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by T. 6. Shaw, in The Edinburgh Blackwood Magazine, 1845 ; The
Bakhchesarian Fountain, W. D. Lewis, Philadelphia, 1849; several
poems, by W. R. MorfiU, in Constitutional Press, i860 ; On the
Calumniators of Russia, by W. R. Morfill, in Literary Gazette, 1861 ;
Translations from Russian and German Poets, by a Russian Lady
(containing two extracts from TTie Gypsies, The Poet, The Angel,
The igth of October, The Demon, and several minor poems), Baden-
Baden, 1878 ; Eugene Oneguine, translated by Lieut. Col. Spalding,
London, 1881 ; The Black Shawl, The Talisman, Ode to the Sea, and
several extracts (the first two, amended, in The Story of Russia, New
York and London, 1890), by W. R. MorfiU, in Westminster Review,
1883; The Flower, The Birds, TT^e Bridegroom, The Winterfoumey,

The Anchor, Poltava, Song of Oleg the Wise, To , The Angel,

The Demons, in C. T. Wilson's Russian Lyrics, London, 1887 ; Poems
by Alexander Pushkin, translated by Ivan Panin, Boston, 1888 ; parts
of Boris Godunov in Shakespeare and the Russian Drama, by N. H.
Dole, in Poet Lore, vol. i. (1889); / wander down the noisy streets.
Anacreontic, To his Wife, Let me not lose my senses, I^ve overlived
aspirings, Peter the Great, The Prophet, Play, My Kathleen, A Monu-
ment. The Poet, in John Pollen's Rhymes from the Russian, London,
1891. In Free Russia have appeared : by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol.
X., No. I, The Poison-Tree, ib,. No. 3, The Monument; by Mrs. M.
G. Walker, in vol. x.. No. 4, The Prophet; by Elizabeth Gibson, vol.
xii., No. 2, A Message, In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have
been published : some verses, by a Russian lady, in No. 11 ; by F. P.
Marchant, Scene from ** Boris Godunov, ^^ in No. 13, The Shield of
Oleg, in No. 15, The Prophet, The Three Springs, The Prayer , Truth,



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Aleksindr Sergy6evich Pushkin 125

in No. 22, To My Friends^ in No. 32 ; by J. Pollen, TTie Talisman,
in No. 22 ; by Miss H. Prank, Tke Denums^ in No. 54 ; by L. A. Mag-
nns. Through clamorous streets my feet may stray, in No. 33. In the
Library of the World's Best Literature are given : by N. H. Dole, Tlie
Bard, The Angel, The Free Life of the Bird (a di£ferent version of
this poem is given below) ; reprints of several of T. B. Shaw's and J.
Pollen's poems, and extracts from Boris Godunov and Evgeni
Onyegin^ by Miss I. Hapgood.

FROM ''THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER"

As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs assembled
round the gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those
who had been hanged. With difficulty I repressed my in-
dignation, feeling convinced that if I gave expression to
it, it would have been perfectly useless. The brigands in-
vaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers*
houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken
mutineers. I reached home. Sav£lich met me on the
threshold.

"Thank God! " he exclaimed when he saw me; '' I was
beginning to think that the villains had seized you again.
Ah! my little father, Peter Andr^ch, will you believe it,
the robbers have plundered us of everything— clothes, linen,
furniture, plate — they have not left tis a single thing. But
what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your
life. But, my lord, did you recognise their leader ? "

" No, I did not recognise him. Who is he then ? •'

' ' How, my little father ! Have you forgotten that drunken
scoundrel who swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn ?
A brand new hairskin pelisse; and the beast burst the seams
in putting it on.'*

I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pugach6v
to my guide was very striking. I felt convinced that Pug-
ach6v and he were one and the same person, and then I
understood why he had spared my life. I could not but feel
surprised at the strange connection of events — a child's pe-
lisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hang-
man's noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in



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126 The Nineteenth Century

wandering from one inn to another, was now besieging
fortresses and shaking the empire!

