The Bronze Horseman
A Tale of St. Petersburg
Alexander Pushkin
Preface
The story described here is based on an actual incident. Details of the flood are taken from magazines of the time. V. N. Berkh.
Introduction
On a shoreline of desolate waves
He stood, filled with great thoughts
And looked into the distance. Before him the broad
River rushed; along with it
A humble boat, by itself, sped.
On the mossy, muddy banks
Black huts appeared here and there,
Abode of a wretched Finn;
And the woods, unaccustomed to the rays
Of a sun concealed in fog,
Rustled all around.
And He thought:
From here is where we’ll threaten the Swede.
Here a city will be laid out
To spite our proud neighbor.
Here nature has destined us
To cut a window to Europe,
With a foot planted firmly on the sea.
Here on tides new to them
Will arrive as our guests every flag
And we shall feast in the open air.
A hundred years go by, and the young city,
Glory and wonder of the lands of midnight,
From forests dark, from swampy bogs,
It has risen resplendent, proud;
Where once a Finnish fisherman,
Sorry stepchild of nature,
Alone on the shallow banks
Threw into unfamiliar waters
His worn-out net, there now,
Along the bustling waterfront,
Heaps of slender mansions and towers
Are crowded; a throng of ships
From every corner of the world
Seek the overflowing wharves;
The Neva has been dressed in granite;
Bridges have been hung over the waves;
Gardens of a deep green
Cover its islands,
And, faced with the younger capital,
Old Moscow has faded away
Like a widow in purple
Before a new tsarina.
I love you, creation of Peter,
I love your austere, graceful form,
The majestic Neva’s flow,
Its granite embankments,
The cast-iron tracery of your fences,
Your contemplative nights
Of transparent twilight, the moonless splendor,
When I, in my room,
Am writing, reading without a lamp,
And the drowsy immensity
Of the empty streets is clear, and bright
Is the spire of the Admiralty,
And, not letting the dark of night
Into the golden skies,
One dawn to follow another
Hurries, allowing night a half hour.
I love your brutal winter,
The still air and the frost,
The sleds gliding along the broad Neva,
The faces of the girls brighter than roses,
And the sparkle and the noise, and talk of dances,
And, at the bachelor’s happy hour,
The fizz of foaming glasses
And the blue flame of the punch.
I love the martial vitality
On show on the Field of Mars,
The uniform beauty
Of the infantry and calvary,
In their formation gracefully waving
Their tattered flags of victory,
The gleam of these brass helmets,
Bearing the bullet holes of battle.
I love, war capital,
The smoke and thunder of your citadel
When the Tsarina of midnight
Bestows on the royal house a son,
Or when Russia again prevails,
Victorious over an enemy,
Or when, breaking apart its blue ice,
The Neva carries it to the sea
And, sensing the days of spring, rejoices.
Shine forth, city of Peter, and stand
Unshakable like Russia.
May they be at peace with you,
Those you have defeated;
Their long-standing enmity and captivity
May the Finnish waves forget
And may futile spite not
Trouble the eternal sleep of Peter!
It was a terrible time,
The memory of it is fresh…
For you, my friends, I will
Begin the tale of it.
Sorrowful will be my story.
