RAPSÓDICAS: setembro 2016

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todo o poema disponível em http://www.pushkiniana.org/index.php/vol11-newtranslations?showall=1

O texto citado por Eisenstein está no canto terceiro, a partir do v 179

{ Then Peter’s sonorous, inspired
Voice somehow rose above the din:
“To battle! God is with us!” Peter
Emerged, surrounded by a crowd
Of favorites, from his tent. His eyes
Ablaze, his face inspiring awe,
He quickly moves, magnificent,
Like bolts of lightning cast by God.
He’s going. Someone brings his horse.
His steed is ardent and resolved,
Atremble as his nostrils sense
The battle flames. Through martial dust
He flies, his eyes attentive, sly,
And proudly bears his mighty burden.}

Dedication

To you — but can the somber muse’s
Voice ever hope to touch your ear?
And could your modest soul perceive
The aspirations of my heart?
Or will a poet’s dedication,
As once upon a time his love,
Extend to you and lack reply,
To pass you by still unacknowledged?
But recognize, at least, those sounds
That were, at one time, dear to you;
And think, that on our day of parting,
Wherever fickle fate may lead me,
Your melancholy wilderness,
The last I’ll hear of your sweet voice,
Shall be my only treasured idol,
My soul’s one solitary love.

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks

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Canto the First
The rich and glorious Kochubey:[1]
His pastures stretched beyond one’s sight;
The herds of all his horses there
Once grazed unfenced, at liberty.
Around Poltava, khutora[2]
Were all encircled by his gardens,
And he had many fine possessions—
Thick furs and satin, silver, jewels—
Displayed or hidden in his castles.
But Kochubey was rich and proud,
Not of his herds of long-maned horses,
Nor gold, his tribute from Crimea,
Nor even his ancestral keeps;
A beautiful, beloved daughter
Was Kochubey’s great pride and joy.[3]
And it was said that, in Poltava,
No maid could rival her in grace.
She glowed as fresh as cherry blossoms
Caressed in breezy, shady glades,
Was supple as a poplar poised
On Kievan heights, and she would move
As fluidly as swans traversing
Deserted waters as they glide,
As deftly as a striding doe.
Her breast was white as fertile foam;
Around the summit of her brow,
Her darkling locks were stormy clouds.
Her bright eyes’ rays were sharp as stars,
Her lips were red as vibrant roses.
Yet rumors whispered that her beauty
(That temporary bloom!) was not
The only virtue that she had:
Maria’s name was praised all over
For modesty and acumen.
So Russia and the Ukraine sent
Their most desirable young suitors;
But timid, sweet Maria fled
The flowery crown, as she would chains;
And she refused each suitor’s offer,
But then the Hetman sought her hand.[4]
He’s old. And though worn down by years,
By war, by labors and by worries,
Emotions boil in him still:
Mazeppa once again knows love.
The young heart flares up instantly
And then goes out. Within it, love
May pass away then come anew—
Its feelings change from day to day;
Not so obediently, so lightly,
Nor with such sudden bursts of passion
Do old men’s hearts enkindle,
They’ve petrified throughout the years;
But slowly, stubbornly the flames
Of passion incubate in them,
And once ignited, such late fire
Does not cool down till life goes out.
That’s no chamois beneath a crag,
Who dreads the eagle’s thunderous flight;
Maria, paces in her room;
She trembles and awaits the verdict.
Her mother, full of indignation,
Came in and took her daughter’s hand,
And with a shudder said to her:
“That shameless, ignominious man!
How could he? . . Not while we’re alive,
He won’t commit this sin. Oh, no!
He should have been a friend and father
To his young, innocent god-daughter...
A madman! He contrives to ask for
Her hand while in the twilight of his days!”
Maria winced. A deathly pall
Then cast itself across her face,
And chilled as if by life’s last sleep,
She fainted on the threshold’s stairs.
She came to, then she closed her eyes
Again; she wouldn’t say a word;
Her father and her mother both
Attempted to allay her heart,
To drive away her grief and horror,
To pacify her troubled mind...
In vain. For two entire days,
Maria, speechless, sobbed and groaned;
Nor would she eat or drink at all;
She roamed about pale as a shade,
Not knowing sleep. On the third day
Her chambers were deserted.
No one knew where or how she’d gone.
A fisherman, however, said
That he had heard the sound of horses,
A Cossack voice and woman’s whisper,
And in the meadow’s morning dew
Four pairs of horseshoes left their marks.
Not only youthful golden locks
And downy cheeks entice young girls,
But sometimes even old men’s faces,
With hoary locks and rough hewn brows,
Inspire a maiden’s sense of beauty,
Infusing it with passionate dreams.
And soon the fateful news had reached
The frantic ear of Kochubey:
She had forgotten shame and honor,
Absconded to a villain’s arms!
Disgrace! Her parents hardly dared
To understand the awful rumor;
For only then the truth emerged,
In all its horrid nakedness;
For only then could one explain
The young transgressor’s sole desire;
For only then could one discern
Why she had fled capriciously
The fetters of familial duties,
And languished secretly, and sighed,
And answered all her suitors’ greetings
With proud, remorseless silence;
Why she had sat so quietly,
And hearkened to the Hetman’s words,
Though goblets rocked with frothy wine
And watered mirthful conversations;
Why she had always sung those songs
That he had fashioned long ago,[5]
When he’d been poor and unimportant,
Before his reputation bloomed;
Why she had loved, ungirlishly,
The cavalry’s formation drills,
The martial beats of kettledrums,
The loud saluting to the staff
And mace of Little Russia’s sovereign...[6]
The rich and famous Kochubey:
He had a lot of powerful friends;
He could have bathed in all his glory.
He could have stirred Poltava’s rage;
He could have set a father’s wrath
Against the villain, and besieged
His palace instantly, and conquered;
He could have used his sure right hand
To plunge a... but another thought
Assailed the heart of Kochubey.
It was a dark and troubled age,
When Peter’s ingenuity
Was fueling youthful Russia’s growth,
Despite the strain of war, to manhood.
Her given teacher was severe
In lessons treating fame and triumph:
The Swedish Paladin would test
Her bloodily, with no forewarning.
But in her lust for retribution,
Having endured the blows of fate,
Rus’ took up arms. And as a hammer
Shatters glass, she forged steel blades.
And crowned with ineffectual glory,
Bold Charles slipped near an abyss.
He marched on Moscow, rousing
The Russian Principalities—
A whirlwind stirring ashen plains
And forcing dusty grass to bow.
He took the road where tracks were left
By a strong foe in our newer days,
When the retreating steps of that
Fated man glorified his fall.[7]
The Ukraine quietly grew restless.
A spark had smoldered there for years.
The friends of old and bloody times
Were hoping for a people’s war,
Complaining, haughtily commanding
The Hetman to cut loose their bonds,
While their capricious lust awaited
Impatiently the might of Charles.
Rebellious shouts, “It’s time! It’s time!”
Were ringing out around Mazeppa.
The Hetman all the while remained
A loyal vassal to the Tsar.
Preserving his austerity,
He calmly reprimanded them;
He seemed to pay no heed to rumor,
Indifferently reveling.
“What’s with the Hetman?” young men asked,
“He’s incapacitated, old;
His flame has waned in passing seasons,
Excessive labors leave him cold.
Why should hands that tremble like his
Still hold the Hetman’s staff and mace?
Now’s the time for us to assail
Oppressive Moscow’s walls in force!
Back in old Doroshénko’s time,[8]
Or if the younger Samoylóvich,[9]
Or our Paléy,[10] or Gordeyénko[11]
Controlled our military forces,
Then Cossacks wouldn’t have to die
Face down in snow, in foreign lands,
And all their troops already would
Have liberated Little Russia.”[12]
Ablaze with insubordination,
The youths, emboldened, grumbled so,
With rabid thirst for dangerous change,
Forgetful of their ancient yoke,
Of Bogdan’s fortune-blessed disputes,
Of sacred broils, of binding pacts,
And glory that their fathers won.
But old age treads with wariness,
And prudently it eyes each step.
Nor does it hastily conclude
That something can or can’t be done.
So who will plumb oceanic depths,
Entombed beneath immobile ice?
Whose sharp-eyed wisdom pierces deep
Into the fated, dark abyss
Of wicked souls? In old age, thoughts,
The fertile seeds of bottled passions,
Repose submerged beneath the depths,
And there, perhaps, the sprouts of schemes
Long cultivated bear their fruit.
Who knows? The more Mazeppa fed
His spite, deceitfulness and cunning,
The less he appeared to act with caution,
The less complex his movements seemed.
How like a despot he could read
The hearts of men, discern them, lure them,
And then control them through their minds,
Deciphering their hidden secrets!
At feasts, the glib old man was masked
In auspice and credulity;
He spoke with elders wistfully
Of younger days, long since gone by;
With self-willed men, he lauded freedom,
With malcontents, he censured power,
With bitter men, he shed false tears;
With stupid men, he bandied words!
Perhaps it wasn’t known to many
That he possessed a steadfast spirit,
That by his honor or dishonor,
He liked to hurt his enemies;
That never once had an affront,
In all his days, escaped his grudge;
That far away this haughty man
Had gained a criminal’s repute;
That there is nothing he holds sacred,
