The Bronze Horseman - First Part

 The Bronze Horseman

A Tale of St. Petersburg

Alexander Pushkin

First Part

Over cloud-covered Petrograd

November blew the chill of autumn.

Splashing with a rowdy wave

At the edges of its graceful fencing

The Neva tossed, like someone ill

In their restless bed.

Already it was late, and dark;

The rain beat at the window with anger,

And the wind blew with a doleful howl.

At that time young Eugene

Was arriving home from visiting…

We will call our hero 

By this name. It has

An agreeable ring to it and has

For sometime been a friend to my pen.

His surname isn’t required,

Although, in time gone by,

Perhaps, it may have shone

And, under Karamzin’s pen,

It may be heard in folk tales;

But, nowadays, whether in society or in gossip,

It’s forgotten. Our hero

Lives in Kolomna; has a post somewhere,

He avoids aristocrats and doesn’t fret

About either his dead kin

Or about times long forgotten.

So, Eugene, having made it home,

Tossed aside his coat, undressed, lay down.

But, for a long time, he couldn’t fall asleep,

Agitated by an array of thoughts.

So what was he thinking of? Of this,

That he was poor, that he had to work

To attain for himself

Independence and distinction;

That maybe god would consider adding

To his wits and funds. That there are

Those fortunate men of leisure,

Dullards, lazy-bones,

For whom life is so effortless!

That he had only been working for two years;

He thought as well that the weather

Was not letting up; that the river

Was still rising; that it’s unlikely

The bridges on the Neva had not already been taken away

And that he would be cut off from

Parasha for two or three days.

Eugene gave a deep sigh

And started to daydream poetically.

“Get married? Me? Why not?

It’s difficult, of course;

But then I’m young and healthy,

Willing to work day and night;

Somehow I’ll set myself up

In a place humble and plain

And make it cozy for Parasha.

Perhaps a year or two will pass,

I’ll get a promotion, Parasha

Will see to the household

And the children’s upbringing…

And life will go on, and to the grave

We’ll arrive together, hand in hand,

And our grandchildren will bury us…”

Such were his dreams. And that night

He was sad, and he wished

The wind wouldn’t howl so mournfully

And that the rain wouldn’t bang on the window

So angrily…

His sleepy eyes

He closed at last. And now

The foul night’s fog is lifting

And the pallid day begins…

A dreadful day!

The Neva all night long

Strove to reach the sea in the face of the gale,

Unable to overcome its wild madness…

And the argument became too much for her…

Come morning, it overflowed its banks,

Folks squeezed together in a mob

In admiration of the spray, the whitecaps,

And the foaming of the savage waters.

But, by force of the winds from the bay,

The Neva, blocked, 

Flowed backward, angry, turbulent,

And flooded the islands…

The weather worsened still,

The Neva swelled up and bellowed,

A cauldron boiling over and swirling.

And, suddenly, like a wild beast,

It threw itself on the city. Everything

Fled before it, everything suddenly

Was empty - suddenly the water

Rushed into basement cellars,

The canals burst from the gratings

And Petropolis floated like Triton,

Immersed to his waist in the water.

A siege! An assault! Wicked waves,

Burst in the windows like thieves. Boats

Are tossed backwards into glass.

Trays covered by a wet sheet,

Pieces of shacks, logs, roofs,

Flea market goods,

The belongings of pale destitution,

Bridges swept away by the storm,

Coffins from a flooded graveyard,

Float by on the streets!

The people

Behold the wrath of God and await the end.

Alas! Everything falls apart: food and shelter!

Where can it be found?

In that dreadful year

The late tsar yet ruled

In splendor. On his balcony

Sad, troubled, he appeared

And spoke: “Acts of God

Are not subject to tsars." He sat

And. pondering with eyes in tears,

Gazed on the bitter calamity.

The squares were like lakes,

And into them, like wide rivers,

Poured the streets. The palace

Seemed a dismal island.

As the tsar spoke - from one end to the other,

Along streets near and far,

On a perilous path over stormy waves,

The generals set off

To rescue him, and a people gripped by fear

And drowning in their homes.

In that moment, on Petrov Square,

Where a new house had risen on the corner,

Where, on a high porch,

With upraised paws, seeming alive,

Stand two lion sentinels,

Sat motionless astride a marble beast,

No hat, his arms crossed, Eugene, 

Ghostly pale. He was afraid, poor soul,

But not for himself. He hadn’t noticed

How the greedy wave had risen,

Swamping his feet,

How the wind, violently howling,

Had suddenly torn off his hat.

His desperate eyes

Were focused in just one direction,

Unchanging. As if they were mountains

From the rebellious depths

There the waves rose up and raged,

There the tempest howled, there the debris

Had been swept… Oh God, God! There -

Alas! Very near the waves,

Almost on the bay itself -

An unpainted fence, a willow,

And a ramshackle cabin: They are there,

A widow and daughter, his Parasha,

His dream… Or in a dream

Is he seeing this? Or is everything,

Life itself, nothing, only an empty dream,

Heaven’s mocking of the world?

And he, as if under a spell,

As if shackled to the marble,

Is unable to even get down! Around him

Is water and nothing more!

And, its back to him,

Towering, unshakeable,

Above the rebellious Neva,

Stands, with outstretched hand,

An idol on a bronze horse.