Pushkin: No It's Just You (From Russian)

No It's Just You

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

So you're a Pole. No harm in this.
Kościuszko is. Mickiewicz is.
You could be any kind of foreign.
Be Tatar even. No harm there.
Or be a Jew. I still don't care.
The harm's that you're Vidocq Vulgarin.*

*The original Фигляринъ is a transposition of the name “Булгаринъ” based on the word “фигляръ” (“joker, fool”). I've substituted something else that might have meaning in English.

The Original:

Не то бѣда, что ты полякъ:
Костюшко ляхъ, Мицкевичъ ляхъ!
Пожалуй, будь себѣ татаринъ, —
И тутъ не вижу я стыда;
Будь жидъ — и это не бѣда;
Бѣда, что ты Видокъ Фигляринъ.

Alexander Pushkin: "What's in my name for you?" (From Russian)

"What's in my name for you?
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

What’s in my name for you? What good?
It will just die like the sad sound
of waves that splash their last on ground,
like a night noise in toneless wood.

Lifeless its marks will lie among
these album pages: the design
of someone's epitaphic line
in some unfathomable tongue.

What's in it then? Lost to the past
in new emotions' wild infection,
upon your soul it will not cast
the tender rays of recollection.

But one day, sorrowful and still,
pronounce it with a sigh and say
"There is a memory of me still,
a heart I live in to this day!”

The Original:

Что въ имени тебѣ моемъ?

Оно умретъ, какъ шумъ печальный

Волны, плеснувшей въ берегъ дальный,

Какъ звукъ ночной въ лѣсу глухомъ.

Оно на памятномъ листкѣ

Оставитъ мертвый слѣдъ, подобной

Узору надписи надгробной

На непонятномъ языкѣ.

Что въ немъ? Забытое давно

Въ волненьяхъ новыхъ и мятежныхъ,

Твоей душѣ не дастъ оно

Воспоминаній чистыхъ, нѣжныхъ.

Но въ день печали, въ тишинѣ,

Произнеси его тоскуя;

Скажи: есть память обо мнѣ,

Есть въ мірѣ сердце, гдѣ живу я...

Pushkin: To The Sea (From Russian)

This may be thought of as Pushkin's locus amœnus poem, and it was an absolute pain in the ass to translate. Seriously. Not because the language is hard, or even because of the (today) opaque allusions, but because of the resonances of language. Pushkin's gift is the ability to phrase an idea in such a way, and in such a context, that the Russophone reader somehow just feels that this is the natural way to say it. Much as Shakespeare constructed phrases (not merely obvious ones such as to thine own self be true, the fault is not in the stars, doth protest to much, to be or not to be, one fell swoop, star-crossed lovers but also words many English speakers use every day such as good riddance, laughingstock, what's done is done, hoist by one's own petard, seen better days, strange bedfellows, a sorry sight) that, by dint of talent and a hefty amount of luck, became part of the English semanticon, so too did Pushkin make much of the Russian phrasebank in his own image. One example from this poem is властитель дум "master/potentate of (one's) thoughts/ideas" a term which in modern Russian is now used to describe the dominant intellectual influence either on a person or on an age.

To The Sea
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Farewell, unfettered element!
Before me now one final time
You roll those azure waves again
And sparkle with a pride sublime.

Like an old friend's regretful sigh,
Like his last faint goodbye through tears,
Your summoning sound, your sounding cry,
This one last time now fills my ears.

You cherished precinct of my heart.
How often I in twilight went
Quiet and dark along your beach,
Wracked by a sacred deep intent¹.

And what dear answers you would send:
Dim primal sounds, the chasm's call
The silences of eveningfall
And those impulsive flights of wind.

The humble sail of fishers' slips,
With the protection of your mood,
Bravely amid your watertips,
But you, a Titan unsubdued,
Roll rough and drown a herd of ships.

I did not have the luck to flee
this tedious, dry and stirless shore,
to greet your waves with ecstasy
and go poetically free
across your crests forevermore.

You called and waited... I was shackled
while my soul rioted in vain.
Bound by a spell of potent passion
beside the beach I would remain.

What's to regret? Toward what far shoal
Could I my madcap voyage chart?
In all your open wilds, one goal
Might still have power to strike my heart,

One cliff...that sepulcher of glory
There a chill slumber in the west
Whelmed memories of a mighty story...
There was Napoleon felled to rest.

He rested there in tribulations.
And, after him as thunder, rolls
Yet one more genius of the nations,
One more commander of our souls²

Leaving the world his wreath forever
He vanished, grieved by liberty.
Seethe! Sound! Blow wild with angry weather.
He was your one true bard, O Sea. 

In him your spirit left its mark,
In your own image he was framed:

Potent like you, profound and dark
Like you, an element untamed.

The world's a void. Now in that cold
Whither, O Sea, would you with me?
In every land one fate takes hold: 
Each drop of virtue is patrolled
By technocrats...or tyranny3.

So, Sea, farewell. I will recall
Your august splendor all my years.
Long shall your boom as evenings fall
Sound and resound within my ears.

To woods and hushful wastes, today
Imbued anew with you, I bring
Your gleam and shadow, cliff and bay,
And your dear waves' blue rumoring. 


Notes:
¹: A reference to Pushkin's plan (which ultimately never materialized) to escape Russia and head for western Europe via the Baltic. This idea is also alluded to in stanzas 6 and 7.
²: A reference to the poet Byron, who had died at Missolonghi earlier that year (1824.)
³: The original says "enlightenment" instead of "tecnhnocrats." The latter word didn't exist in Pushkin's time. Here Pushkin was using an instance of the old Romantic idea that "enlightenment" seen in western Europe as a herald of liberation was nothing more than tyranny in new garb. Pushkin's experience of this had to do with the way in which modernization and reform were being and had been implemented in Russia, being used to entrench power rather than challenge it. 

The Original:

К Морю
Александр Пушкин

       Прощай, свободная стихія!

Въ послѣдній разъ передо мной

Ты катишь волны голубыя

И блещешь гордою красой.

       Какъ друга ропотъ заунывный,

Какъ зовъ его въ прощальный часъ,

Твой грустный шумъ, твой шумъ призывный

Услышалъ я въ послѣдній разъ.

       Моей души предѣлъ желанный!

Какъ часто по брегамъ твоимъ

Бродилъ я тихій и туманный,

Завѣтнымъ умысломъ томимъ!

       Какъ я любилъ твои отзывы,

Глухіе звуки, бездны гласъ

И тишину въ вечерній часъ,

И своенравные порывы!