That there’s no kindness he remembers,
That there is nothing that he loves,
That he’d spill blood as soon as water,
That he despises liberty,
That there’s no motherland for him.
Within his soul, this wicked man
Had nurtured heinous plans, for many
Long years. But now a hostile gaze,
A dangerous gaze, was piercing him.
“Oh no, you predator! Barbarian!”
Thought Kochubey and ground his teeth,
“I’ll spare your den my fiery wrath,
For there my daughter is imprisoned;
Your corpse won’t smolder into ash,
Nor will you perish by the blows
Of Cossack blades. Oh no, you traitor.
On Moscow’s execution block,
In blood, amid your vain denials,
Still trembling from the torturous rack,
You’ll curse the very day, the hour,
In which you christened our poor daughter,
The feast at which the cup of honor
Was given you poured full of wine,
And most of all the night when you,
Old bird of prey, ensnared our dove!..”
So! Once upon a time Mazeppa
Had been a friend to Kochubey;
Back then they’d shared their bread and salt,
Their feelings, even unction oil.
Across the fields of victory, their steeds
Had galloped, side by side, through flames;
And many times they’d carried on
Long conversations all alone—
The cautious Hetman had almost
Revealed his soul’s insatiable
Abyss to Kochubey in riddled,
Opaque exchanges, hinting at
His treasonous, rebellious plans
For opportune negotiations.
Back then, the heart of Kochubey
Had been devoted to the Hetman.
He now grew fierce in bitter rage,
Provoked to meet a single challenge;
He nurtured, day and night, but one
Obsession: He would either perish,
Or visit ruinous vengeance on
The man who had profaned his daughter.
But he concealed his vengeful cause
Within the fortress of his heart.
“In his debilitating grief,
He bends his thoughts toward the grave.
He bears no grudge against Mazeppa;
It’s all his daughter’s fault alone.
But even she has his forgiveness:
Let God pass judgment on her choice.
She’s cast her shame upon her kin,
Forgetting heaven and the law...”
And meanwhile Kochubey had turned
An eagle’s scrutiny upon
His friends, in search of those most stout,
Unwavering, unbuyable.
To all of this his wife was privy:[13]
He’d secretly composed a grim
Denunciation, and possessed
By rage that only women know,
His wife brimmed over with impatience
And urged her wrathful spouse to hurry.
In bed, amid night’s gloomy dreams,
As if some kind of anguished spirit,
She whispers of revenge, upbraids him,
Sheds tears, encourages his gall,
Demands an oath—and Kochubey
Grown fey, then takes the oath before her.
The blow was calculated well.
The fearless Iskra[14] was at one
With Kochubey. And both were sure:
“He’s conquered, and his fate is sealed.
But who, ablaze with fervid zeal,
Devoted to the common good,
Unburdened by timidity,
Could place this charge against the mighty
Villain at biased Peter’s feet?”
Among Poltava’s Cossack youths,
Of those whom poor Maria scorned,
Was one who, from the youngest age,
Had loved her with the greatest passion.
In morning and in evening hours,
Upon his native river’s banks,
In Ukraine’s shady cherry glades,
He’d wait for his adored Maria,
And tortured by anticipation,
The briefest tryst would comfort him.
He knew his love for her was hopeless,
And never wearied her with pleadings:
He’d die of grief if she refused him.
When suitors crowded round Maria,
He kept his distance from their ranks,
Immersed in thick, forlorn dejection.
But when Maria’s sudden shame
Was voiced among the Cossack men,
And when relentless rumors struck
Her down with laughter and derision,
“Maria” never ceased to have
The same significance to him.
But if Mazeppa’s name, by chance
Or no, was uttered in his presence,
The youth went pale, and he would cast
His gaze toward his feet in anguish.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So who, beneath the moon and stars,
Rides forth so late upon his steed?
Whose horse is this that never tires,
But runs across the endless steppe?
The Cossack holds his northward way,
The Cossack has no need for rest,
Not in the fields or shady glades,
Nor on the banks near dangerous fords.
Like glass, his damask steel blade gleams,
A small sack clinks against his chest,
And never faltering, his steed
Speeds on, its tail a lashing whip.
He’ll need his gold to hire a page;
His zealous steed is but a trifle,
No more important is his blade;
His cap, however, has a price.
To save his cap, he’d gladly trade
His steed, his damask blade, the gold;
But he would not give up his cap,
Without surrendering his head.
And why’s his cap so dear? Therein
Is sewn the grim denunciation,
In which the Hetman is condemned
Before the Tsar by Kochubey.
And meanwhile, sensing not the threat,
Nor fearing any consequences,
Mazeppa carried out his intrigues.
His plenipotentiary Jesuit[15]
Incited mutiny and promised
Him the unstable throne of Ukraine.
Like thieves, they gathered in the night
To hold their secret councils, where
They weighed the pros and cons of treason,
Composed the “Universals’” items[16]
And traded firm oaths on the tsar’s head,
Then traded on the vassals’ heads.
A beggar frequented the palace,
But whence he came could not be told,
And Orlik,[17] lifelong Hetman’s lackey,
Ushered him in and saw him leave.
The servants he dispatched were spreading
Their secret poison everywhere:
They stirred the Cossacks of the Don,
Who were commanded by Bulavin;[18]
They woke the courage of wild hordes;
And on the threshold of the Dnepr,
They moved the roving bands to fear
The Russian Tsar’s autocracy.
Mazeppa cast his gaze on all things,
And letters flew from place to place:
His clever threats incited even
Bakhchisarai against the Tsar.
The king in Warsaw heeded him,
As did the Pasha in Ochakov,
King Charles, and even the Tsar.
His perfidy was not suspected;
Conceptions more conceptions bred,
All honing his forthcoming strike;
His evil will would never tire,
His treacherous flame would never dim.
But how he started, how he jumped,
When unexpected thunder struck
Before him! When grandees[19] of Russia
Sent him, the very enemy
Of Russia, the denunciation
That had been written in Poltava,
And when, instead of just deserts,
They lavished sympathy on him;
For, occupied by wartime troubles,
Abhorring what he thought was slander,
Not heeding the denunciation,
The Tsar himself consoled this Judas
And promised to subdue such malice
With noise of thunderous retribution!
Mazeppa, feigning melancholy,
Submissively addressed the Tsar.
“God knows, and all the world can see:
For twenty years this Hetman’s heart
Has served, most faithfully, the Tsar,
Who succored him and granted him
Immeasurable munificence . . .
Oh, what insane, short-sighted malice!..
Must he, so near his days’ conclusion,
Begin to learn of treachery
And how it mars deserved glory?
Was is not he who angrily
Refused to aid one Stanisław,[20]
Thus spurning Ukraine’s promised crown,
And sent his Tsar such pacts and secret
Letters as duty would require?
Was he not deaf to the persuasions
Of the great Khan[21] and Sultan of
Constantinople? Blazing, ardent,
He gladly used is mind and sword
To contradict the white Tsar’s foes,
Begrudging neither life nor labor,
And now these wicked wretches dare
Disgrace the gray hair on his head!
And who? They’re Iskra, Kochubey!
I thought they were his age-old friends!”
Concealing lust for blood with tears,
The villain had the frigid gall
Then to demand their execution . . .[22]
Whose executions? . . cruel old man!
Whose daughter does he now embrace?
But he remorselessly suppressed
The sleepy grumbling in his heart.
He said: “But why’d the madman challenge
A foe so far beyond his measure?
That arrogant free thinker brought
The axe upon his neck himself.
With eyelids clamped, he bolted. Why?
What made him think he had a chance?
Or... But a daughter’s love will not
Redeem her father’s forfeit head.
The lover in me has to yield;
If not, the Hetman’s blood will flow.”
Maria, poor Maria,
Beauty of Circassian daughters!
You do not know what kind of serpent
You nurture, held against your bosom.
By what dark sorcery were you
So irresistibly attracted
Toward such a wayward savage beast?
To whom have you been sacrificed?
His smoky locks of curly hair,
The deep-set wrinkles in his face,
His fiery, gleaming, sunken gaze,
His forked, beguiling utterances:
You cherish these above all else;
For them you cast away your mother,
For you preferred his tempting bower
To chambers in your father’s home.
With his enchanting, glowing eyes,
The old man cast a spell on you;
With soft and soothing whispered speeches,
He lulled your conscience into sleep.
You raise your blinded gaze to him,
To look on him with reverence,
You coddle him with your affection—
You find that your disgrace is pleasant,
For you, in your senseless rapture,
You’re proud, as if of chastity—
You lost the tender charm of shame
Somewhere within your fall from grace...
What’s shame or rumor to Maria?
What are the world’s trite penalties,
When such a proud old man inclines
His head and rests it in her lap,
Forgetting, all because of her,
The noise and labor of his fate;
Or when he tells a timid girl
The secrets of his bold, grim thoughts?
Nor does she mourn her innocence;
Her soul knows only one regret,
Which grows at times like gathering clouds:
She keeps imagining her parents,
Both melancholy, both dejected.
And through her tears she sees their image,
Alone and childless in old age;
She thinks she hears their pained reproach . . .
Oh, but if only she had known
What all of Ukraine knew already!
But as of yet the deadly secret
Remained concealed from poor Maria.

