Zhukovsky: Svetlana

Here is another translation from my upcoming anthology of Russian poetry — of Svetlana, by Zhukovsky (1783-1852) I decided to post it because there doesn’t seem to be another one available online (that I can find, anyway) which sticks closely to the original. I have stuck quite closely to it, almost to a fault, such that much of my translation certainly can’t be mistaken for poetry — although I will note that to me it’s precisely this sort of simple, seemingly effortless, eminently readable verse (which in many ways anticipates Pushkin’s direction in poetry) that is the hardest to translate — which also explains why Pushkin, relatively speaking, is extremely hard to appreciate in translation.

The opening of this “ballad” (a poetic genre with a simple story, often with folkloric or mystical elements, and typically with a sad ending) is something of a reference manual for fortune-telling techniques. The one that is central to the plot (setting a table for two, while looking in a mirror with a candle in front of it, etc.) is explained in the text itself, but the first stanza runs through several techniques with little explanation, making for a very choppy opening! Here are some quick explanations:

The girls are fortune-telling on крещенский вечер (from Крещение Господне: the Baptism of the Lord, also known as the Богоявление (Epiphany, or Theophany — the “revelation of God,” since Christ’s Baptism revealed the Trinity through the voice of God the Father and the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove — which actually figures in this story!). The eve of Epiphany was deemed propitious for fortune-telling). The verb гадать АЙ means to tell fortunes, try to divine the future — esp. among young women seeking to learn of their future marriage. For example, girls would throw their shoe back through the gate, thinking its toe would then point in the direction of their future marriage; if it pointed back toward the house, it meant the girl would not soon marry). They would полоть О (literally, “weed”) snow — here, grabbing snow and throwing it over one’s shoulder, then listening for a sound (e.g. a dog barking or carriage bells) to indicate the direction from which a suitor might come; there were several variations of this technique). They would eavesdrop on conversations near windows, interpreting whatever words were heard (or whether laughter or cursing was heard, etc.) as clues regarding their future marriage). They would feed “counted” grain to a chicken, etc. — that is, a certain number of grains would be strewn in a room; a hen or rooster is let in, and if it eats all the grains, one would soon be wed; if some were left, one would have to wait for a certain time). They would submerge molten wax in water (diving the future based on the shape the wax assumed). Finally, подблюдный: describes a type of song sung during гадание; girls would put items of jewelry in a dish, cover it with a cloth, and sing songs full of symbolic predictions; whoever’s jewelry was pulled out as certain words were sung thus learned their fate.

Extremely popular in its day, this ballad opens with a kind of dictionary of fortune-telling techniques, before telling a simple story with charmingly simple language. Yet the author’s intervention in closing stanzas anticipates even post-modern motifs, from the protagonist as a sheer invention of the author (“моя” Светлана) — with whom he has even become enamored (“моя краса” — we see something of the sort with Pushkin’s Tatyana and even Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina) — to a kind of “deus ex machina” ending (the awakening from the “dream” which the entire narrative proves to be, with the author standing in for God himself, whether merciful or vengeful) that calls to mind, say, the endings of Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading or Bend Sinister, and, as a “happy ending,” subverts the expectations of the genre. Indeed, it seems that this composition was written for Svetlana herself, with no further intent than to bring a smile to her face.

Of course, when I publish this in my reader, it will come with vocabulary notes, etc.

Светлана

Раз в крещенский вечерок
Девушки гадали:
За ворота башмачок,
Сняв с ноги, бросали;
Снег пололи; под окном
Слушали; кормили
Счётным курицу зерном;
Ярый воск топили;
В чашу с чистою водой
Клали перстень золотой,
Серьги изумрудны;
Расстилали белый плат
И над чашей пели в лад
Песенки подблюдны.

Тускло светится луна
В сумраке тумана —
Молчалива и грустна
Милая Светлана.
«Что, подруженька, с тобой?
Вымолви словечко;
Слушай песни круговой;
Вынь себе колечко.
Пой, красавица: „Кузнец,
Скуй мне злат и нов венец,
Скуй кольцо златое;
Мне венчаться тем венцом,
Обручаться тем кольцом
При святом налое“».