       Смиренный парусъ рыбарей,

Твоею прихотью хранимый,

Скользитъ отважно средь зыбей:

Но ты взыгралъ, неодолимый;

И стая тонетъ кораблей.

       Не удалось навѣкъ оставить

Мнѣ скучный, неподвижный брегъ,

Тебя восторгами поздравить

И по хребтамъ твоимъ направить

Мой поэтическій побѣгъ.

       Ты ждалъ, ты звалъ... я былъ окованъ;

Вотще рвалась душа моя:

Могучей страстью очарованъ,

У береговъ остался я.

       О чемъ жалѣть? Куда бы нынѣ

Я путь безпечный устремилъ?

Одинъ предметъ въ твоей пустынѣ

Мою бы душу поразилъ.

       Одна скала, гробница славы...

Тамъ погружались въ хладный сонъ

Воспоминанья величавы:

Тамъ угасалъ Наполеонъ.

       Тамъ онъ почилъ среди мученій.

И вслѣдъ за нимъ, какъ бури шумъ,

Другой отъ насъ умчался геній,

Другой властитель нашихъ думъ.

       Исчезъ, оплаканный свободой,

Оставя міру свой вѣнецъ.

Шуми, взволнуйся непогодой:

Онъ былъ, о море, твой пѣвецъ.

       Твой образъ былъ на немъ означенъ,

Онъ духомъ созданъ былъ твоимъ:

Какъ ты, могущъ, глубокъ и мраченъ,

Какъ ты, ничѣмъ неукротимъ.

       Міръ опустѣлъ... Теперь куда же

Меня бъ ты вынесъ, океанъ?

Судьба людей повсюду та же:

Гдѣ благо, тамъ уже на стражѣ

Иль просвѣщенье, иль тиранъ.

       Прощай же, море! не забуду

Твоей торжественной красы,

И долго, долго слышать буду

Твой гулъ въ вечерніе часы.

       Въ лѣса, въ пустыни молчаливы

Перенесу, тобою полнъ,

Твои скалы, твои заливы,

И блескъ, и тѣнь, и говоръ волнъ.

Pushkin: Ode to Liberty (From Russian)

This poem was, at the time of writing, held to be subversive and revolutionary in Russia. It had a talismanic significance for many a young revolutionary. Manuscript copies of it were often confiscated upon arrest. One, for example, was among the "disloyal writings possessed by officers of the Kiev Grenadier Regiment." Tsar Alexander's reaction to the popularity of this poem was that "Pushkin must be exiled". Capo d'Istrias wrote in his capacity as head of the Foreign Office :

"Некоторые поэтические произведения, а в особенности Ода на свободу, привлекли внимание правительства на г. Пушкина. Среди великих красот замысла и слога это последнее стихотворение свидетельствует об опасных началах, почерпнутых в современной школе, или, лучше сказать, в системе анархии, недобросовестно именуемой системой прав человека, свободы и независимости народов"
"Some pieces of verse and most of all an ode to liberty directed the government's attentions toward Mr. Pushkin. Among the greatest beauties of conception and style this latter piece gives evidence of dangerous principles drawn from the ideas of our age, or, more precisely, that system of anarchy dishonestly called the system of human rights, of freedom and the independence of nations."

 

Here's me reciting the original Russian followed by the English


Ode to Liberty
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman


Go shrinking from my eyes and sing
No more, Cythera's¹ frail queen. Flee.
Where are you, scourge of Tsar and King, 
Proud Muse of Freedom? Come to me. 
Come now and tear my laurels down  
And smash the pampered lyre tonight.  
Let Freedom be my song to smite  
The scum that capers in a crown. 

Reveal to me the noble path 
Where that exalted Gaul² once strode, 
When you in storied Days of Wrath 
Inspired in him a dauntless Ode. 
Now, favored little pets of fate, 
You Tyrants of the Nations, tremble! 
But you, Slaves, hearken and assemble. 
Be men. Arise now and be great. 

Wherever my eyes fall, they see 
A body flayed, an ankle chained, 
The powerless tears of Slavery, 
The Law perverted and profaned. 
Everywhere an iniquitous 
Power in the fog of superstition 
Ascends: Vainglory's fateful passion, 
And Slavery's grisly genius.  

The only sovereigns with a head 
Free of the Nations' misery, 
Rule where the mighty Law is wed 
Steely with holy Liberty, 
Where their firm shield is spread for all, 
Where in a Nation's faithful hand 
Among mere equals in the land 
The sword can equitably fall³

To smite transgression from on high 
With one blow, righteously severe 
In fingers uncorrupted by 
Ravenous avarice or fear. 
Kings, you are throned and crowned by will 
And law of Man, not Nature's hand. 
Though you above the people stand, 
Eternal Law stands higher still. 

But woe betide the nation now 
Where it is blithely slumbering, 
Where Law itself is forced to bow 
Before the Masses, or the King. 
Here is the Man: witness he bears 
To his forebears’ infamous error 
And in the storm of recent Terror 
Laid down kingly neck for theirs. 

King Louis to his death ascends⁴ 
In sight of hushed posterity, 
His crownless, beaten head he bends: 
Blood for the block of perfidy.  
The Laws hush and the People too. 
The lawless guillotine-blade falls. 
And over freshly fettered Gauls⁵
A ghastly purple starts to spew. 

You psychopathic autocrat,⁶
You and your throne I do despise! 
You and your children die. To that  
I turn with joyous loathing eyes. 
Upon your brow the Peoples read 
The signature of stamped damnation. 
Stain of the world, shame of creation, 
Reproach on earth to God in deed! 

When on the dark Neva the star 
Of midnight makes the water gleam,  
When carefree eyelids near and far  
Are overwhelmed with peaceful dream, 
The poet, roused with intellect, 
Sees the lone tyrant's statue loom 
Grimly asleep amid the gloom, 
The palace now a derelict,⁷ 

And Clio's⁸ awesome call he hears 
Behind those awesome walls of power. 
Vivid before his sight appears 
The foul Caligula's last hour. 
In stars and ribbons he espies 
Assassins drunk with wine and spite 
Approaching, furtive in the night 
With wolfish hearts and brazen eyes. 

And silent stands the faithless guard, 
The drawbridge downed without alarm, 
The gate in dark of night unbarred 
By treason’s mercenary arm. 
The shame! The terror of our time!  
Those Janissary beasts burst in⁹
And slash. The Criminal Sovereign 
Is butchered by unholy crime.  

Now Monarchs, this lesson well:  
No punishment, no accolade, 
No altar and no dungeon cell 
Can be your steadfast barricade. 
The first bowed head must be your own 
Beneath Law's trusty canopy 
Then Peoples' life and liberty 
Forevermore shall guard your throne. 