Pushkin's Notes

[1] Vasily Leontievich Kochubey, a General Judge, was an ancestor of a contemporary Count.

[2] A khutor is a manor or country estate.

[3] Kochubey had several daughters; one of them was married to Obidovskii, Mazeppa’s nephew. She, to whom we here refer, was named Matryona.

[4] Mazeppa actually did propose to his god-daughter, but he was refused.

[5] There are a few songs that are traditionally attributed to Mazeppa, and they are to this day preserved in the memory of the people. In his denunciation, Kochubey also refers to a patriotic duma [Ukrainian folk song (trans.)] that was supposedly composed by Mazeppa. It is remarkable for more than its historical significance.

[6] The staff and mace were signs of the Hetman’s office.

[7] See Byron’s Mazeppa.

[8] Doroshénko, one of the medieval heroes of Little Russia, was an irreconcilable enemy of Russian sovereignty.

[9] Gregory Samoylóvich, the son of a Hetman, was exiled to Siberia at the beginning of the reign of Peter the first.

[10] Simeon Paléy, a braggart and colonel, was a famous horseman and raider. He was exiled to Yeniseysk for wanton looting, at Mazeppa’s request. When the latter proved to be a traitor, Paléy, then his inveterate enemy, was restored from exile and took part in the battle of Poltava.

[11] Kostya Gordeyénko was a tribal ataman of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. Afterward he joined Charles XII. He was taken prisoner and executed in 1708.

[12] 20,000 Cossacks had recently been deployed to Lithuania.

[13] In one of his letters, Mazeppa accuses Kochubey of being the pawn of his proud and high minded wife.

[14] Iskra, a colonel from Poltava and a friend of Kochubey, took part in his intrigue and shared his fate.

[15] The Jesuit Zalensky, the princess Dulskaya and a Bulgarian archbishop who was exiled from his homeland were the primary agents aiding Mazeppa in his betrayal of Peter. The archbishop, disguised as a beggar, was constantly moving back and forth between Poland and Ukraine.

[16] The Hetmen’s manifestos were thus named.

[17] Philip Orlik was Mazeppa’s Chancellor and confidant. After the latter’s death (ca. 1710), Charles XII gave him the empty title of Hetman of Little Russia. He subsequently converted to the Mohammedan faith and died in Benders in approximately 1736.

[18] Bulavin was a Don Cossack who revolted at the same time.

[19] The mysterious secretary general Shafirov and Count Golovkin, friends and patrons of Mazeppa. In all fairness, the blame for the horrible judgment and execution of the denunciators is to be laid on them.

[20] This happened in 1705. See the notes to Bantysh-Kamensky’s A History of Little Russia.

[21] At the time of his unsuccessful invasion of Ukraine, Kaza-Girey invited Mazeppa to unite with him in an attack on Russia.

[22] In his letters, he complained that the denouncers were punished too lightly and persistently demanded their execution, comparing himself with Susanna, who, though innocent, was slandered by the corrupt elders, and comparing Count Golovkin with the prophet Daniel.

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks

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Canto the Second

Mazeppa’s disposition darkened.
His mind was plagued by cruel dreams.
Maria’s young compassionate eyes
Were fixed upon her aged lover.
She, having knelt, embraced his knees
And then affirmed her words of love.
In vain her love aspired to quell
Mazeppa’s sullen meditations.
He sat before the poor young girl
And inattentively replied
To all her sympathy with naught
But silence, gazing at the floor.
She was offended and surprised,
And hardly breathing, she stood up
And said, with indignation:

“Please, listen. I have sacrificed
All that I had, for you alone.
For loving once, I love forever;
I’ve had but one desire in life:
To know your love for me. For that
I’ve ruined my hope for happiness,
And yet I don’t regret the loss—
Recall the dreadful calm that night,
The night our love was consummated.
You swore eternal love to me.
So why do you not love me now?”

Mazeppa
My darling, you’re not being fair.
Discard these senseless fantasies;
You ruin your heart with vain suspicion.
No, passions agitate your soul,
Their fervent currents quench its ardor.
Maria, do believe I love you,
More so than power, more than glory.