''Will you not eat something?" asked Sav^lich, still
faithful to his old habits. '* There is nothing in the house;
but I will go and search, and get something ready for you.''

When I was left alone, I began to reflect What was I to
do ? To remain in the fortress now that it was in the hands
of the villain, or to join his band, was unworthy of an officer.
Duty demanded tiiat I should go wherever my services
might still be of use to my fatherland in the present critical

position of its affairs But love strongly urged me to

remain near Maria Ivdnovna and be her protector and de-
fender. Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change
in the course of a&irs, yet I could not help trembling when
I thought of the danger of her situation. My reflections
were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who
came to inform me that " the great Tsar required me to
appear before him."

" Where is he ? " I asked, preparing to obey.

'* In the Commandant's house," replied the Cossack,
"After dinner our father took a bath, but at present he is
resting. Ah! your Excellency, it is very evident that he is
a distinguished person; at dinner he deigned to eat two
roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where the
water was so hot that even Tar&s Kiirochkin could not bear
it; he had to give the besom to Pomkd Bikb&ev, and only
came to himself through having cold water poured over him.

There is no den3ring it; all his ways are majestic And

I was told that in the bath he showed his Tsar's signs upon
his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle as large as a five-
kopek piece, and on the other his own likeness."

I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack's
statement, and I accompanied him to the Commandant's
house, trying to imagine beforehand what kind of a recep-
tion I should meet with from Pugach^v, and endeavouring
to guess how it would end. The reader will easily under-
stand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.

It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Corn-



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Aleksindr Sergyeevich Pushkin 127

mandant's house. The gibbet, with its victims, loomed
black and terrible before me. The body of the poor Com-
mandant's wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near
which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who ac-
companied me went in to announce me, and, returning
almost immediately, conducted me into the room where, the
evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of Maria
Ivdnovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my
gaze. At a table, covered with a cloth and loaded with
bottles and glasses, sat Pugach6v and some half a score of
Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and shirts, heated with wine,
with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did not see among
them Shvabrin and his fellow traitor, the orderly.

"Ah I your Excellency!" said Pugach6v, seeing me.
" Welcome; honour to you and a place at our banquet."

The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at
the end of the table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall
and handsome, poured out for me a glass of wine, which,
however, I did not touch. I began to observe the company
with curiosity. Pugach6v occupied the seat of honour, his
elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped
under his black beard. His features, regular and sufficiently
agreeable, had nothing fierce about them. He frequently
turned to speak to a man of about fifty years of age, address-
ing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timof^ich, some-
times as unde. All those present treated each other as
comrades, and did not show any particular respect for their
leader. The conversation was upon the revolt, and of their
future operations. Each one boasted of what he had done,
expressed his opinion, and fearlessly contradicted Pugach6v.
And in this strange council of war it was resolved to march
upon Orenbfirg; a bold movement, and which was to be
very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed
for the following day.

" Now, lads," said Pugach^v, " before we retire to rest,
let us have my favourite song. Chumak6v, begin! "

My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melan-
choly peasant's song, and all joined in the chorus:



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128 The Nineteenth Century

'' Stir not, mother, green forest of oak,
Disturb me not in my meditation;
For to-morrow before the court I must go,
Before the stern judge, before the Tsar himself.
The great Lord Tsar will begin to question me:
' Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant's son.
With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed ?
Did you have many companions with you ? '
' I will tell you, true-believing Tsar,
The whole truth I will confess to you.
My companions were four in number:
My first companion was the dark night,
My second companion was a steel knife,
My third companion was my good horse,
My fourth companion was my taut bow,
My messengers were my tempered arrows.'
Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Tsar:
' Well done, my lad, brave peasant's son;
You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply:
Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present
Of a very high structure in the midst of a field —
Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.' "

It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me
by this popular gallows song, trolled out by men destined
for the gallows. Their ferocious countenances, their sonor-
ous voices, and the melancholy expression which they
imparted to the words, which in themselves were not very
expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror.

The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table
and took leave of Pugach6v.