Notes:

¹ I.e. Venus Aphrodite, associated in antiquity with the Ionian island of Cythera.

²The identity of this "exalted Gaul" is one of the many quarrels with which scholars of Pushkinian minutiae have busied themselves. Possibilities range from Nabokov's suggestion of the minor poet Ponce Denis Ecouchard Le Brun, to the sadly underrated (by modern critics) poet André Chénier who died on the guillotine at the age of 31, to Jacques de Molay- last grand master of the Knights Templar. For a variety of reasons Chénier seems the most likely, or rather, the only likely choice. But obviously this is a question of interest to historians and the appreciator of poetry doesn't, or at least shouldn't, care.

³ C.f. Guillaume Thomas Raynal's Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes where he writes:

La loi n'est rien, si ce n'est pas un glaive qui se promène indistinctement sur toutes les têtes, et qui abat ce qui s'élève au-dessus du plan horizontal sur lequel il se meut. La loi ne commande à personne ou commande à tous. Devant la loi, ainsi que devant Dieu, tous sont égaux.
The law is nothing, unless it be a sword passing indiscriminately over all heads, and smiting all that rise above the horizontal plane in which it moves. The law governs none, or governs all. Before the Law as before God, all are equal

⁴King Louis XVI, guillotined in 1793 during the reign of Terror.

⁵i.e. Napoleonic purple.

⁶ i.e. Napoleon. Yeah, I know, "psychopath" wasn't a word in the early 19th century.

⁷ The Tyrant here referred to is Tsar Paul I, father of the then-current Tsar Alexander I. The poem was written in the Turgenevs' apartment which looked out across the canal at the Mikhailovsky Castle, the scene of Paul's assassination in 1801- an event envisioned in the subsequent two stanzas. In Pushkin's time, Paul was considered and depicted as a royal psychopath who ignored the will of his subjects.

⁸- Clio: the muse of History.

⁹ Janissaries: i.e. assassins fierce and ruthless as Turkish troops. 

Вольность: Ода
Александр Пушкин

Бѣги, сокройся отъ очей

Цитеры слабая Царица. 

Гдѣ ты? — Гдѣ ты? — Гроза Царей,

Свободы гордая Пѣвица! 

Приди, сорви съ меня вѣнокъ;

Разбѣй изнѣженную Лиру. 

Хочу воспѣть Свободу міру,

На Тронахъ поразить порокъ. 

Открой мнѣ благородной слѣдъ

Того возвышеннаго Галла;

Кому сама средь славныхъ бѣдъ,

Ты Гимны смѣлыя внушала. 

Питомцы вѣтренной Судьбы,

Тираны Мира! Трепещите! 

А вы мужайтесь и внемлите,

Возстаньте падшіе рабы. 

Увы!.. Куда не брошу взоръ;

Вездѣ бичи, вездѣ железы.

Народа гибельный позоръ,

Неволи немощныя слезы. 

Вездѣ неправедная Власть. 

Въ сгущенной мглѣ предразсужденій,

Возсѣла — Рабства грозный Геній,

И славы роковая страсть. 

Лишь тамъ надъ Царскою главой

Народовъ не легло страданье,

Гдѣ крѣпко съ Вольностью святой

Законовъ мощныхъ сочетанье; 

Гдѣ всѣмъ простертъ ихъ твердый щитъ,

Гдѣ сжатый вѣрными руками

Гражданъ надъ равными стенами

Ихъ мечь безъ выбора скользитъ. 

И преступленье съ высока

Сражаетъ праведнымъ размахомъ,

Гдѣ не подкупна ихъ рука

Ни алчной скупостью ни страхомъ.

Владыки!.. Вамъ венецъ и Тронъ

Даетъ Законъ, а не Природа:

Стоите выше вы народа;

Но вѣчной выше васъ Законъ.

И горе, горе! Племенамъ

Гдѣ дремлетъ онъ неосторожно,

Гдѣ иль Народу, иль Царямъ

Закономъ властвовать возможно.

Тебя въ свидѣтели зову

О, мученикъ ошибокъ славныхъ!

За предковъ въ шумѣ бурь недавнихъ

Сложивший Царскую главу.

Восходитъ къ смерти Людовикъ,

Въ виду безмолвнаго потомства.

Главой развѣнчанной приникъ

Къ кровавой плахѣ вероломства.

Молчитъ Законъ. Народъ молчитъ.

Падетъ преступная секира...

И се — злодѣйская Порфира

На Галлахъ скованныхъ лежитъ.

Самовластительной Злодѣй!

Тебя, твой Тронъ я ненавижу.

Твою погибель, смерть дѣтей

Съ жестокой радостію вижу.

Читают на твоемъ челѣ

Печать проклятія народы.

Ты ужасъ Мира, стыдъ Природы;

Упрекъ ты Богу на землѣ. 

Когда на мрачную Неву

Звѣзда полуночи сверкаетъ,

И беззаботную главу

Спокойной сонъ отягощаетъ,

Глядитъ задумчивый Пѣвецъ

На грозно спящій средь тумана

Пустынный памятникъ Тирана,

Забвенью брошенный Дворецъ. 

И Кліи слышитъ страшный гласъ

Надъ сими страшными стѣнами,

Калигулы послѣдній часъ

Онъ видитъ живо предъ очами.

Онъ видитъ въ лентахъ и звѣздахъ

Виномъ и Злобой упоенны,

Идутъ убійцы потаенны.

На лицахъ дерзость, въ сердце страхъ. 

Молчитъ невѣрной часовой,

Опущенъ молча мостъ подъемной,

Врата отверсты въ тьмѣ ночной

Рукой предательства наемной.

О, стыдъ! О, ужасъ нашихъ дней!

Какъ звѣри вторглисъ янычары,

Падутъ безславныя удары;

Погибъ увенчанный Злодѣй! 

И днесь учитеся Цари:

Не наказанья, ни награды;

Ни кровъ темницъ; ни алтари,

Не вѣрныя для васъ ограды. 

Склонитесь перьвые главой

Подъ сѣнь надежную Закона,

И станутъ вѣчной стражей Трона

Народовъ Вольность и Покой.