Maria
That isn’t true. Don’t lie to me.
Were we inseparable for long?
And now you flee from my affections;
They’re tiresome to you now, it seems;
You spend all day with officers,
At feasts, on journeys—I’m forgotten;
You either spend your nights alone,
Or with the beggar or the Jesuit.
My humble love for you is bound
To meet with cold severity.
I know that recently you drank
To Princess Dulskaya. That’s news;
Who’s Princess Dulskaya?

Mazeppa
Are you
Jealous? Would I, at my ripe age,
Endeavor toward the haughty greetings
Of such self-loving, frigid beauty?
Would I, a harsh old man, begin,
Like idle youths, to sigh and pine,
To drag about love’s shameful fetters,
To tempt a woman by my folly?

Maria
No, just explain without excuses,
And answer me directly, simply.

Mazeppa
Your peace of mind’s important to me.
So be it. I’ll reveal it all.

We’ve spent some time devising plans,
And now they’ve reached a boiling point.
A fortunate hour is upon us;
The time for glorious battle nears.
For far too long we’ve bowed our heads,
Without respect or liberty,
Beneath the yoke of Warsaw’s patronage,
Beneath the yoke of Moscow’s despotism.
But now is Ukraine’s chance to grow
Into an independent power;
Defying Peter, I will raise
The bloody banner of our freedom.
Now all is ready: I have both
The kings negotiating with me;
And in the bloody chaos of
Strife, I, perhaps, will seize the throne.
I have reliable adherents:
The Princess Dulskaya is one,
My Jesuit, and that beggar, too—
They move my plans toward my goals.
It’s through their hands that letters come,
My orders from the kings. So there
Are the confessions most important
To you now. Satisfied? Have I
Dissolved your fantasies?

Maria
My darling!
You will become the Tsar of Ukraine!
The regal crown will come to stand
Upon your silver locks!

Mazeppa
Hold on,
Not everything is finished. Storms
Are brewing. Who knows what awaits me?

Maria
I know no fear when close to you—
You’re powerful! I know the throne
Awaits you.

Mazeppa
Or the chopping block?

Maria
If so, then I will join you there.
You think I could survive without you?
But no, you’re destined for great power.

Mazeppa
You love me, don’t you?

Maria
Do I love you?!

Mazeppa
So tell me who’s more dear to you,
Your father, or your spouse?

Maria
My dear,
What kind of question’s that? It vexes
Me quite unfairly. I have tried to
Forget about my family.
I’ve brought disgrace upon them and
Perhaps been cursed by my father
(My dreams have been so horrible!),
And all for whom?

Mazeppa
So I’m more dear
To you? You’re silent...

Maria
Oh my God!

Mazeppa
What is it? Answer.

Maria
You decide.

Mazeppa
Now listen: let’s say one of us,
Your father or myself, must perish,
And you were our appointed judge,
Whom would you choose to sacrifice,
And whom would you decide to save?

Maria
Enough! Don’t twist my heart like that!
You’re such a tempter!

Mazeppa
Answer me!

Maria
You’re pale; your speech has turned severe...
Oh, don’t be angry! I would give you
All, all I’ve ever had, believe me;
Such words as these are terrifying.
Enough.

Mazeppa
Remember that, Maria,
What you have said to me just now.

The night in Ukraine was serene,
The sky translucent; stars were glowing.
The breeze was loath to overcome
Its somnolence. The silvery leaves
Of poplars scarcely trembled.
The moon shone calmly down from high
Above onto the town of Bila Tserkva,
It lit the Hetman’s splendid gardens,
It lit the ancient fortress walls.
And silence . . . silence all around,
But hectic whispers filled the fortress.
Beneath a window, in a tower,
Immersed in deep and heavy thought,
In chains, sat Kochubey, who gazed
Upon the heavens in dismay.

The dawn would bring his execution,
But execution didn’t daunt him;
He did not mourn his forfeit life;
What’s death to him? A welcome sleep.
The bloody grave would find him ready.
Fatigue consumed him. Righteous God!
The loss of life, and with it honor,
Thus desecrated by the Tsar
And tossed, a muted beast, before
The feet of traitors to the Tsar,
Thus given over to their power,
And knowing friends will die as well,
To hear them curse you as they perish...
To lie beneath an axe, though guiltless,
To see your foe’s exuberant face
As you are flung to death’s embrace,
Not having anyone to whom
To leave the righteous task of vengeance...

And he recalled his home, Poltava,
His family and his closest friends,
The wealth and glory of his past,
The songs his lovely daughter sang,
The ancient house where he was born,
Where he’d learned labor and repose,
And all that made life seem so sweet,
Which he had chosen to discard—
For what?..

But then a key was grinding
Within a rusty lock—he woke
To wretched thoughts: So there he is!
My leader on this bloody path
Beneath the standard of the cross.
Oh stalwart counselor to sinners,
Physician to our soulful sorrows,
Oh votary of Christ, who suffered
Excruciating death for us,
Oh bearer of his holy Blood
And Flesh, I’m strong. I’ll boldly face
My death and greet eternal life!

And stricken to the heart with grief,
Unhappy Kochubey was ready
To pour out melancholy prayers
Before eternal and almighty God.
His guest, however, was no priest,
But one he knew too well already:
The savage Orlik stood before him.
And faltering in his disgust,
The victim asked him bitterly:
“You’re here, you wretched man? Pray tell,
Why must Mazeppa interrupt
My final night’s repose again?”

Orlik
The questioning’s not over: answer.

Kochubey
I answered you already: Go,
And leave me be.

Orlik
Pan Hetman still
Demands confessions.

Kochubey
But to what?
I’ve long since acquiesced to all
Of your confessions, though my statements
Have all been false. I am deceitful,
I’ve launched intrigues. The Hetman’s right.
What more can you request?

Orlik
We know
That you have countless riches hidden.
We know there’s more than what was stored
Away within Dikanka’s vaults.[23]
Your punishment shall be complete;
Your wealth and your estates should pass,
In full, unto the Hetmanate—
Such is the law. I order you—
Fulfill your final obligation,
And tell me where you hid your treasure!

Kochubey
You’re right, I did have more: I had
Three treasures valued more than life.
My honor was the first such treasure,
The treasure that your torture took;
The second cannot be restored,
The treasure of my daughter’s honor,
Whose loss I’ve felt both day and night—
Mazeppa stole that treasure.
And yet I’ve saved my last great treasure,
The third dear treasure—holy vengeance,
Which I’m prepared to hand to God.

Orlik
Old man, cut short your empty ravings;
You feast on lurid thoughts because
Today you must forsake the world.
Now isn’t the best time for jokes.
Now answer, or there’ll be more torture:
Where is your money?

Kochubey
Callous slave!
Give up this senseless questioning!
Be patient. Let me lie in the grave,
Then you can run back to Mazeppa,
And both of you can count my money
With fingers that you’ve stained in blood,
And tear apart my manor’s cellars,
Chop up my gardens, burn my home;
And bring my daughter, when you do;
For she herself will tell you all,
And she can show you all my treasure;
But now, for goodness sake, just let
Me be, I beg you, leave me in peace.