I wanted to follow them, but Pugach^v said to me:

" Sit down; I want to speak to you.''

We remained face to face.

For some moments we both continued silent. Pugach^v
looked at me fixedly, every now and then winking his left
eye with a curious expression of craftiness and drollery.
At last he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned



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Aleksindr Sergy6evich Pushkin 129

merriment that I, too, looking at him, b^an to laugh,
without knowing why.

" Well, your lordship,*' he said to me, ** confess now, you
were in a terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round
your neck. I do not believe that the sky appeared bigger

than a sheepskin to you just then You would have

been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not been for your
servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your
lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to
the inn was the great Tsar himself ? "

Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.

" You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,''
continued he, ''but I pardoned you on account of your
virtue, and because you rendered me a service when I was
compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But you will
see something very different presently ! You will see how I
will reward you when I enter into possession of my king-
dom! Will you promise to serve me with zeal ? "

The rascal's question, and his insolence, appeared to me
so amusing that I could not help smiling.

*' Why do you smile ? " he asked, frowning. ** Perhaps
you do not believe that I am the great Tsar ? Is that so ? —
Answer plainly I"

I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as em-
peror was quite out of the question; to do so seemed to me
unpardonable cowardice. To tell him to his face that he
was an imposter was to expose myself to certain death, and
that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet before
the eyes of the crowd, in the first outburst of my indigna-
tion, appeared to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In
gloomy silence Pugach6v awaited my reply. At last (and
even now I remember that moment with self-satisfaction) the
sentiment of duty triumphed over my human weakness. J
replied to Pugach^v:

•* Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself:
can I acknowledge you as emperor ? You, a sensible man,
would know that it would not be saying what I really
thought."

VOL. n.— 9.



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I30 The Nineteenth Century

" Who am I, then, in your opinion ? "

" God only knows; but whatever you may be, you are
pla3ring a dangerous game."

Pugach£v threw a rapid glance at me.

''Then you do not believe," said he, ''that I am the
Bmperor Peter? Well, be it so. But is not aucoess the
reward of the bold ? Did not Grfshka Otr6pev reign in
former days ? Think of me what you please, but do not
leave me. What does it matter to you one way or the
other? Whoever is pope is father. Serve me faithfully
and truly, and I will make you a field-marshal and a prince.
What do you say ? "

** No," I replied with firmness. '' I am by birth a noble-
man; I have taken the oath of fealty to the Empress; I can-
not serve yotL If you really wish me well, send me back to
Orenbiirg."

Pugach^v reflected.

** But if I let you go," said he, '' will you at least promise
not to serve against me ? "

** How can I promise you that ? " I replied. ** You your-
self know that it does not depend upon my will. If I am
ordered to march against you, I must go — there is no help
for it. You yourself are now a chief; you demand obedience
from your followers. How would it seem if I refused to
serve when my services were needed ? My life is in your
hands; if you set me free, I will thank you; if you put me
to death, God will be your judge; but I have told you the
truth."

My frankness struck Pugach^v.

''Be it so," said he, slapping me upon the shoulder.
"One should either punish completely or pardon com-
pletely. Go then where you like. Come to-morrow to say
good-bye to me, and now go to bed. I feel very drowsy
myself."

I left Pugach6v and went out into the street. The night
was calm and cold. The moon and stars were shining
brightly, lighting up the square and the gibbet. In the
fortress all was dark and still. Only in the tavern was a



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Aleks&ndr Sergyievich Pushkin 131

light visible, where could be heard the noise of the late
reveUers. I glanced at the pope's house. The shutters and
doors were closed. Everything seemed quiet within.

I made my way to my own quarters and found Sav61ich
grieving about my absence. The news of my being set at
liberty filled him with unutterable joy.

*' Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God! " said he, making
the sign of the cross. "At daybreak to-morrow we will
leave the fortress and go wherever God will direct us. I
have prepared something for you; eat it, my little father,
and then rest yourself till the morning, as if you were in the
bosom of Christ."