Pushkin: Daemon (From Russian)

Daemon
By A.S. Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

In days gone by, when all of life's
Impressions offered me new thrills:
A murmurous grove, a maiden's eyes,
The nightingale in twilit hills....
When my sublimest aspirations
For freedom, glory, love and art
Instilled of holy inspiration,
So stirred the blood and spurred the heart,
Then were the days of bliss and promise
With wakeful anguish overcast,
As secretly a wicked Genius
Began to visit me unasked.
Grim were the meetings that we had:
His witching glance, the grins he stole,
The sting of every word he spat
Infused cold poison through my soul.
With indefatigable slander
He tempted Providence, and smiled. 
Beauty he called a simple fancy,
And inspiration he reviled. 
He doubted freedom, love, salvation
And turned on life a sneering gaze,
As there was naught in all Creation
He cared to bless with any praise.


The Original:

Демон
А.С. Пушкин

В те дни, когда мне были новы
Все впечатленья бытия —
И взоры дев, и шум дубровы,
И ночью пенье соловья —
Когда возвышенные чувства,
Свобода, слава и любовь
И вдохновенные искусства
Так сильно волновали кровь, —
Часы надежд и наслаждений
Тоской внезапной осеня,
Тогда какой-то злобный гений
Стал тайно навещать меня.
Печальны были наши встречи:
Его улыбка, чудный взгляд,
Его язвительные речи
Вливали в душу хладный яд.
Неистощимой клеветою
Он провиденье искушал;
Он звал прекрасное мечтою;
Он вдохновенье презирал;
Не верил он любви, свободе;
На жизнь насмешливо глядел —
И ничего во всей природе
Благословить он не хотел.

Pushkin: Stanzas from Eugene Onegin (From Russian)

Below are translations of a few individual stanzas from from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. I dream of someday creating a complete translation of the whole book, but I lack the time and sustained energy to do so. For now, I have the first handful of stanzas from Canto 1, plus some others parts that I had a mind to translate, too. As I translate more from Onegin, the stanzas in question will be added in their proper place on this page, and the page itself bumped back up to the most recent entry slot with a note below this paragraph as to what has been added. 

Updates:
2/3/15: Added stanzas 8.I and 8.II, major revisions to 1.II and 1.VI.

Stanzas From Eugene Onegin
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

1.I

"My uncle, man of true conviction... By falling genuinely sick He's won respect in his affliction And could have planned no better trick.   His model is worth imitating; But Jesus, it's excruciating To attend a patient night and day And never move a step away! And oh, the shameful machination Of humoring someone nearly dead, Fluffing out pillows for his head, Morosely bringing medication And thinking, with a practiced sigh, 'Get on with it already. Die!'"

«Мой дядя самых честных правил, Когда не в шутку занемог, Он уважать себя заставил И лучше выдумать не мог. Его пример другим наука; Но, боже мой, какая скука С больным сидеть и день и ночь, Не отходя ни шагу прочь! Какое низкое коварство Полуживого забавлять, Ему подушки поправлять, Печально подносить лекарство, Вздыхать и думать про себя: Когда же черт возьмет тебя!»

1.II

So mused a rakehell in reflection     Riding by post through dust and din. He was, through natural selection By Jove, sole heir to all his kin. Friends of Ruslan from my last story*, Let me spare you all prefatory Delay, and introduce this new Protagonist of mine to you: Onegin, my good friend and brother, Was born beside the Neva's** swell, Where maybe, reader, you as well Were born, or shone some way or other. There I myself once played and strolled Until I caught that northern cold***.

Так думал молодой повеса, Летя в пыли на почтовых, Всевышней волею Зевеса Наследник всех своих родных. Друзья Людмилы и Руслана! С героем моего романа Без предисловий, сей же час Позвольте познакомить вас: Онегин, добрый мой приятель, Родился на брегах Невы, Где, может быть, родились вы Или блистали, мой читатель; Там некогда гулял и я: Но вреден север для меня.

Notes: *"Ruslan and Ludmila", a previous and wildly successful verse tale of Pushkin's
** Neva. i.e. along the Neva river, which is to say in St. Petersburg.
*** i.e. a reference to Pushkin's banishment

1.III

A noble man who'd served sincerely, His father lived by borrowing, He entertained with three balls yearly And finally squandered everything. Fate handled my Onegin gently Madame first cared for him intently Till someone else took on from her The nice, if boisterous, boy: Monsieur       L'Abbée, a feckless wretch from Paris Taught the boy everything in jest, Kept moral strictures slight at best Lest he should bother or embarrass. He'd punish pranks with one remark And then a stroll in Summer Park*

Служив отлично благородно, Долгами жил его отец, Давал три бала ежегодно И промотался наконец. Судьба Евгения хранила: Сперва Madame за ним ходила, Потом Monsieur ее сменил. Ребенок был резов, но мил. Monsieur l’Abbé, француз убогой, Чтоб не измучилось дитя, Учил его всему шутя, Не докучал моралью строгой, Слегка за шалости бранил И в Летний сад гулять водил.

* "Summer Park" - the Royal "Létny Sad" built near the imperial Palace.

1.IV

But when at last the restless morrow      Of adolescence touched Eugene, The time of hope and tender sorrow, Monsieur was booted from the scene. Eugene's at large now. Taking care to Display the latest voguish hairdo, And dressed like a London Dandy, he At last saw high society. In French which he had quite perfected He could express himself and write, And when he danced, his step was light His bow completely unaffected. What's more to want? The verdict ran: A witty, charming, gentle man.

Когда же юности мятежной Пришла Евгению пора, Пора надежд и грусти нежной, Monsieur прогнали со двора. Вот мой Онегин на свободе; Острижен по последней моде, Как dandy лондонский одет — И наконец увидел свет. Он по-французски совершенно Мог изъясняться и писал; Легко мазурку танцевал И кланялся непринужденно; Чего ж вам больше? Свет решил, Что он умен и очень мил.

1. V

We've all received some education In something, somehow, have we not?     So thank the Lord that in our nation Playing the thinker takes no thought. Eugene was in the view of many (Judges as strict and fair as any) Learnèd, if prone to pedantry. He had the happy ability For free and easy conversation, For handling any grave dispute With an air of learning and astute Silence in lieu of confrontation, And lighting up a lady's gaze With sudden fiery turns of phrase.

Мы все учились понемногу Чему-нибудь и как-нибудь, Так воспитаньем, слава богу, У нас немудрено блеснуть. Онегин был по мненью многих (Судей решительных и строгих) Ученый малый, но педант: Имел он счастливый талант Без принужденья в разговоре Коснуться до всего слегка, С ученым видом знатока Хранить молчанье в важном споре И возбуждать улыбку дам Огнем нежданных эпиграмм.

1. VI

Latin's gone out of fashion for us. But he had learned, be in no doubt, Enough of the great tongue of Horace To figure Latin phrases out, Cite Juvenal from French translations, Add "vale" in his salutations. There was a line (on good days, two) By Virgil that he nearly knew. He had no scholar's predilection To delve through diachronic dust Of the world's histories caked with must. There was, though, quite a large collection     Of anecdotes he could recite From Troy's destruction to last night.