Orlik
The money! Where’s it hidden? Speak!
Don’t want to? Where’s the money!? Tell me,
Or else endure the consequences.
Just think about it. Name the place!
Still silent? Fine. Call in the Headsman![24]

The Headsman came.
Oh, torturous night!
But where’s the Hetman, where’s the villain?
Where has he fled to dodge the pangs
Of his cold-blooded serpent’s conscience?
Within the slumbering maiden’s chambers,
Mazeppa sat beside the bed
In which his god-daughter then slept,
Still blissful in her ignorance,
And there his muted gloom inclined
His head beneath the weight of thoughts,
Each one more dismal than the last.
“The senseless Kochubey will die;
He can’t be saved. As I approach
My goal, I must, with every step,
Exhibit power more and more,
While enemies bow ever lower
Before me. There is no salvation;
This fool informer and his minion
Will die.” But when his eyes strayed toward
The bed, Mazeppa thought “Oh, God!
But what will happen with Maria,
When she finds out the fateful news?
For now, her mind is still at peace,
But such a secret can’t be kept
From her much longer. The axe will fall
Tomorrow, and its thunderous noise
Will peal throughout all Ukraine, voices
Erupting in all social circles! . .
Ah, now I see: A man condemned
By fate to lead a turbid life
Should stand alone before the storm,
Not call a woman to his side!
You cannot hitch a trembling doe
And horse up to a single carriage.
I carelessly forgot myself,
The chopping block demands its due...
This poor young girl bestowed on me
All, all that makes life beautiful,
And everything that makes life dear—
On me, a grim old man—and then?
And then I aim this blow at her!”
He gazed upon her: Oh, how sweet
The peacefulness of youth now seems!
How gently dreams are coddling her!
Her soft lips part, thus making way
For placid breath from her young breast;
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow... shuddering,
Mazeppa turned his gaze away,
Stood up, and stealing silently
Away, he went down to his gardens.

The night in Ukraine was serene,
The sky translucent; stars were glowing.
The breeze was loath to overcome
Its somnolence. The silvery leaves
Of poplars scarcely trembled.
But strange and dismal dreams still plagued
Mazeppa’s soul: the midnight’s stars,
Like clusters of accusing eyes,
Looked down on him with mockery.
The poplars, crowded in their ranks,
Austerely shook their wizened heads,
Like judges, whispering to each other.
And summer’s warm nocturnal gloom
Was stifling as a dungeon’s shadows.

And then... a weak scream... a vague groan,
It seemed, had issued from the castle.
Perhaps they were hallucinations,
Or owls’ cries, or beastly howling,
Or torturous groans, or something else—
But now the aged man could not
Defeat his own anxiety,
And so the weakly drawn out scream
Was drowned out by Mazeppa’s answer—
Another scream, which he’d let forth
In savage joy on battlefields,
When, with Zabela, Gamaley,
And yes, with him, with Kochubey,
He’d galloped through the martial flames.

The crimson streaks of dawn embraced
The heavens with their vivid streaks.
The valleys, hills and wheat-fields shone,
The peaks of groves and rivers’ waves.
The playful noise of morn resounded,
And then mankind abandoned slumber.

And still Maria sweetly breaths,
Embraced by dreams, but senses through
Transparent sleep that someone comes
Into her room to touch her legs.
She woke—but quickly, with a smile,
She turned her face away, avoiding
The gleam of morning’s blinding rays.
Maria held her tender hand
Out, asking in a languid whisper:
“Mazeppa, is that you?” But someone
Else’s voice responds... Oh my God!
She started, looked around, and... What?
Her mother stood there...

Mother
Quiet, quiet;
Don’t give us up: I stole in here
With night’s long shadows, carefully,
With but a tearful supplication.
Today’s the execution. You
Alone might tame those savage beasts.
Your father... save him!

Daughter (horrified)
What? Which father?
What execution?

Mother
What? You still
Don’t know? But no... you live at court,
Not in the wild. You have to know
About the Hetman’s awful strength,
How all the lords obey him now,
And how he punishes his foes—
Oh now I see: you’ll spurn your family,
Despite its doleful need, for him.
I find you here, in sleepy leisure,
While cruel judgments are prepared,
While sentences are being read,
An axe made ready for your father!
It seems that we are strangers now. . .
Collect yourself, Maria, daughter!
Go! Run, and fling yourself before him!
Go, save your father, be our angel!
Your eyes will bind the villains’ hands,
You can deflect them from the axe.
Demand! The Hetman can’t refuse:
For him you have forgotten honor,
Your family, God.

Daughter
What’s happening?
Mazeppa... Father... execution—
My mother’s here with supplications—
I’ve lost my mind... or this is all
A nightmare.

Mother
God have mercy on you,
It’s not a nightmare, not a dream.
But could it be that you don’t know?
Your father grew enraged, refused
To bear his daughter’s loss of honor,
Became consumed with thirst for vengeance,
Denounced the Hetman, then was tortured
So bloodily that he confessed,
At last, to criminal intrigues,
As well as shameful slander.
A victim of bold righteousness,
His head is forfeit to Mazeppa.
His execution will take place
Today, before a military
Assembly, if the hand of God
Almighty doesn’t intervene.
He’s here, right now, within the castle,
Imprisoned in a tower.

Daughter
Oh God!..
Today!.. Oh God! My poor, poor father!

The maiden fell upon the bed,
As cold and limpid as a corpse.

A motley mob of caps converged.
The lances shone. The drums were beating.
Platoons aligned, and serdyuks galloped.[25]
The crowd was boiling. Hearts were racing.
The road was clad in human scales,
And writhed, as if a serpent’s tail.
The field contained a fateful platform,
Where to and fro the Headsman paced,
Rejoicing, greedily awaiting
His victim. Then, with pale white hands,
He playfully picked up his heavy
Axe, jesting with the joyful mob.
All sounds were drowned in thundering voices:
A woman’s scream, guffaws, and swearing.
An exclamation then rang out,
And all fell silent. Nothing broke
The dreadful calm but horses’ hooves.
And there, upon a raven steed,
The Hetman rode, surrounded by
His bodyguard and general council.
And there, upon the Kiev road,
A wagon followed. Awestruck gazes
Turned toward it. In it, reconciled
With heaven and the earth, and firm
Within the bastion of strong faith,
The guiltless Kochubey was sitting,
And with him Iskra, quiet, indifferent,
A lamb, obedient to fate.
The wagon stopped. A prayer burst
Like thunder from the crowd of faces.
The incense rose from thuribles.
The crowd prayed silently, to bless
The souls of the unfortunates,
The victims prayed thus for their foes.
Then up they went, and Kochubey
First crossed himself, then lay upon
The block. Grave silence struck the masses.
The axe blade made a gleaming arc,
The head leaped free. The whole field moaned.
The second head went tumbling after,
Its eyes still blinking as it rolled.
The grass was reddened by the blood—
The Headsman, joyful in his malice,
Grasped both the heads, each by its forelock,
And with a tense and bulging arm,
He shook them both before the crowd.

The execution was now over.
The people carelessly dispersed,
Already, on their homeward way,
Discussing their unending labor.
The field was emptied bit by bit.
And then, two women ran against
The current of the motley crowd,
Fatigued and veiled in sweaty dust.
It seemed they hurried, full of fear,
Toward the place of execution.
“You’re late,” said someone from the crowd,
While pointing toward the bloody field.
The fatal platform was in pieces now,
Black chasubles emitted prayers,
Two Cossacks heaved an oaken coffin
Onto a waiting wagon’s bed.

