Aleksandr Pushkin, excerpt from "The Bronze Horseman."

Aleksandr Pushkin, excerpt from The Bronze Horseman

Aleksandr Pushkin.

Aleksandr Pushkin is generally acknowledged as Russia's greatest poet. A national treasure who was something of a cross between Robert Burns and William Shakespeare, Pushkin specialized in rhymed, metrical poetry whose exquisite sensibilities give the Russian language many of its enduring metaphors and turns of phrase. Unfortunately, his impact on non-Russians is dimmed by the fact that he generally comes off badly in English: attempts to preserve cadence and rhyme scheme tend to overlook the subtleties concealed by his stanzas; while translations (e.g. Vladimir Nabokov's) that concentrate on nuance and meaning do cruel things to the poetic structure so crucial to reading him -- or better yet, to hearing him. The text below is an excerpt from Pushkin's verse drama The Bronze Horseman. It begins an unabashed hymn to Peter the Great and to St. Petersburg, both of which Pushkin considered epitomes of Russian greatness. On the theory that all Pushkin renditions have their problems anyway, I have shamelessly emended the original translation in an effort to restore metrical strictness. To hear the poem read in the original Russian (requires RealPlayer), click on http://russian.dmll.cornell.edu/horseman/bronze_horseman.ram

1. According to Pushkin, what was the Neva estuary like prior to the foundation of St. Petersburg?

2. What reasons for building the city does Pushkin attribute to Peter? How do they compare to those suggested by Hosking?

3. What does Pushkin find to like about contemporary life in St. Petersburg?

4. What is the significance of the four-line stanza beginning "To that young capital are lowering / Moscow's flags down toward the ground"? What is Pushkin trying to suggest here?

There, by the waves so desolate,

He stood, with mighty thoughts elate,

And gazed, but in the distance only

One sad skiff on the broad spate

Of Neva drifted seaward, lonely....

Muddy, moss-grown bank with rare

Wood hovels dotted here and there

Where wretched Finns for shelter crowded;

Rustling woodlands with no share

Of sunshine, all in mist enshrouded....

Thus He mused: "From here, indeed

Shall we strike terror in the Swede?

And here a city by our labor

Found, to gall our haughty neighbor;

"Cut here" -- Nature gives command --

“Your window through to Europe; stand

Firm-footed by the sea, unchanging!”

Aye, ships of every flag shall come

To waters they had never swum,

And we shall revel, freely ranging.

Years have passed. That city young,

Gem of the Northern world, amazing,

From dark grove and swamp up-sprung,

Has risen, gloriously blazing.

Once on that low-lying shore,

In waters never known before,

Did fishermen from Finland -- creatures

Left forlorn by Mother Nature --

Cast their nets.... Today, along

Those shores, astir with life and motion,

Shapely palaces in throng

And towers are seen. From every ocean,

From afar the ships come fast,

To reach the loaded docks at last.

The Neva now is clad in granite

Many bridges over-span it;

Islands lie beneath a screen

Of gardens, deep in dusky green.

To that young capital are lowering

Moscow's flags down toward the ground,

A dowager in purple, bowing

To an empress newly crowned.

I love thee, place of Peter's making;

I love thy harmonies austere,

And Neva's mighty waters breaking

On her banks of granite sheer;

Thy trace-work iron gates; thy sparkling,

Moonless, meditative gloom

And thy transparent twilight darkening;

When I write within my room

Or, lamp-less, read, -- then, sunk in slumber,

Empty thoroughfares, past number,

Pile up; Clear upon the night,

The Admiralty spire is bright;

Nor may the darkness mount, to smother

Golden cloud-land of the light,

For soon one dawn succeeds another

With but half an hour of night.

I love thy ruthless winter, lowering

Bitter frost and calm, still air;

The sledges on the Neva scouring

Cheeks -- no rose so bright and fair!

The flash and noise of balls, the chatter;

And the hour for feasting, too --

Cups that foam and hiss and spatter,

Punch that in the bowl burns blue....

I love the warlike animation

On the Field of Mars; (1) to see

The troops of foot and horse in station,

And their superb monotony;

Their ordered, undulating muster;

Tattered flags and glorious day;

Those brazen helmets in their luster

Shot through, riddled in the fray.

I love thee, soldier city, blowing

Fortress smoke from booming guns:

-- A Northern empress is bestowing

On the royal house a son!

Or when, another battle won,

Our Russia holds her celebration;

Or is the Neva, breaking free

And bearing dark-blue ice to sea

With scent of spring, in exultation? (2)

Peter's city, stand thou fast,

And resolutely vaunt thy splendor!

Nature will herself surrender

Making peace with thee at last....

(1833)

(1) Field of Mars = Flat, open section of central St. Petersburg that its founder named after the Roman god of war. Today a park, it was once reserved for troop drills, parades, and mock battles.

(2) An allusion to the loud sounds made by the cracking of the river's ice cover in the spring. Often compared to the reports of cannon, the noise can be heard for miles.

Original translation by Oliver Elton, revised by Jon Bone.