Латынь из моды вышла ныне: Так, если правду вам сказать, Он знал довольно по-латыне, Чтоб эпиграфы разбирать, Потолковать об Ювенале, В конце письма поставить vale, Да помнил, хоть не без греха, Из Энеиды два стиха. Он рыться не имел охоты В хронологической пыли Бытописания земли: Но дней минувших анекдоты От Ромула до наших дней Хранил он в памяти своей.

.........
1.XLVI

He who has lived and thought can never   Look on mankind without disgust, He who has felt is wracked forever By ghosts of days forever lost. Gone are enchantment and affection. In him the snake of recollection And sick repentance eats the heart. All this will oftentimes impart A savory charm to conversations. Though first unsettled and confused   By Eugene's tongue, I did get used To his abrasive disputations, His blend of bile and comedy, His somber, vicious repartee.

Кто жил и мыслил, тот не может В душе не презирать людей; Кто чувствовал, того тревожит Призрак невозвратимых дней: Тому уж нет очарований, Того змия воспоминаний, Того раскаянье грызет. Все это часто придает Большую прелесть разговору. Сперва Онегина язык Меня смущал; но я привык К его язвительному спору, И к шутке, с желчью пополам, И злости мрачных эпиграмм.

..........
8.I

In those days when I bloomed serenely     In Lycée gardens, long ago, I'd read my Apuleius keenly But ne'er a word of Cicero - In those spring days, in secret dales Where swans called out along the trails By lakes in stilly air agleam, The Muse first came to bid me dream. My student cell filled with enchanted And sudden light. The Muse spread there A feast of youthful fancies fair. She sang of childhood cheers, and chanted   The glory of our lays of old, The tremulous reveries hearts can hold.

В те дни, когда в садах Лицея Я безмятежно расцветал, Читал охотно Апулея, А Цицерона не читал, В те дни в таинственных долинах, Весной, при кликах лебединых, Близ вод, сиявших в тишине, Являться муза стала мне. Моя студенческая келья Вдруг озарилась: муза в ней Открыла пир младых затей, Воспела детские веселья, И славу нашей старины, И сердца трепетные сны.

8.II

And with a smile my Muse was greeted. What wings our first successes gave! By Old Derzhávin we were heeded And blessed before he reached the grave.....

И свет ее с улыбкой встретил; Успех нас первый окрылил; Старик Державин нас заметил И в гроб сходя, благословил.

...........
8.XXIX

Love is to every age a master, But for the virginal young alone Its flurries are a wholesome rapture Like vernal storms on meadows blown. They freshen under passion's shower, Renew and ripen into flower, As life empowered sends up shoots Of sumptuous blooms and luscious fruits.     But on the cusp of growing older, With late and fruitless days ahead Sad is the scar of passions dead. So autumn storms as they blow colder Transform a meadow to morass And strip whole forests as they pass.

Любви все возрасты покорны; Но юным, девственным сердцам Ее порывы благотворны, Как бури вешние полям: В дожде страстей они свежеют, И обновляются, и зреют — И жизнь могущая дает И пышный цвет и сладкий плод. Но в возраст поздний и бесплодный, На повороте наших лет, Печален страсти мертвой след: Так бури осени холодной В болото обращают луг И обнажают лес вокруг.

Pushkin: Stanzas to Tsar Nicholas I (From Russian)

Stanzas to Tsar Nicholas I

By Alexander Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

In hopes of glory and good will

With fearless gaze I look ahead.

The star of Peter's dawn was ill

With many a rebel's severed head.

But he with truth engaged men's hearts.

His learning tempered whims and fears.

He honored Dolgorúki's arts 

Before the fray of Musketeers.

He bid with autocratic hand

Seeds of enlightenment grow free,

And did not spurn his native land,

Knowing full well its destiny.

Man of the sword, man of the scroll,

As shipmate and as shipwright known,

For with his all-embracing soul

He was a workman on the throne. 

In kinship likeness, then, take pride;

By noble lineage stand defined.

Like him let staunchness be your guide.

Eschew, like him, a vengeful mind.

Notes:
Line 1: Czar Nicholas had just let Pushkin out of exile upon his accession to the throne.
Line 3: i.e. Peter the Great
Line 7: Vasiliy Dolgoruki, sent abroad to be educated by Peter and later represented the Russian empire in several embassies in Western Europe. His later career was decidedly less lofty and decidedly unsuccessful in preventing his head from being liberated from the rest of his body.
Line 8: The Musketeers i.e. the Streltsy, units of guardsmen responsible mainly for border and municiple duties (including the protection of the Kremlin) who attempted to prevent Peter from coming to power 1682 and were subsequently disbanded.

Original:

Въ надеждѣ славы и добра

Гляжу впередъ я безъ боязни:

Начало славныхъ дней Петра

Мрачили мятежи и казни.

Но правдой онъ привлекъ сердца,

Но нравы укротилъ наукой,

И былъ отъ буйнаго стрѣльца

Предъ нимъ отличенъ Долгорукой.

Самодержавною рукой

Онъ смѣло сѣялъ просвѣщенье,

Не презиралъ страны родной:

Онъ зналъ ея предназначенье.

То академикъ, то герой,

То мореплаватель, то плотникъ,

Онъ всеобъемлющей душой

На тронѣ вѣчный былъ работникъ.

Семейнымъ сходствомъ будь же гордъ;

Во всемъ будь пращуру подобенъ:

Какъ онъ, неутомимъ и твердъ,

И памятью, какъ онъ, незлобенъ.

Pushkin: To Dawe. Esq. (From Russian)

George Dawe was an English portrait-artist who had the habit of doing spontaneous pencil sketches of people he met.

To Dawe. Esq.
By A.S. Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Why would your sublime pencil draw
The features of my negroid face?
Though meant for future eyes, the devil
Has advocates for its disgrace.

Draw Miss Olénina instead.
When inspiration flames the heart,
Nothing but youth and beauty ever
Should summon genius to art.


The Original:

To Dawe, Esq.

Зачем твой дивный карандаш
Рисует мой арапский профиль?
Хоть ты векам его предашь,
Его освищет Мефистофель.

Рисуй Олениной черты.
В жару сердечных вдохновений,
Лишь юности и красоты
Поклонником быть должен гений.

Pushkin: Exegi Monumentum (From Russian)

Exegi Monumentum

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

We heard him say, "I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and within three days I will build another made without hands."

-Mark 14:58

I've reared my monument that was not made with hands.

