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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 92 93 t 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.