Pushkin, “Autumn” (1833)
Recently several people expressed an interest in this poem, but I held off until the season was right. The translation has been published, but I’ve since trimmed it from hexameter to pentameter to eliminate filler, so I don’t think I’m cheating by posting it here.
Autumn
(A Fragment)
And what then doesn’t come into my drowsing mind?
—Gavrila Derzhavin
I
October’s here. The grove shakes off the traces
of leaves that cling to naked branches still.
Though autumn’s breath has chilled the road and glazes
the pond, the brook still babbles by the mill.
My neighbor, with his hunting party, chases
wild game with gusto in his fields until
the winter corn is trampled by their larking,
and dogs awake the sleeping woods with barking.
II
This time is mine. The spring I can’t abide:
the thaw, the stench, the mud—spring makes me queasy.
The blood is restless. Yearning grips the mind.
The winter, so austere, has more to please me:
I love its snows. You share a moonlit ride
with your amie, the sleigh sweeps free and easy
and, flushed beneath her sable in the chill,
she clasps your hand, atremble with the thrill!
III
What fun then, shod with iron, to go gliding
on rivers still and smooth as glass below!
And aren’t the brilliant holidays exciting!
But there’s a limit: half a year of snow
will try the patience of a bear residing
inside his den. We can’t forever go
on sleighing with enchantresses or lazing
morosely by the stove behind the double glazing.
IV
Ah, summer fair, I’d love you were it not
for heat, dust, flies, mosquitoes that beset us.
You sap our mental powers. Parched and hot,
we suffer like the fields. As you torment us,
refreshment’s all that occupies our thought.
Old lady winter’s missed, a fond remembrance;
we saw her off with wine and pancakes and partake
of mounds of ice and ice cream at her wake.
V
Though many judge late autumn days severely,
for me, dear reader, autumn is aglow
with beauty meekly, splendidly endearing.
I’m drawn as to a child whose family show
her no affection. She—I speak sincerely—
alone of all the seasons cheers me so.
She has much good in her. No strutting lover,
I have a dream all mine that makes me love her.
VI
How can I put it best? She charms me, friend,
as a consumptive girl whose days are waning
charms you perhaps. Poor soul, to death condemned,
she bows without a murmur, uncomplaining.
Her withered lips still smile, and to the end
her face reveals a play of crimson shading.
She doesn’t feel the grave’s black chasm yawn.
Alive today, tomorrow she’ll be gone.
VII
O somber time! Enchanting to the senses!
My eyes drink in your parting loveliness:
the lavish withering of nature, the excesses
of forests decked in gold and crimson dress,
their rustling canopies and breath of freshness,
the undulating haze, the rare caress
of sun upon my face, the frost’s first kisses
and hoary winter’s menace in the distance.
VIII
Each year I bloom anew in autumn’s rays,
and for my health the Russian cold’s a wonder.
I relish once again the round of days:
sleep finds its time, and so, in turn, does hunger.
The blood runs, light and joyous, in my veins.
Desires well up. Once more I’m happy, younger
and full of life. It’s just my organism
(you’ll pardon an inapt prosaicism).
IX
They bring my horse, and in the wide expanses,
with tossing mane, he bears me over ground
that rings beneath each glinting hoof that passes
as crackling ice and all the vale resound.
The day is short. A fire already dances
in its forgotten hearth. It flares, dies down
and slowly smolders as I read beside it
or fall to thinking lengthy thoughts in quiet.
X
The world recedes, and in sweet reverie,
I’m sweetly lulled by my imagination,
and I feel poetry awakening in me:
My heart is gripped by lyric excitation.
It throbs and, as in sleep, it seeks a free
release for its intense reverberation.
I’m visited by swarms of guests unseen,
old friends of mine, the offspring of a dream.
XI
My head’s awhirl with notions bold, exciting,
and rhymes run forth to meet them, row on row.
my fingers seek a pen, the pen a sheet for writing.
A minute more, and verses freely flow.
Just so, a ship at anchor drowses lightly,
when—listen!—sailors scramble to and fro,
aloft, below; the sails take wind and flutter;
the vessel puts to sea and cleaves the water.
XII
She’s off. Where shall we sail? . . . .