The public path to it cannot be overgrown.

With proud and unbowed head far loftier it stands

               than even Alexander's stone.

No, I shall not all die. My soul in hallowed berth

of art shall brave decay and from my dust take wing,

and I shall be renowned while on this mortal earth

               a single poet lives to sing.

Tidings of me shall spread through all the realm of Rus

and every tribe in Her shall name me as they speak:

the haughty western Slav, the yet untamed Tungus,

               the Finn and steppe-roaming Kalmyk.

And long shall I be dear in all a people's eyes

for how this sacred lyre bade kind thought stir again,

how in this tyrant age I sang of Freedom's rise,

               and mercy toward fallen men.

Honor and heed the Lord and His commands, O Muse.

To slander as to praise show equal nonchalance.

Do not demand a wreath and do not fear abuse

               and do not argue with a dunce.

 

The Original:

                     Exegi monumentum

             

Я памятникъ себѣ воздвигъ нерукотворной;

Къ нему не зарастетъ народная тропа;

Вознесся выше онъ главою непокорной

‎Александрiйскаго столпа.

Нѣтъ! весь я не умру! Душа въ завѣтной лирѣ

Мой прахъ переживетъ и тлѣнья убѣжитъ —

И славенъ буду я, доколь въ подлунномъ мiрѣ

‎Живъ будетъ хоть одинъ пiитъ.

Слухъ обо мнѣ пройдетъ по всей Руси великой,

И назоветъ меня всякъ сущiй въ ней языкъ:

И гордый внукъ славянъ, и финнъ, и нынѣ дикой

‎Тунгузъ, и другъ степей калмыкъ.

И долго буду тѣмъ любезенъ я народу,

Что чувства добрыя я лирой пробуждалъ,

Что въ мой жестокой вѣкъ возславилъ я свободу,

‎И милость къ падшимъ призывалъ.

Велѣнью Божiю, о муза, будь послушна:

Обиды не страшась, не требуя вѣнца,

Хвалу и клевету прiемли равнодушно

И не оспоривай глупца.

Pushkin: The Wagon of Life (From Russian)

The ability to employ both "high" and "low" registers of language to contrastive effect is a feature not only of Pushkin's art but also his way of thinking and, to judge from the accounts of those who knew him, his personality as well. 
A woman who knew him, Alexandra Smirnova, remarked that he was quite the "lover of the obscene" (любитель непристойного). The diplomat Nikolai Kiselev, another of his acquaintances, (to whom Smirnova had made this remark about Pushkin) said "Unfortunately, I know as much, and have never been able to find an explanation for his incongruous way of shifting between the obscene and the sublime." (к несчастью, я это знаю и никогда не  мог  себе  объяснить  эту антитезу перехода от непристойного к возвышенному.)  
As Alyssa Gillespie noted in her article "Bawdy and Soul: Pushkin's Poetics of Obscenity"  

Both obscenity and sublimity involve the transcendence of mundane verbal formulas and meaningless clichés and both, therefore, serve Pushkin's uplifting poetic purpose of liberating human thought and self-expression 

Moreover as Gillespie, whose above-quoted article may be found in the excellent collection Taboo Pushkin, is well aware, this aspect of Pushkin's poetics and thought-processes has been neglected much by the scholarly community both Russian and non-Russian, and is generally unappreciated and unacknowledged as much by the translator as by the Russophone casual reader. Few indeed are the Russians who, in praising their national poet, would care to mention or be informed of the fact that he was fond of making jokes in verse about the size of somebody's dick one day, and write of angels and demons the next.
The poem translated here is an awesome example of Pushkin's willingness to blend the sublime/lofty and the obscene/vulgar, foregrounding an oft-neglected (and oft-avoided) aspect of the great poet's aesthetic. The poem is almost always censored in Russian print editions (I include the Russian text unbowdlerized and in the form in which Pushkin circulated it in manuscript), and when translated into English, German and French has had the profanity and colloquialism airbrushed out of it by translators and/or editors who lacked Pushkin's appreciation for linguistic variation. 

The Wagon of Life

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Whatever heavy load it carries,

The wagon's light on steppe and street.

Grey Time, the coachman, never wearies
And never leaves the driver's seat.

At dawn we jump inside the wagon,
Quite happy for our necks to break.
Scorning all soft delight and languor,

We yell "Get going, for fuck's sake!"

By noon we've lost that daring folly,

Being jerked around. We're wagon-sick

Afraid of every hill and gully,

And yell "Slow down, you lunatic!"

But on we rush round every bend.

We're used to it, come evening's yawn.

Heading to night, to journey's end,

We doze. Time drives the horses on. 

Notes:

L7 and 8- Line 7 in the original Russian reads i preziráia len' i négu "and, disdaining indolence and sensuousness." The term nega "sensuousness", suggestive of creature comforts, leisure and sexual allure all at once, is one of those words that is curiously hard to render from Russian into English (as "disillusionment" and "privacy" are difficult to render into Russian.) As Nabokov puts it in his Onegin commentary:

Nega, with its emphasis on otiose euphoria and associations with softness, luxuriousness, tenderness is not exactly synonymous with sladostrastie "sweet passion" or volupté "volupty" where the erotic element predominates. In using nega, Pushkin and his constellation were trying to render the French poetical formulas paresse voluptueuse, mollesse, molles délices, etc. which the English Arcadians had already turned into "soft delights."

Line 8 in the original Russian in Pushkin's manuscript reads kričim: valiái iebióna mat' ("we cry: 'move it, motherfucker!'") At some point valiái "move it" got mauled in publication to pošól "get going." Russian print editions of Pushkin's work censor this line further as kričím: pošól... ("We cry 'Get going...'") leaving the savvy reader to supply the iebióna mat' "motherfucker" on the basis of rhyme and metrical space. In fact, even when Pushkin's use of profanity is being discussed by scholars and the line's actual content needs to be specified, the most editors will allow is kričím: pošól, ie.... m... ("we cry: 'get going, m****rf***er.'") 

Lines 7 and 8 function juxtapositionally. The high-register néga and the adverbial participle preziráia "disdaining" are followed by the quite literally unprintable low-register iebióna mat' "motherfucker." The phrase preziráia len' "disdaining idleness" is a cliché-subversion of the idiom preziráia lest' "disdaining flattery" i.e. the attitude of one who does not deign to humor the ego of others.  The use of obscenity therefore carries a sense of defiance of normal social order. The switch in the following stanza to a non-obscene duraléi is likewise significant, as Pushkin did regard profanity as befitting juvenile circumstances, and was less foul-mouthed as he got older.