Alone before his mob of horsemen,
Mazeppa, dreadful, quit the place
Of execution. He was prey
Somehow to horrid emptiness.
Nobody dared approach him now,
Nor would he speak a single word.
His steed sped on, imbrued in foam.
Arriving home, he asked “Maria,
Where is she?” And Mazeppa heard
Their timid, muffled answers...
Struck by involuntary terror,
He went to her, into her room:
Her silent room had been abandoned—
He sought her in the garden, anxious;
But all around the expansive pond,
Along the peaceful, shrub-lined paths,
There was no trace, all were deserted.
She’s gone! He called his faithful servants,
His own elite and trusty guard.
They flew on rearing, snorting steeds—
Their cries of wild pursuit rang out,
And thus the special mounted guard,
Full tilt, set out to scour the land.

The precious moments hurdle by,
Maria still has not returned.
And no one knew, nor had they heard,
Of how or why she had departed.
Mazeppa ground his teeth and brooded.
His servants trembled quietly.
The Hetman’s heart held boiling venom.
He’d locked himself within their room.
He sat there, in the gloom of night,
Beside their bed, his eyes unclosed,
Immersed in supernatural grief.
When morning came, his special guard
Began returning, one by one, to him.
Their horses nearly dead, their bridles,
Their saddle-blankets, saddle-girths,
And even horseshoes drenched in foam.
Though bruised and bloody and dismayed,
Not one could tell him news of her.
For every trace of her existence
Had vanished, like an empty sound:
Even her mother had departed
Alone into the gloom of exile.

Pushkin's Notes (contd.)

[23] Dikanka was Kochubey’s village.

[24] Having already been condemned to death, Kochubey was tortured in the Hetman’s fortress. According to the unfortunate’s answers, it was evident that he had been interrogated about treasure he had hidden away.

[25] Soldiers that the Hetman personally maintained.

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks

Canto the Third
The soul’s profoundest melancholy
Did not inhibit Ukraine’s Chief
In his impertinent ambition.
Remaining firm in his intrigue,
He carried forth negotiations
With Charles the proud, the Swedish King,
All while, so as more certainly
To fool the eyes of hostile doubt,
He lay in bed and mimicked suffering,
Surrounded by a crowd of doctors,
And groaned, and begged for them to cure him.
The fruits of passion, war and labor,
Disease, decrepitude and sorrow,
These harbingers of death had chained
Him to his bed. He was prepared
To leave this mortal world already;
He had requested his last rites,
He called a bishop to his bed,
To wait for his uncertain end,
Who then anointed those insidious
Gray hairs with oil of holy unction.

But time went on, and Moscow waited
Hour after hour, in vain, for guests,
Preparing funeral feasts for them
Amid old adversaries’ graves.
But Charles suddenly turned south,
To redirect the war to Ukraine.

The day had come. Mazeppa rose
From bed, the sickly sufferer,
The living corpse, who’d still been groaning,
With a foot in the grave, the day before.
And now he’s Peter’s mighty foe.
And now he’s hale, his eyes gleam bright
And proud before his men, he swings
His saber; on his steed he flies
To Desna, full of healthy speed.
Thus had the clever cardinal
Of legend, bent beneath the weight
Of waning years, grown young, erect,
And fit when crowned with Rome’s tiara.

The news spread fast, as if on wings.
And Ukraine, troubled, started whispering:
“He’s now changed sides, betrayed the Russians,
He’s lain his humble staff and mace
At Charles’ feet.” The flame exploded,
The bloody dawn of national war
Was rising.

                            But who could describe
The rage and fury of the Tsar?[26]
Anathema resounds in churches;
Depictions of Mazeppa burn.[27]
The noisy Council’s fierce debate
Inaugurates another Hetman.
And Peter quickly summons all
Of Kochubey and Iskra’s kin from
The Yenisei’s deserted banks.
He sheds remorseful tears with them.
He comforts them, bestows good will
On them, restores their honor.
And old Paléy, Mazeppa’s foe,
A fervent raider, flies to Ukraine,
To Peter’s camp, from exile’s gloom.
The orphaned mutiny was trembling.
Brave Chechel[28] perished on the block,
As did the Zaparozhian Ataman.
And you, who love the battle’s glory,
Who cast aside the crown for helm,
Your day is near, for from afar
You’ve glimpsed the ramparts of Poltava.

The Tsar advanced his retinue
With haste, a violent surging flood—
And both the camps upon the plain
Began their clever flanking dances:
Thus warriors with chosen warriors,
Experienced in brave defeat,
Yet lusting still for heady blood,
Engage at last in fierce battle.
And, angered, mighty Charles saw
That the once chaotic, hapless cloud
Of men he’d routed near the Narva
Was now a shining, structured web
Of loyal, swift, undaunted legions
And threads of stalwart, fierce platoons.

But he resolved to fight tomorrow.
The Swedish camp profoundly slept.
Within one tent, however,
A whispered conversation ran:

“No, Orlik, no, I think that we
Have rushed mal à propos, my friend:
Our calculations, overbold
And faulty, promise little yield.
My goal, I fear, escapes my grasp.
What now? But Fortune has been cruel:
I erred in judging Charles...
He’s but a spry, courageous boy;
He might win two or three engagements;
He can successfully attack
His foes at dinner time,[29] can laugh
At bombs thrown in his tent,[30] can steal
To enemy camps, concealed by night,
And, as today, can take down Cossacks,
Exchanging wound for bloody wound.[31]
But to conduct a battle against
Such a colossus is beyond him:
He wants to force his fate to turn
About face with a drum roll, like
His regiments. He’s blind. He’s stubborn,
Impatient, flippant, arrogant.
God knows what charms he puts his faith in.
He measures Peter’s newfound strengths
By his own prior victories—
And that will bring him to his knees.
Now I’m ashamed: enamored of
A warlike tramp, and at my age;
His courage blinded me, as did
The fleeting joy of victory,
As might a timid girl.”

Orlik
                                                  We’ve time.
We’ll wait for battle, then we’ll bury
The hatchet yet again with Peter:
We still might mend our differences.
No doubt, we’ve hurt the Tsar enough,
He won’t refuse to make his peace.

Mazeppa
Too late. I can’t redeem myself
Before the Russian Tsar. My fate
Has long since now been set in stone.
I burn with malice long constrained.
One night, near Azov, I was feasting
With the cruel Tsar in his tent:
The goblets seemed to boil over
With purple, frothy mirthful wine,
And conversation boiled over
As well. I spoke a brazen word.
The younger guests became embarrassed—
The Tsar went crimson, dropped his goblet,
Then grabbed me by my graying whiskers
And threatened me. And afterward,
Submissive in my helpless rage,
I swore I would exact revenge.
I bore my oath as mothers bear
Their children in their wombs. At last,
The time has come. And thus he’ll ever
Preserve his memory of me.
I’m sent to Peter as a nuisance,
A thorn within his leafy crown;
He’d give the cities of his kin,
The happiest hours of his life,
To grab Mazeppa by the whiskers
Again, as in those older days.
Yet still, some hope remains for us:
The dawn will show who must retreat.

The traitor to the Russian Tsar
Fell silent, then his eyelids closed.

The new dawn burns the eastern sky.
Already canons roar, upon
The hills and on the plains. The purple
Smoke, twisting, rises toward the heavens,
To make a tryst with morning’s rays.
The regiments are closing ranks.
The marksmen fill the scattered brush.
The shot is flying, bullets gleam,
Cold bayonets foreshadow doom.
The Swedes, the sons of precious victory,
Tear through the fire of Russian trenches;
The cavalry, excited, charges;
The infantry then charges after,
Endeavoring to fortify
The cavalry with steadfast ranks.
The field of fatal battle thunders,
Illuminated by the flames.
But martial jubilation clearly
Already complimented our side.
Their retinues, repulsed by fire,
Dispersing, perished in the dust.
Rosen retreated through ravines;
The ardent Shlippenbach surrendered.
And host for host we pressed the Swedes;
The glory of their banners darkened,
And by the grace of God, each step
We took across the field was blessed.