«Как могу, подружки, петь?
Милый друг далёко;
Мне судьбина умереть
В грусти одинокой.
Год промчался — вести нет;
Он ко мне не пишет;
Ах! а им лишь красен свет,
Им лишь сердце дышит…
Иль не вспомнишь обо мне?
Где, в какой ты стороне?
Где твоя обитель?
Я молюсь и слёзы лью!
Утоли печаль мою,
Ангел-утешитель».

Вот в светлице стол накрыт
Белой пеленою;
И на том столе стоит
Зеркало с свечою;
Два прибора на столе.
«Загадай, Светлана;
В чистом зеркала стекле
В полночь, без обмана
Ты узнаешь жребий свой:
Стукнет в двери милый твой
Лёгкою рукою;
Упадёт с дверей запор;
Сядет он за свой прибор
Ужинать с тобою».

Вот красавица одна;
К зеркалу садится;
С тайной робостью она
В зеркало глядится;
Тёмно в зеркале; кругом
Мёртвое молчанье;
Свечка трепетным огнём
Чуть лиёт сиянье…
Робость в ней волнует грудь,
Страшно ей назад взглянуть,
Страх туманит очи…
С треском пыхнул огонёк,
Крикнул жалобно сверчок,
Вестник полуночи.

Подпершися локотком,
Чуть Светлана дышит…
Вот… легохонько замком
Кто-то стукнул, слышит;
Робко в зеркало глядит:
За её плечами
Кто-то, чудилось, блестит
Яркими глазами…
Занялся от страха дух…
Вдруг в её влетает слух
Тихий, лёгкий шёпот:
«Я с тобой, моя краса;
Укротились небеса;
Твой услышан ропот!»

Оглянулась… милый к ней
Простирает руки.
«Радость, свет моих очей,
Нет для нас разлуки.
Едем! Поп уж в церкви ждёт
С дьяконом, дьячками;
Хор венчальну песнь поёт;
Храм блестит свечами».
Был в ответ умильный взор;
Идут на широкий двор,
В ворота тесовы;
У ворот их санки ждут;
С нетерпенья кони рвут
Повода шелковы.

Сели… кони с места враз;
Пышут дым ноздрями;
От копыт их поднялась
Вьюга над санями.
Скачут… пусто всё вокруг,
Степь в очах Светланы:
На луне туманный круг;
Чуть блестят поляны.
Сердце вещее дрожит;
Робко дева говорит:
«Что ты смолкнул, милый?»
Ни полслова ей в ответ:
Он глядит на лунный свет,
Бледен и унылый.

Кони мчатся по буграм;
Топчут снег глубокий…
Вот в сторонке Божий храм
Виден одинокий;
Двери вихорь отворил;
Тьма людей во храме;
Яркий свет паникадил
Тускнет в фимиаме;
На средине чёрный гроб;
И гласит протяжно поп:
«Буди взят могилой!»
Пуще девица дрожит;
Кони мимо; друг молчит,
Бледен и унылый.

Вдруг метелица кругом;
Снег валит клоками;
Чёрный вран, свистя крылом,
Вьётся над санями;
Ворон каркает: печаль!
Кони торопливы
Чутко смотрят в тёмну даль,
Подымая гривы;
Брезжит в поле огонёк;
Виден мирный уголок,
Хижинка под снегом.
Кони борзые быстрей,
Снег взрывая, прямо к ней
Мчатся дружным бегом.

Вот примчалися… и вмиг
Из очей пропали:
Кони, сани и жених
Будто не бывали.
Одинокая, впотьмах,
Брошена от друга,
В страшных девица местах;
Вкруг метель и вьюга.
Возвратиться — следу нет…
Виден ей в избушке свет:
Вот перекрестилась;
В дверь с молитвою стучит…
Дверь шатнулася… скрыпит…
Тихо растворилась.

Что ж?.. В избушке гроб; накрыт
Белою запоной;
Спасов лик в ногах стоит;
Свечка пред иконой…
Ах! Светлана, что с тобой?
В чью зашла обитель?
Страшен хижины пустой
Безответный житель.
Входит с трепетом, в слезах;
Пред иконой пала в прах,
Спасу помолилась;
И с крестом своим в руке,
Под святыми в уголке
Робко притаилась.