In an earlier draft of this translation I rendered stanza 2 as:

At dawn we jump inside the wagon.
Happy to break our necks like glass,
We scorn life's hedonistic languor,

And yell "Man, fuck it! Just haul ass!"

After this stanza was quoted here, I decided revision was in order. 

The Original:

Телега Жизни

А.С. Пушкин

Хоть тяжело подчасъ въ ней брѣмя,

Телѣга на ходу легка;

Ямщикъ лихой, сѣдое врѣмя,

Везетъ, не слѣзетъ съ облучка.

Съ утра садимся мы въ телѣгу;

Мы рады голову сломать

И, презирая лѣнь и нѣгу,

Кричимъ: валяй, ѣбена мать!

Но въ полдень нѣтъ ужъ той отваги;

Порастрясло насъ; намъ страшнѣй

И косогоры и овраги;

Кричимъ: полегче, дуралей!

Катитъ по-прежнему телѣга;

Подъ вечеръ мы привыкли къ ней

И, дремля, ѣдемъ до ночлѣга —

А время гонитъ лошадей.

Pushkin: "To...." (From Russian)

To....
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

I still recall a wondrous vision.

There you appeared to me in grace: 
The fleeting genius apparition
Of perfect beauty with a face.

Through hopeless sorrow that oppressed me,
Through life's alarm and senseless schemes
That caring voice and soul caressed me,
And that dear face would fill my dreams.

Years passed. The stormwinds whirled against me,
Scattering former dreams of grace,
And I forgot your voice caressed me,
Forgot the heavens of your face.

In wastes, away...in isolation
My days trudged on through quiet years,
No sense of God.... no inspiration
No sense of life.... no love....no tears.

The soul awakened to a vision
And once again you walked in grace:

The fleeting genius apparition

Of perfect beauty with a face.

The heart now bounds in exaltation.
In resurrection reappears
The sense of God.....and inspiration
And sense of life...and love...and tears

The Original:

К....
Александр Пушкин

Я помню чудное мгновенье:

Передо мной явилась ты,

Какъ мимолетное видѣнье,

Какъ генiй чистой красоты.

Въ томленьяхъ грусти безнадежной

Въ тревогахъ шумной суеты,

Звучалъ мнѣ долго голосъ нѣжной

И снились милыя черты.

Шли годы. Бурь порывъ мятежной

Разсѣялъ прежнiя мечты,

И я забылъ твой голосъ нѣжной,

Твои небесныя черты.

Въ глуши, во мракѣ заточенья

Тянулись тихо дни мои

Безъ божества, безъ вдохновенья,

Безъ слезъ, безъ жизни, безъ любви.

Душѣ настало пробужденье:

И вотъ опять явилась ты,

Какъ мимолетное видѣнье,

Какъ генiй чистой красоты.

И сердце бьется въ упоеньѣ,

И для него воскресли вновь

И божество, и вдохновенье,

И жизнь, и слезы, и любовь.

Pushkin: I Loved You (Russian)

I Loved You
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the Russian

I loved you, once: and love, it could well be,
Within my soul lies unextinguished yet.
But let the thought no longer trouble you.
I would not bring you anguish or regret.
I loved you with no words and to no end
Now timorous, now jealous, pain by pain.
I loved you though so tenderly, sincerely
I hope to God you're loved like that again.

The Original:

Я Вас Любил

Я васъ любилъ; любовь еще, быть можетъ,

Въ душѣ моей угасла не совсѣмъ;

Но пусть она васъ больше не тревожитъ;

Я не хочу печалить васъ ничѣмъ.

Я васъ любилъ безмолвно, безнадежно,

То робостью, то ревностью томимъ;

Я васъ любилъ так искренно, такъ нѣжно,

Какъ дай вамъ Богъ любимой быть другимъ.

Pushkin: The Invocation (From Russian)

The poem was first published after Pushkin’s death by Zhukovski. In his edition  it consists of three stanzas. However critics have shown that Pushkin himself crossed out the middle stanza. The poem may profitably be read as sixteen lines, with the middle eight lines being a variant. But I think it is even stronger as a 3-stanza poem, and so have translated it as such. 

The Invocation

By A.S. Pushkin

Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Oh if it's true that in the night

When all the living are in bed,

And fallen beams of lunar light

Slide onto headstones of the dead...

Oh if it's true that then till day

The graves are opened in the earth,

I call the shade of Layla forth!

Come back, my dear! This way! This way

Beloved shade, appear and rise

As once you were before we parted,

As pale and chill as winter skies,

By final agony contorted.

Come as a distant star, a ray,

As a light sound, a breath, a scent,

Or as a ghastly revenant

I care not how! This way! This way!

I do not call you to reprove

Or take revenge on those whose spite

Ended the life of her I love,

Nor to spy out death's undernight

Nor yet because I writhe as prey

To doubt… But, anguishing above you,

I want to say that I still love you

And am still yours! This way! This way!

The Original:

О, если правда, что в ночи,
Когда покоятся живые,
И с неба лунные лучи
Скользят на камни гробовые,
О, если правда, что тогда
Пустеют тихие могилы —
Я тень зову, я жду Леилы:
Ко мне, мой друг, сюда, сюда!

Явись, возлюбленная тень,
Как ты была перед разлукой,
Бледна, хладна, как зимний день,
Искажена последней мукой.
Приди, как дальная звезда,
Как легкий звук иль дуновенье,
Иль как ужасное виденье,
Мне все равно, сюда! сюда!..

Зову тебя не для того,
Чтоб укорять людей, чья злоба
Убила друга моего,
Иль чтоб изведать тайны гроба,
Не для того, что иногда
Сомненьем мучусь... но тоскуя
Хочу сказать, что все люблю я,
Что все я твой: сюда, сюда!

Pushkin: Night (From Russian)

Night
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

My voice for you is languid, low and light,
Troubling the silence of the dark, late night.
A sullen candle at the pillow's verge
Glows; and my verses murmurously merge
And gush; the brooks of love flow full of you
And in the darkness your eyes glisten through
To smile at me, there are the sounds I hear:
I'm yours....I'm yours....my dear...my only dear.


The Original:

Cyrillic　 Ночь Мой голос для тебя и ласковый и томный Тревожит поздное молчанье ночи темной. Близ ложа моего печальная свеча Горит; мои стихи, сливаясь и журча, Текут, ручьи любви, текут, полны тобою. Во тьме твои глаза блистают предо мною, Мне улыбаются, и звуки слышу я: Мой друг, мой нежный друг, люблю..твоя..твоя!