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Crib
Autumn
(A Fragment)
What doesn’t come then into my drowsing mind?
—Derzhavin
I
October has already arrived; the grove is already shaking off
the last leaves from its naked branches.
Autumn cold has breathed; the road freezes.
Babbling, the brook still runs past the mill,
but the pond has already frozen over; my neighbor hastens
to outlying fields with his hunting (party),
and the winter crops suffer from the frenzied larking,
and the barking of dogs wakes the sleeping (oak) woods.
II
Now is my time: I dislike spring;
the thaw is dreary for me; the stench, the mud—I’m sick with spring;
the blood is restless (in ferment); the feelings, mind are gripped by yearning.
I’m more pleased by harsh winter;
I love its snows—in the moon’s presence,
how fast and free the light career of a sleigh with a girlfriend is
when, under a sable, warmed up and fresh,
she squeezes your hand, flushed and trembling!
III
What fun, feet shod with sharp iron,
to glide along the mirror of still, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant excitement of the winter holidays?...
But you have to know when enough is enough; snow and snow for half a year—
even the resident of a den, a bear, will finally
get fed up by this. We can’t forever
ride in sleighs with young Armidas
or mope by stoves behind double glazing.
IV
Ah, summer fair, I would love you
if not for the heat and dust and mosquitoes and flies.
You, destroying all our mental powers,
torment us; like the fields, we suffer from drought;
how to drink our fill and refresh ourselves—
we have no other thought, and it’s a pity about old lady winter,
and, having seen her off with crepes and wine,
we hold a wake for her with ice cream and ice.
V
Autumn’s late days are usually berated,
but she (autumn) is dear to me, dear reader,
for her quiet beauty, shining meekly.
I’m drawn in this way to a child unloved
in her own family. To tell you sincerely,
of the seasons, she alone gladdens me,
there’s much good in her; not a conceited lover,
I’ve found in her something of a capricious dream.
VI
How (can I) explain this? She pleases me
as a consumptive girl probably
pleases you at times. Condemned to death,
the poor thing bows (yields) without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on her withered lips;
she doesn’t sense (hear) the yawning of the grave’s abyss;
A crimson tint still plays on her face.
She’s still alive today—tomorrow, not.
VII
Somber time! Enchantment of the eyes!
Your parting beauty is pleasant to me;
I love the lavish withering of nature,
forests dressed in crimson and gold,
the sound of the wind in their canopies and fresh breath,
and skies covered with wavy haze,
and the rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,
and the distant threats of hoary winter.
VIII
And each autumn I bloom anew;
the Russian cold is good for my health;
Again I feel love for the ways of everyday life:
Sleep alights in its turn, in turn hunger comes on;
the blood plays freely and joyously in the heart,
desires surge (boil)—again I’m happy, young,
again I’m full of life—such is my organism
(kindly forgive me a needless prosaicism).
IX
They bring my horse; in the open expanse,
tossing his mane, he carries his rider,
and, beneath his glistening hoof,
the frozen vale rings out and the ice crackles.
But the short day is dying down, and in the forgotten fireplace,
a fire is again burning—now it shines with a bright light,
now smolders slowly—and I read in front of it
or entertain lengthy thoughts in my soul/heart.
X
And I forget the world, and in the sweet hush
I’m sweetly lulled by my imagination,
and poetry awakens in me:
the soul/heart is gripped by lyric excitation,
it throbs and sounds and seeks, as in sleep,
to pour itself out at last as a free manifestation—
and here an unseen swarm of guests come to me,
old acquaintances, the fruits of my dream.
XI
And thoughts in my head whirl in boldness,
and light rhymes run to meet them,
and fingers seek a pen, the pen [seeks] paper,
a minute, and verses will freely flow.
Just so, a ship drowses motionless in motionless water,
when, hark!—sailors suddenly dash about, climb
aloft, below—and the sails have filled full of wind;
the hulk has gotten under way and cleaves the waves.
XII
She’s under sail. Where shall we sail? . . . .
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Original
Осень
(Отрывок)
Чего в мой дремлющий тогда не входит ум?
Державн.
I
Октябрь уж наступил — уж роща отряхает
Последние листы с нагих своих ветвей;
Дохнул осенний хлад — дорога промерзает.
