid in the pale moonlight. Our Russia to her rampant state? One arm flung out on high, full speed. Gomes the Bronze Horseman in his flight. Upon his crashing, clanging steed. This poor, demented creature here The poor mad creature! All that night. Went walking round the Idol’s base; No matter where his footsteps led. His wild eyes sought and found the face Still the Bronze Horseman in his flight Of him who ruled a hemisphere. Leapt on behind with heavy tread. He felt a tightness in his breast. Against the chilly railing pressed His brow. His misted eyes were staring. From that time on, when chance directed He felt a boiling in his blood, That he should walk the square again. A blazing in his heart. He stood Uneasiness would be reflected Before the proud colossus, glaring. Upon his face. Hurriedly, then, With gritted teeth and fingers crushed. A hand upon his heart he pressed Like one with evil powers filled; To still the torture in his breast. “You, and the miracles you build!” His tattered, shabby cap was doffed; He hissed, and shook, angrily flushed, Eyes worried, never raised aloft. “I’ll have you...” Then away he rushed He edged along. Headlong, all of a sudden discerning An islet stands The dreaded Tsar—or so he thought Close by the shore. Late at his trade. In a flash of mounting fury caught. Sometimes a fisherman, delayed.

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Gomes with his fishing net and lands To cook his frugal supper. Or Some office worker comes ashore Upon the island-waste, out rowing TSAR NIKITA AND HIS On Sunday. Not a single blade FORTY DAUGHTERS Of grass has grown there. Freely flowing, The floods washed up here, as they played, A mean old shack. There it survived, A black bush darkening the deep. Once there lived a tsar, Nikita— One day last spring a barge arrived No one’s life was ever sweeter. And took it off, a ruined heap. He was neither good nor bad; Deserted. Near the door they found Oh, what happy lands he had! My madman. As the Lord ordains. Duty’s path he duly trod. They gathered up his cold remains Eating, drinking, serving God. And there they laid them in the ground. Tsar Nikita’s wives aplenty 1833 Bore him daughters two times twenty; * Lovely, charming girls all forty, Angels all—not one was naughty— Forty darlings pure and sweet. Each with, oh, so lovely feet. Raven tresses of the choicest. Gorgeous eyes and gorgeous voices. Were they silly girls? Oh, no! Every one from top to toe Was a captivating creature. Perfect—but for one lost feature.

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