Romanization Nočʹ Moy gólos dlya tebyá i láskovïy i tómnïy Trevóžit pózdnoye molčáne nóči tyómnoy. Bliz lóža moyegó pečál'naya svečá Gorít; moí stixí, sliváyasʹ i žurčá, Tekút, ručʹí lyubví, tekút, polnḯ tobóyu. Vo tʹmé tvoí glazá blistáyut prédo mnóyu, Mne ulïbáyutsa, i zvúki slḯšu ja: Moy drug, moy néžnïy drug, lyublyú..tvoyá..tvoyá!

Pushkin: The Upas Tree (From Russian)

The Upas Tree¹
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the poem in Russian

On parched and conflagrated sands,
In sapped and grudging desolation,
The solitary Upas stands
Grim sentinel of all creation.

This thing was spawned one day of rage
From nature of the thirsting plain
That slaked the death-green foliage
And deep-set roots with sap of bane.

The venom oozes down the bark
Turned liquid in the midday blaze,
Congealing come the fall of dark
To clots of cruel, translucent glaze.

No tigers come nor birds alight.
None but the wind's black breath will dare
Circle about that tree of blight
And leave with newly deadly air.

And, should an errant cloud imbue
With rain the rank leaves' laden glands,
The branches drip a baneful dew
Onto incendiary sands.

But once a man dispatched a man
With one dread glance to that dead waste
And he obeyed. Away he ran
And brought the poison back with haste, 

Its lethal sap, its waxen bough
And desiccated leaves. The sweat
Across his sallow, stricken brow
Ran in a chilling rivulet.

He stumbled, sprawling in the hut
On a bast mat for his reward:
A poor slave's death before the foot
Of his invulnerable lord.

And in that poison brew their tsar
Dipped arrows under his command,
And loosed perdition near and far
On men of every neighboring land.

Notes:

1 The Upas Tree (Antiaris Toxicaria) produces a latex sap which, upon entering the human blood stream, causes cardiac arrest almost immediately. This sap has historically been used in central and east Asia in blowdarts and arrows.


Many thanks to: Dmitri Simenov for a Russian lexical item; Adam Elgar and Andrew Frisardi for advice on the English text; Lina Steiner for the encouragement after I foisted this translation on her.

The Original:

Анчар
Древо Яда
Александр Пушкин

Въ пустынѣ чахлой и скупой,

На почве, зноемъ раскаленной,

Анчаръ, какъ грозный часовой.

Стоить, одинъ во всей вселенной.

Природа жаждущихъ степей

Его въ день гнѣва породила 

И зелень мертвую ветвей,

И корни ядом напоила.

Ядь каплеть сквозь его кору,

Къ полудню растопясь отъ зною,

И застывает ввечеру

Густой, прозрачною смолою.

Къ нему и птица не летить.

И тигрь нейдеть; лишь вихорь черный

На древо смерти набѣжить 

И мчится прочь, уже тлетворный.

И если туча оросить,

Блуждая, листь его дремучій,

Сь его вѣтвей ужь ядовить

Стекаеть дождь въ песокъ горючій.

Но человѣка человѣкъ

Послалъ къ Анчару властным взглядом 

И тоть послушно въ путь потек,

И к утру возвратился съ ядомъ.

Принесъ онъ смертную смолу,

Да вѣтвь съ увядшими листами 

И поть по блѣдному челу

Струился хладными ручьями;

Принесъ и ослабѣлъ, и легь

Под сводомъ шалаша, на лыки,

И умеръ бѣдный рабь у ногъ

Непобедимаго владыки.

А Царь тѣмъ ядомъ напитал.

Свои послушливыя стрѣлы,

И съ ними гибель разослалъ

Къ соседямъ въ чуждые предѣлы

Alexander Pushkin: Winter Journey (From Russian)

Winter Journey
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

Down through shivering fog, the moon now
Makes its way across the night,
Soaking melancholy meadows
In a melancholy light.

Down the road through dismal winter,
My quick carriage carries on
And the sleigh-bell's tuneless tinkle
Is a numbing monotone.

Notes familiar in the music
Of the coachman's winding song
Go from debonair carousal
To lamenting lovers' wrong.

Neither hut nor glowing window.
Snow and wasteland now. My eye
Merely marks the ciphered mileposts
Coming close and going by.

Snow and wasteland. But tomorrow
Darling Nina, I'll return
To your hearth and face, forgoing
All my thought to gaze and yearn.

Though the clock's unhurried finger
Strike its circle out anew
Sending home the tardy stranger,
Midnight shall not part us two.

But for now the road is dreary.
Sleep has hushed the coachman's tune.
Tedious, too, the tuneless sleigh-bell.
Fog is masking out the moon.


The Original:

Зимняя Дорога

Сквозь волнистые туманы
Пробирается луна,
На печальные поляны
Льет печально свет она.

По дороге зимней, скучной
Тройка борзая бежит,
Колокольчик однозвучный
Утомительно гремит.

Что-то слышится родное
В долгих песнях ямщика:
То разгулье удалое,
То сердечная тоска......

Ни огня, ни черной хаты,
Глушь и снег.... На встречу мне
Только версты полосаты
Попадаются одне...

Скучно, грустно..... завтра, Нина,
Завтра к милой возвратясь,
Я забудусь у камина,
Загляжусь не наглядясь.

Звучно стрелка часовая
Мерный круг свой совершит,
И, докучных удаляя,
Полночь нас не разлучит.

Грустно, Нина: путь мой скучен,
Дремля смолкнул мой ямщик,
Колокольчик однозвучен,
Отуманен лунный лик.

Alexander Pushkin: Freedom's Seed (From Russian)

Freedom's Seed
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

With freedom's seed across the land,
Before the star of morn I passed.
My uncorrupt and guiltless hand
Through subjugated furrows cast
The life-bestowing germ I bore,
A waste of time and nothing more.
A well-intended, futile task...

Pasture away, there, docile nation
That will not rise to honor's call!
What need have sheep of liberation?
A hand will shear and slit them all.
Their legacy each generation
Will be the lash, the chain and ball. 

The Original:
Свободы Сеятель
А.С. Пушкин

Свободы сѣятель пустынной,

Я вышелъ рано, до звѣзды;

Рукою чистой и безвинной

Въ порабощенныя бразды

Бросалъ живительное сѣмя —

Но потерялъ я только врѣмя,

Благiя мысли и труды...

Паситесь, мирныя народы!

Васъ не разбудитъ чести кличъ.

Къ чему стадамъ дары свободы?

Ихъ должно рѣзать или стричь.

Наслѣдство ихъ изъ рода въ роды

Ярмо съ гремушками да бичъ.