Всё утихло… вьюги нет…
Слабо свечка тлится,
То прольёт дрожащий свет,
То опять затмится…
Всё в глубоком, мёртвом сне,
Страшное молчанье…
Чу, Светлана!.. в тишине
Лёгкое журчанье…
Вот глядит: к ней в уголок
Белоснежный голубок
С светлыми глазами,
Тихо вея, прилетел,
К ней на перси тихо сел,
Обнял их крылами.

Смолкло всё опять кругом…
Вот Светлане мнится,
Что под белым полотном
Мёртвый шевелится…
Сорвался покров; мертвец
(Лик мрачнее ночи)
Виден весь — на лбу венец,
Затворены очи.
Вдруг… в устах сомкнутых стон;
Силится раздвинуть он
Руки охладелы…
Что же девица?.. Дрожит…
Гибель близко… но не спит
Голубочек белый.

Встрепенулся, развернул
Лёгкие он крилы;
К мертвецу на грудь вспорхнул…
Всей лишённый силы,
Простонав, заскрежетал
Страшно он зубами
И на деву засверкал
Грозными очами…
Снова бледность на устах;
В закатившихся глазах
Смерть изобразилась…
Глядь, Светлана… о Tворец!
Милый друг её — мертвец!
Ах!.. и пробудилась.

Где ж?.. У зеркала, одна
Посреди светлицы;
В тонкий занавес окна
Светит луч денницы;
Шумным бьёт крылом петух,
День встречая пеньем;
Всё блестит… Светланин дух
Смутен сновиденьем.
«Ах! ужасный, грозный сон!
Не добро вещает он —
Горькую судьбину;
Тайный мрак грядущих дней,
Что сулишь душе моей,
Радость иль кручину?»

Села (тяжко ноет грудь)
Под окном Светлана;
Из окна широкий путь
Виден сквозь тумана;
Снег на солнышке блестит,
Пар алеет тонкий…
Чу!.. в дали пустой гремит
Колокольчик звонкий;
На дороге снежный прах;
Мчат, как будто на крылах,
Санки кони рьяны;
Ближе; вот уж у ворот;
Статный гость к крыльцу идёт…
Кто?.. Жених Светланы.

Что же твой, Светлана, сон,
Прорицатель муки?
Друг с тобой; всё тот же он
В опыте разлуки;
Та ж любовь в его очах,
Те ж приятны взоры;
То ж на сладостных устах
Милы разговоры.
Отворяйся ж, Божий храм;
Вы летите к небесам,
Верные обеты;
Соберитесь, стар и млад;
Сдвинув звонки чаши, в лад
Пойте: многи леты!

__________________________

Улыбнись, моя краса,
На мою балладу;
В ней большие чудеса,
Очень мало складу.
Взором счастливый твоим,
Не хочу и славы;
Слава — нас учили — дым;
Свет — судья лукавый.
Вот баллады толк моей:
«Лучший друг нам в жизни сей
Вера в Провиденье.
Благ Зиждителя закон:
Здесь несчастье — лживый сон;
Счастье — пробужденье».

О! не знай сих страшных снов
Ты, моя Светлана…
Будь, Cоздатель, ей покров!
Ни печали рана,
Ни минутной грусти тень
К ней да не коснётся;
В ней душа как ясный день;
Ах! да пронесётся
Мимо — Бедствия рука;
Как приятный ручейка
Блеск на лоне луга,
Будь вся жизнь её светла,
Будь весёлость, как была,
Дней её подруга.

Svetlana

Once, on the eve of Epiphany,
Some young women were fortune-telling:
Through the gate, a shoe,
Having taken from their foot, they threw;
They “weeded” the snow; they eavesdropped
Outside a window; they fed
A hen with counted grain;
They submerged molten wax;
Into a cup of pure water
They placed a golden ring,
And emerald earrings;
They spread out a white cloth,
And over the cup they sang, in harmony,
Divining songs.

