The Bronze Horseman - Introduction

 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.