Then Peter’s sonorous, inspired
Voice somehow rose above the din:
“To battle! God is with us!” Peter
Emerged, surrounded by a crowd
Of favorites, from his tent. His eyes
Ablaze, his face inspiring awe,
He quickly moves, magnificent,
Like bolts of lightning cast by God.
He’s going. Someone brings his horse.
His steed is ardent and resolved,
Atremble as his nostrils sense
The battle flames. Through martial dust
He flies, his eyes attentive, sly,
And proudly bears his mighty burden.

The scorching glow of noon approached.
The fighting slackened, like a ploughman.
Some Cossacks, on their horses, pranced.
Right dress! Formations; troops congealed.
The tunes of war had fallen silent.
The cannons on the hills, at rest,
Had ceased their ravenous eruptions.
And lo—the plains then overflowed
With distant, bursting cries: hurrah!
The troops had caught a glimpse of Peter.

He tore ahead of all the ranks,
Enraptured, mighty as the battle.
His eyes devoured the martial field.
The fledglings of the Petrine nest
Surged after him, a loyal throng—
Through all the shifts of worldly fate,
In trials of policy and war,
These men, these comrades, were like sons:
The noble Sheremetev,
And Brius, and Bour, and Repnin,
And, fortune’s humble favorite,
The mighty, quasi-sovereign.

And then, before the cobalt ranks
Of his combative retinue,
Borne forth by his most loyal servants,
Upon a litter, pale, unmoving,
In wounded anguish, Charles appeared—
A hero, followed by his chiefs.
His silent thoughts weighed down on him.
The discomposure of his gaze
Betrayed unprecedented angst.
The battle Charles so long desired
Had seemed to put him in a quandary...
At once he feebly waved his hand
And moved his troops against the Russians.

They clashed with Peter’s retinues
Within the smoke amid the plains:
The battle of Poltava thundered!
In flames, beset by burning hail,
Which hail a living wall repels,
And over fallen ranks fresh ranks
Close in with bayonets. Grave clouds,
The cavalry detachments fly,
Their bridles and their sabers ringing,
Colliding, hacking from the shoulder.
The corpses pile on heaps of corpses,
For pig-iron globes are all around
Them, leaping, striking, scattering
Dust, hissing in the pools of blood.
The Swedes and Russians—chop, hack, cut.
The battle drums, screams, gnashing teeth,
Erupting cannons, clops, neighs, groans,
And death and hell are everywhere.

Amid the turmoil and alarm,
The warlords, with inspired gazes,
Look calmly out upon the battle,
Observing the strategic moves,
Predicting death and victory,
Conversing in the quietude.
But who’s this gray-haired warrior
Who fights so near to Moscow’s Tsar?
Supported by a pair of Cossacks,
Aflame with heartfelt zealousness,
He scans the battle’s ebb and flow
As only veteran heroes do.
No longer will he mount his steed,
Grown old and orphaned in his exile;
No longer will the Cossacks rally
When someone shouts the name Paley!
But why’d his eyes just blaze so bright,
And why did rage, like midnight dark,
Just wash across this old man’s brow?
Whatever could have roused such ire?
Could he, through all the smoke, have seen
His very nemesis, Mazeppa,
And at that moment come to hate
His own unarmed decrepitude?

Immersed in thought, Mazeppa watched
The battle, all the time surrounded
By throngs of rebel Cossack men,
His kin, his council, and his guard.
A sudden shot. The old man turned.
In Voynarovksy’s hands there was
A musket with a smoking barrel.
Shot down, a few short steps away,
A Cossack youth lay in his blood;
His steed, all drenched in dusty foam,
In newfound freedom wildly bolted
And vanished in the fiery distance.
Through battle, with his blade in hand,
His eyes, enraptured, burning bright,
This Cossack had pursued the Hetman.
The old man rode to him to ask
A question, but the Cossack had
Already died. And yet his eyes,
Though vacant, menaced Russia’s foe;
His dismal face was deathly pale,
And the tender name of Maria
Still tried to take form on his tongue.

But victory was near, so near.
Hurrah! The Swedes, at last, are broken.
Oh, blessed hour, blessed sight!
Another surge—our foes retreat,[32]
Our cavalry in hot pursuit,
The slaughter dulls their sabers’ blades,
The fallen cover up the steppe
As if a swarm of jet-black locusts.

But Peter revels, and his gaze
Is proud, and clear, and full of glory.
His regal feast is marvelous.
Within his tent, amid the shouts
Of all his men, he entertains
His leaders and his enemies’ leaders,
Consoles his worthy prisoners,
Raises the cup of victory
To drink his warlike teacher’s health.

But where’s the first, the guest of honor?
Where is the first, our frightening teacher,
Whose long endured maliciousness
The victor of Poltava quenched?
And where’s Mazeppa, where’s the villain?
Where has that Judas fled in fear?
Why isn’t the King among the guests?
Why isn’t the traitor on the block?[33]

On horseback, in the naked wild,
The Hetman and the King both fly.
They flee. Their fates are bound together.
Impending danger and pure spite
Have given strength unto the King.
He disregards his serious
Wound. Having hung his head, he gallops,
He’s hunted by the Russians now,
His scattered crowd of faithful men
Can hardly follow after him.

Surveying the wide, semi-circle
Arc of the steppe with trenchant sight,
The aged Hetman rides beside him.
They come upon a manor. . . But
Why does Mazeppa seem afraid?
Why did he suddenly rush past
The manor, full speed, without stopping?
Or have that desolated courtyard,
The house, and the deserted garden,
As well as the half-open door,
Somehow reminded him just now
Of some forgotten fairytale?
Destroyer of pure innocence!
Perhaps you recognized this home,
This house, this former hearth of joy,
Where you, excited by good wine,
Surrounded by a happy family,
Would relish merriment and dine?
Perhaps you recognized the nest
Where a peaceful angel once dwelled,
The garden, too, from whence you stole
Away with her... You recognized them!

The shades of night embraced the steppe.
350Upon the Dnepr’s dark blue banks,
Among the crags, the enemies
Of Russia and of Peter dozed.
The hero’s dreams were merciful,
They drowned Poltava’s memories.
Mazeppa, though, had troubled dreams.
They brought his dismal soul no peace.
And suddenly the muted night
Was rippled by a call. He woke.
He saw, suspended over him,
A fist, and someone looming, silent.
He winced, as if beneath an axe.
Before him, with disheveled hair,
With grim and sunken eyes aglow,
Enshrouded all in rags, thin, pale,
There stood, illumined by the moon...
“Is this a dream?.. Maria?.. Dear?”

Maria
Ah, quiet, quiet, friend! Right now
My father’s and my mother’s eyes
Are closed... But wait... they can still hear us.

Mazeppa
Maria, poor Maria! Please,
Come back, come back, Oh, God!.. What’s wrong?

Maria
But listen: Oh, what cunning tricks!
You know, they have the strangest stories.
She told me all about her secret,
That my poor father was deceased,
And, quietly, she pointed out
A gray-haired head—a counterfeit!
Can we escape from wicked words?
But think about it: that... that head
Was not a human head at all,
It was a wolf’s head, see: like that!
She wanted to deceive me! Shouldn’t
She be ashamed, to scare me so?
And why? So I would lack the nerve
To run away with you today!
Impossible?