The moon shines dimly
In the twilight of the mist —
Taciturn and sad
Is dear Svetlana.
“What, friend, is the matter with you?
Speak just a word;
Listen to our singing in the round;
Take out a ring.
Sing, my beauty: “O blacksmith,
Forge me a new and golden crown,
Forge a golden ring;
I am to be wed beneath this crown,
Betrothed with this ring
Before the holy altar.”

“How can I sing, my friends?
My sweetheart is far away;
It is my fate to die
In solitary sorrow.
A year has rushed past — and there’s no news;
He doesn’t write to me;
Ah! And only through him is the world beautiful,
Only through him does my heart breathe...
Or will you not remember me?
Where are you, in what land?
Where is your abode?
I pray, and pour my tears!
Assuage my sorrow,
O consoling angel!”

Behold: in the room a table has been set,
With a white cloth;
And on that table there stands
A mirror with a candle;
There are two place settings on the table.
“Divine your fortune, Svetlana;
In the clean glass of the mirror,
At midnight, without deception,
You shall learn your lot;
Your sweetheart will knock at the door
With a light hand;
The bolt will fall from the door;
He will sit at the place you’ve set for him,
To dine with you.”

Behold, the beautiful girl is now alone;
She takes her seat before the mirror;
With a secret timidity she
Peers into the mirror;
And in the mirror it is dark; all around
Is a dead silence;
The candle, with its trembling flame,
Barely pours out light...
Timidity roils her chest,
She is afraid to look back,
Fear clouds her eyes...
With a crackle the little flame flares up,
A cricket gives a plaintive shriek,
That herald of midnight.

Her elbows propped on the table,
Svetlana is barely breathing...
Behold... as light as can be, at the lock,
Someone has knocked; she listens;
Timidly she peers into the mirror:
Behind her shoulders
Someone, it seems, is flashing
Brilliant eyes...
Fear has taken her breath away...
Suddenly, into her ear there flies
A quiet, light whisper:
“I am with you, my beauty;
The heavens have relented;
Your laments have been heard!”

She turned around... toward her, her sweetheart
Held his arms outstetched.
“My joy, light of my eyes,
There is no separation for us.
Let us ride! The priest awaits us in the church,
With the deacon and the lectors;
The choir is singing a wedding song;
The church is radiant with candles.”
In response came a tender gaze;
They walk into the broad courtyard,
Through the gateway made of planks;
At the gate, a sleigh awaits them;
With impatience, the horses tug
At their silken reins.

They’ve taken their seat... the horses race off right away;
Smoke puffs from their nostrils;
And from their hooves arises
A swirling snowstorm underneath the sleigh.
They gallop... everything around is empty,
The steppe is reflected in Svetlana’s eyes:
A misty ring encircles the moon;
The glades barely shimmer.
Her prophetic soul shudders;
Timidly the maiden says:
“Why have you fallen quiet, my dear?”
But not even half a word comes in response:
He stares at the moonlight,
Pale and somber.

The horses race along the hillocks;
They pound the deep snow...
There, off to the side, God’s church
Is visible, all alone;
The whirlwind has thrown the doors open;
There’s a throng of people in the church;
The brilliant light of the chandeliers
Shows dim in the clouds of incense;
In the middle — a black coffin;
And the priest intones, drawing out his words:
“Be taken by the tomb!”
The maiden trembles even more;
The horses ride past; her friend remains silent,
Pale and somber.

Suddenly, a sweeping snowstorm’s all around;
The snow tumbles down like shreds of cloth;
A black raven, its wing whistling,
Circles above the sleigh;
The raven caws: woe!
The hastening horses
Scan the dark distance,
Raising their manes;
A small light glimmers in the field;
One can see a peaceful refuge,
A little cabin covered by the snow.
Even more quickly, the swift horses,
Kicking up the snow, straight towards the cabin,
Race on, galloping in tight accord.

And behold, they’ve arrived... and in an instant
They’ve vanished from her eyes:
The horses, the sleigh, and her groom —
It was as though they’d never been.
All alone, in the dark,
Abandoned by her friend,
The maiden’s in a frightful place;
All around, the wind-swept, swirling snow.
To retrace her steps — there are no tracks to follow...
A light is visible in the little hut:
Behold, she crosses herself;
She knocks at the door, with a prayer...
The door has budged loose... it creaks...
And slowly opens.