Журча ещё бежит за мельницу ручей,
Но пруд уже застыл; сосед мой поспешает
В отъезжие поля с охотою своей,
И страждут озими от бешеной забавы,
И будит лай собак уснувшие дубравы.
II
Теперь моя пора: я не люблю весны;
Скучна мне оттепель; вонь, грязь — весной я болен;
Кровь бродит; чувства, ум тоскою стеснены.
Суровою зимой я более доволен,
Люблю её снега; в присутствии луны
Как лёгкий бег саней с подругой быстр и волен,
Когда под соболем, согрета и свежа,
Она вам руку жмёт, пылая и дрожа!
III
Как весело, обув железом острым ноги,
Скользить по зеркалу стоячих, ровных рек!
А зимних праздников блестящие тревоги?..
Но надо знать и честь; полгода снег да снег,
Ведь это наконец и жителю берлоги,
Медведю, надоест. Нельзя же целый век
Кататься нам в санях с Армидами младыми
Иль киснуть у печей за стёклами двойными.
IV
Ох, лето красное! любил бы я тебя,
Когда б не зной, да пыль, да комары, да мухи.
Ты, все душевные способности губя,
Нас мучишь; как поля, мы страждем от засухи;
Лишь как бы напоить, да освежить себя —
Иной в нас мысли нет, и жаль зимы старухи,
И, проводив её блинами и вином,
Поминки ей творим мороженым и льдом.
V
Дни поздней осени бранят обыкновенно,
Но мне она мила, читатель дорогой,
Красою тихою, блистающей смиренно.
Так нелюбимое дитя в семье родной
К себе меня влечёт. Сказать вам откровенно,
Из годовых времён я рад лишь ей одной,
В ней много доброго; любовник не тщеславный,
Я нечто в ней нашёл мечтою своенравной.
VI
Как это объяснить? Мне нравится она,
Как, вероятно, вам чахоточная дева
Порою нравится. На смерть осуждена,
Бедняжка клонится без ропота, без гнева.
Улыбка на устах увянувших видна;
Могильной пропасти она не слышит зева;
Играет на лице ещё багровый цвет.
Она жива ещё сегодня, завтра нет.
VII
Унылая пора! очей очарованье!
Приятна мне твоя прощальная краса —
Люблю я пышное природы увяданье,
В багрец и в золото одетые леса,
В их сенях ветра шум и свежее дыханье,
И мглой волнистою покрыты небеса,
И редкий солнца луч, и первые морозы,
И отдалённые седой зимы угрозы.
VIII
И с каждой осенью я расцветаю вновь;
Здоровью моему полезен русской холод;
К привычкам бытия вновь чувствую любовь:
Чредой слетает сон, чредой находит голод;
Легко и радостно играет в сердце кровь,
Желания кипят — я снова счастлив, молод,
Я снова жизни полн — таков мой организм
(Извольте мне простить ненужный прозаизм).
IX
Ведут ко мне коня; в раздолии открытом,
Махая гривою, он всадника несёт,
И звонко под его блистающим копытом
Звенит промёрзлый дол и трескается лёд.
Но гаснет краткий день, и в камельке забытом
Огонь опять горит — то яркий свет лиёт,
То тлеет медленно — а я пред ним читаю
Иль думы долгие в душе моей питаю.
X
И забываю мир — и в сладкой тишине
Я сладко усыплён моим воображеньем,
И пробуждается поэзия во мне:
Душа стесняется лирическим волненьем,
Трепещет и звучит, и ищет, как во сне,
Излиться наконец свободным проявленьем —
И тут ко мне идёт незримый рой гостей,
Знакомцы давние, плоды мечты моей.
XI
И мысли в голове волнуются в отваге,
И рифмы лёгкие навстречу им бегут,
И пальцы просятся к перу, перо к бумаге,
Минута — и стихи свободно потекут.
Так дремлет недвижим корабль в недвижной влаге,
Но чу! — матросы вдруг кидаются, ползут
Вверх, вниз — и паруса надулись, ветра полны;
Громада двинулась и рассекает волны.
XII
Плывёт. Куда ж нам плыть? . . . .
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Last edited by Carl Copeland; 10-16-2024 at 01:26 PM.
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