                               With deep-felt grief,
Her vicious lover listened to her.
But turbid thoughts washed over her,
“However,” she said, “I recall
A field... a noisy holiday...
A crowd... and corpses... mother brought
Me for the holiday... But where
Were you?.. And why must you and I
Meander separately, at night?
Come, let’s go home. Right now... it’s late.
Aha, I see... oh no, my head
Is full of empty turbulence...
I thought that you were someone else,
Old man. So get away from me.
Your gaze is horrible, sardonic.
You’re ugly. He is beautiful...
Within his eyes there shines true love,
Within his words... such tenderness!
His beard is whiter than fresh snow,
But yours is stained with drying blood!..”

And with an untamed, screaming laugh,
More dexterous than a young chamois,
She sprang onto her feet and ran,
Then disappeared into the gloom.

The eastern flush dispersed night’s shades.
The Cossacks’ fires were burning red.
The Cossacks boiled their morning gruel.
Their pages, by the Dnepr’s banks,
Attended the unsaddled steeds.
And Charles awoke. “Oho! It’s time!
Get up, Mazeppa. Day is breaking.”
The Hetman, though, had not slept long.
The pangs of grief were gnawing him;
His breath constricted in his chest.
He silently got on his horse
And rode beside the fleeing King.
A frightful gleam shone from his eyes
As he forsook his native land.

A hundred years have passed—but what
Remains of these proud, powerful men,
Imbued with all their willful passions?
Their generation passed. And with
Them every bloody trace of effort,
Of failure, of victory vanished.
Of all the northern citizens,
Throughout the nation’s war-torn fate,
Only you, hero of Poltava,
Have built yourself a monument.
For where the rows of winged mills
In clusters form a peaceful fence
Around the desert peals of Benders,
Where horned buffalo roam free
About the graves of warriors—
What’s left of a putrescent tent,
Three steps retreating deep into
The ground, a bed for growing moss,
Commemorate the Swedish King.
From there the daring hero sheered,
Alone among his household servants,
The loud assault of Turkish forces,
And cast his sword beneath the staff;
In vain the somber foreigner
Would seek the Hetman’s grave nearby:
Mazeppa had been long forgotten;
Only in a solemn, hallowed site,
Each year unto this day, in wrath a
Cathedral peals anathema
On him. Yet two graves still endure,
Where dust of the two martyrs rests:
The church preserves their halcyon respite
Among the righteous, ancient graves. [34]
A row of oaks, now ancient, grows,
Which friends had planted in Dikanka,
And to this day they testify
To sons about their murdered fathers.
As for the daughter who transgressed...
The legends do not speak of her.
Her suffering, her fate, her end
Are hidden by a veil of darkness.
And yet, sometimes an old and blind
Ukrainian rhapsodist, before
The people of a village, strums
The Hetman’s songs about a sinful
Maiden, and afterward the Cossack
Youths listen as he tells her tale.

[26] The forceful measures that were adopted by Peter, with his customary speed and energy, forced Ukraine into submission.
“In the year 1708, on the 7th day of November, by command of the sovereign, the Cossacks have chosen Ivan Skoropadsky, Colonel of Starodub, as their new Hetman, according to their custom of election.
“On the 8th day of November, the Arch-bishops of Kiev, Chernigov and Pereyaslav arrived in Glukhov.
“And on the 9th day these distinguished clergymen publicly passed Anathema over Mazeppa; on the very same day, the effigy (a puppet) of the traitor Mazeppa was brought forth and, once the insignia of his Order (which had been attached to the effigy with a bow) had been removed, this same effigy was given over to the hands of the executioner who, having taken it and tied it with a noose, dragged it through the street and around the square, even so far as to the gallows, and there it was hung.
“In Glukhov, on the 10th day they executed Chechel and other traitors . . .”
(from The Diary of Peter the Great)

[27] A word in Little-Russian for “executioner.” [This footnote refers to Pushkin’s use of the word “kat” in the text of the poem. The line in question literally reads “An executioner tears an image of Mazeppa’s countenance to pieces” (trans.).]

[28] Chechel desperately defended Baturin against the forces of Prince Menshikov.

[29] As he attacked King Augustus in Dresden. See Voltaire’s Histoire de Charles XII.

[30] “Ah, your majesty! A bomb! . .” “What does a bomb have to do with the letter I’m dictating? Write!” This actually happened much later.

[31] During the night Charles, performing reconnaissance on our camp himself, rode upon some Cossacks who were sitting by a campfire. He galloped straight at them and shot one of them with his own hand. The Cossacks fired three shots and wounded him cruelly in the leg.

[32] Owing to the superb counsel and action of Prince Menshikov, the outcome of the crucial engagement was decided beforehand. The whole affair did not last even two hours. For (written in The Diary of Peter the Great) the invincible Swedish lords soon turned their backs, and the whole of the unfriendly army was completely overrun by our forces. Peter subsequently issued Danilych a pardon in return for services rendered on that day to General Prince Menshikov.

[33]L’Empereur Moskovite, pénétré d’une joie qu’il ne se mettait pas en peine de dissimuler (there was, after all, a reason to rejoice), recevait sur le champ de bataille les prisonniers qu’on lui amenait en foule et demandait à tout moment: où est donc mon frère Charles? . . . . . . . . . . . . …Alors prenant un verre de vin: A la santé, dit-il, de mes maîtres dans l’art de la guerre! —Renschild lui demanda: qui étaient ceux qu’il honorait d’un si beau titre. –Vous, Messieurs le généraux Suédois, reprit le Czar. –Votre Majesté est donc bein ingrate, reprit le Comte, d’avoir tant maltraité ses maîtres. [The Emperor of Moscow, penetrated by joy that he made no effort to conceal (there was, after all, a reason to rejoice), received his prisoners, who were led to him in a crowd, on the field of battle, at which time he asked: “But where is my brother Charles?” . . . . . . . . . . . . …Then, having taken a glass of wine, he said: “To the health of my teachers in the art of war!” Renschild asked him on whom he had bestowed such an honorable title. “On you, Messieurs Swedish Generals,” answered the Tsar. “Your Majesty is therefore rather ungrateful,” replied the Count, “to mistreat your teachers so.”]

[34] The beheaded bodies of Iskra and Kochubey were given to their families and interred in the Kiev monastery. The following engraving can be found on their tomb:

“What man soever there be that passeth here knowing naught of us,
Who have here been laid to our eternal rest,
Because our passion and our death command us to silence,
This stone gives voice to those prophecies concerning us,
Both for the truth and our faithfulness to our Monarch,
The cup of suffering and death from which we drank,
Mazeppa’s villainy, all eternal truths,
The axe that so forcefully severed our heads;
We honor in this place the Sovereign Mother of God,
Who grants all his servants eternal life.
In the year 1708, on the 15th day of July, the noble Vasily Kochubey, Judge General, and Ioann Iskra, Colonel of Poltava, were beheaded before the Military Convoy near Bely Tserkov, at Borshegovets and Kovsehoi. Their bodies were transferred on the 17th of July to Kiev and on that day interred in the Holy Pecherskaya monastery.”

Download: Pushkin, Alexander. Poltava, trans. Ivan Eubanks. Pushkin Review 11 (2008): 129-71.

RAPSÓDICAS

segunda-feira, 26 de setembro de 2016

Proposta de artigo

A. Lord The Singer of Tales

terça-feira, 20 de setembro de 2016

Homer e a dança

Material para a próxima aula 26

segunda-feira, 19 de setembro de 2016

Poltava, de Pushikin.

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks

Alexander Pushkin

Translated by Ivan Eubanks