What’s this..? In the little hut lies a coffin; it is covered
With a white shroud;
An icon of the Savior stands at its feet;
There’s a candle before the icon...
Ah! Svetlana, what has befallen you?
Whose abode have you entered?
Fearsome is this empty cabin’s
Silent denizen.
She enters with trembling, in tears;
Before the icon, she falls into the dust,
And prays to the Savior;
And with a cross in her hand,
Beneath the icons of the saints in the icon corner,
She timidly hides.

All has fallen quiet... No longer any snowstorm...
The candle gutters weakly,
One moment it pours a flickering light,
The next it grows clouded again...
Everything lies in a deep and deathly sleep;
A terrible silence reigns...
Hark, Svetlana..! In the stillness
There’s a slight stirring...
Behold, she looks: to her, in the icon corner,
A little dove, white as snow,
With radiant eyes,
Quietly fluttering, flies near,
Lands gently on her chest,
And embraces it with its wings.

Again all falls quiet around her...
And behold, it seems to Svetlana
That beneath the white cloth
The dead man is stirring...
The shroud has been thrown off; the dead man
(His face darker than night)
Is entirely visible, a wedding crown on his brow,
And his eyes shut.
Suddenly... a groan in those clenched lips;
He strives to spread open
His cold arms...
The maiden, meanwhile..? She trembles...
Her ruin is near... but the little white dove
  Does not sleep.

Ruffling its feathers, it stirs, and spreads wide
Its light wings;
It flutters up onto the dead man’s chest...
Sapped of all his strength,
With a groan, he begins gnashing
His teeth fearsomely,
And at the maiden he flashes
His menacing eyes...
Again there is paleness on his lips;
And in his eyes, now rolled back in his head,
Death is depicted...
Look, Svetlana... O, Creator!
Her sweetheart is a dead man!
Ah!... and she has woken up.

Where is she..? At the mirror, alone
In the middle of the room;
Through the thin curtain of the window
Dawn’s ray shines;
The rooster beats its noisy wings,
Greeting the day with song;
Everything is shining... Svetlana’s spirit
Is troubled by her dream.
“Ah! Horrible, terrible dream!
It portends nothing good —
Only a bitter fate;
O secret gloom of days to come,
What do you hold in store for my soul —
Joy, or anguish?”

At the window sits Svetlana
(Her chest aching terribly);
From the window, the broad roadway
Is visible through the mist;
The snow shines in the sunlight,
The fine steam glows crimson...
Listen..! In the empty distance sounds
A resonant carriage bell;
Snowdust lies on the road;
As if on wings, eager steeds
Are racing along, pulling a sleigh;
Closer now; already at the gate;
A handsome guest walks to the porch...
Who is it..? It is Svetlana’s groom.

What then, Svetlana, of your dream,
That oracle of torment?
Your sweetheart is now with you; he has remained the same
Throughout this trial of separation;
The same old love is in his eyes,
Those same endearing glances;
And on those sweet lips,
The same dear conversations.
Open up, then, O church of God;
And you, faithful vows,
Fly toward the heavens;
Gather, young and old;
Having brought your ringing glasses together, sing
In harmony: God grant you many years!

__________________________

Give a smile, my beauty,
To this ballad of mine;
In it are great wonders,
And very little coherence.
Made happy by your very gaze,
I have no wish for glory;
Glory — or so they’ve taught us — is but smoke;
And the world a devious judge.
Here’s the real sense of my ballad:
“Our best friend in this life
Is faith in Providence.
Benevolent is the Creator’s law:
Here, sadness is a dream full of deceit;
And happiness is when we wake from it.”

O! Know not these frightful dreams,
You, my Svetlana...
Be, Creator, her protection!
May nary a wound of sorrow,
Nor shade of even momentary sadness
Ever touch her;
In her dwells a soul as bright as day;
Ah! May it pass her
By — the hand of Woe;
Like the lovely brilliance of a brook
In the meadow’s bosom,
May her entire life be radiant;
May happiness — as it has been thus far —
Remain the fast companion of her days.