I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appe-
tite, I fell asleep upon the bare floor, worn out both in body
and mind. — From T. Keane's TAe Prose Tales of Alexander
P&ushkin.

PROM "EVGENI ONYEGIN"

tatyjIna's i^etter to onyAgin

I write to you ! Is more required ?
Can lower depths beyond remain ?
'T is in your power now, if desired,
To crush me with a just disdain.
But if my lot unfortunate
You in the least commiserate
You will not all abandon me.
At first I dung to secrecy:
Believe me, of my present shame
You never would have heard the name,
If the fond hope I could have fanned
At times, if only once a week.
To see you by our fireside stand,
To listen to ttie words you speak.
Address to you one single phrase
And then to meditate for days
Of one thing till again we met.
'T is said you are a misanthrope,



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132 The Nineteenth Century

In country solitude you mope,

And we — an unattractive set —

Can hearty welcome give alone.

Why did you visit our poor place ?

Forgotten in the village lone,

I never should have seen your face

And bitter torment never known.

The untutored spirit's pangs calmed down

By time (who can anticipate ?)

I had found my predestinate,

Become a £uthful wife and e'en

A fond and careful mother been.

Another! to none other I

My heart's allegiance can resign.

My doom has been pronounced on high,

'T is Heaven's will and I am thine.

The sum of my existence gone

But promise of our meeting gave,

I feel thou wast by God sent down

My guardian angel to the grave.

Thou didst to me in dreams appear,

Unseen thou wast already dear.

Thine eye subdued me with strange glanoCi

I heard thy voice's resonance

I<ong ago. Dream it cannot be!

Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,

I flushed up, stupefied I grew,

And cried within myself: 't is he!

Is it not truth? in tones suppressed

With thee I conversed when I bore

Comfort and succour to the poor,

And when I prayer to Heaven addressed

To ease the anguish of my breast

Nay! even as this instant fled.

Was it not thou, O vision bright,

That glimmered through the radiant night

And gently hovered o'er my head ?



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Aleksindr Sergy6evich Pushkin 133

Was it not thou who thus didst stoop
To whisper comfort, love, and hope ? —
Who art thou ? Guardian angel sent
Or torturer malevolent ?
Doubt and uncertainty decide:
All this may be an empty dream.
Delusions of a mind untried.
Providence otherwise may deem —
Then be it so! My destiny
Prom henceforth I confide to thee!
Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour
And thy protection I implore.
Imagine I Here alone am I !
No one my anguish comprehends,
At times my reason almost bends,
And silently I here must die —
But I await thee: scarce alive.
My heart with but one look revive;
Or to disturb my dreams approach
Alas! with merited reproach.

'T is finished. Horrible to read!
With shame I shudder and with dread —
But boldly I myself resign :
Thine honour is my countersign !
—Prom Lieut. -Col. Spalding's Eugene Oniguine^
I«ondon, 1881.

PROM "THE BAKHCHISARAY FOUNTAIN ••

Days passed away; Maria slept
Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now —

Prom earth the orphan maid was swept.
But who knew when, or where, or how ?

If prey to grief or pain she fell.

If slain or Heaven-struck, who can tell ?

She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves.

And his neglected harem leaves,



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134 The Nineteenth Century

Flies from its tranquil precincts far,
And with his Tartars takes the field,

Fierce rushes mid the din of war,
And brave the foe that does not 3rield,

For mad despair hath nerved his arm,
Though in his heart is grief concealed,

With passion's hopeless transports warm.
His blade he swings aloft in air

And wildly brandishes, then low
It falls, whilst he with pallid stare

Gazes, and tears in torrents flow.



His harem by the chief deserted.

In foreign lands he warring roved,
Long nor in wish nor thought reverted

To scene once cherished and beloved.
His women, to the eunuch's rage
Abandoned, pined and sank in age.
The fair Grusinian now no more
Yielded her soul to passion's power,
Her fate was with Maria's blended.
On the same night their sorrows ended;

Seized by mute guards the hapless fair
Into a deep abyss they threw, —

If vast her crime, through love's despair,
Her ptmishment was dreadful tool

At length th' exhausted Khan returned,

Enough of waste his sword had dealt,
The Russian cot no longer burned.

Nor Caucasus his fury felt
In token of Maria's loss

A marble fountain he upreared
In spot recluse: — the Christian's cross

Upon the monument appeared
(Surmounting it a crescent bright.
Emblem of ignorance and night!).



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Aleksimdr Sergy^evich Pushkin 135

Th' inscription mid the silent waste
Not yet has time's rude hand effaced,

Still do the gurgling waters pour
Their streams dispensing sadness round,

As mothers weep for sons no more,
In never-ending sorrows drowned.

In mom Cair maids, (and twilight late,)
Roam where this monument appears.

And pitying poor Maria's fate
Bntitle it the Fount of Tears!

—From W. D. Lewis's The Bakchesarian Fountain.

THE POISON-TREE

Remote and dire, in desert-lands
Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen,

Anchdr, the Tree of Poison, stands—
A sentinel, with threatening mien.

The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth

In bitterness and anger dark;
It sucked foul venom from the earth.

Its roots and leaves are dead and stark.

At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows,

The poison from its veins escapes,
And trickling down the stem it flows

By evening into globM shapes.

No bird will seek this Tree of Death,

Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh,
The hungry whirlwind's dusty breath

Grows baneful as it hastens by.

If e'er a wand'ring doud distil

Soft rains upon its blighted top.
Their harmless nature turns to ill,

And changed, in deadly dews they drop.



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136 The Nineteenth Century

But yet a man's imperial nod

Sent forth a fellow-man a£ar,
Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod,

Right to the base of foul Anchdr.

By morning he returned, and bore

The fatal resin, with a bough
Of withered leaves, and like it wore

A wasted look — and from his brow

Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried
To stand, but fell to earth prostrate.

And there, poor slave! he sank and died
In presence of the Potentate,

Who sopped his arrows in the bane,

And sent them dark — a doom new-fotmdl —
By messenger o'er hill and plain
To neighbours in the countries round.
— Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, January,
1899 (vol. X., No. i).

THE BIRD

Naught of labour, naught of sorrow,

On God's little bird doth rest,
And it questions not the morrow,

Builds itself no lasting nest

On the bough it sleeps and swings

Till the ruddy sun appears,
Then it shakes its wings and sings,

When the voice of God it hears.

After Spring's delightful weather.
When the burning Summer 's fled.

And the Autumn brings together
For men's sorrow, for men's dread.



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Aleks&ndr Sergy6evich Pushkin 137

Mists and storms in gloomy legions ;

Then the bird across the main
Flies to f ar-ofif, southern regions,

Till the Spring returns again.
-Trand. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable).

THE PROPHET

By spiritual thirst opprest,
I hied me to the desert dim,
When lo! upon my path appeared
The holy six-winged seraphim.
My brow his fingers lightly pressed,
Soothing my eyelids into rest:
Open my inward vision flies,
As ope a startled eaglet's eyes.
He touched my ears, and they were filled
With sounds that all my being thrilled.
I fdt a trembling fill the skies,
I heard the sweep of angels' wings,
Beneath the sea saw creeping things.
And in the valleys vines arise.
Over my lips a while he hung,
And tore from me my sinful tongue—
The babbling tongue of vanity.
The sting of serpent's subtlety
Within my lips, as chilled I stood,
He placed, with right hand red with blood.
Then with a sword my bosom cut,
And forth my quivering heart he drew;
A glowing coal of fire he put
Within my breast laid bare to view.
As corpse-like on the waste I lay.
Thus unto me God's voice did say —
" Prophet, arise! Confess My Name;
Fulfil my will; submit to Me!
Arise! Go forth o'er land and sea.
And with high words men's hearts inflame! "
— From J. Pollen's Rhymes from the Russian.



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138 The Nineteenth Century

THE TALISMAN

Where fierce the surge with awful bellow

Doth ever lash the rocky wall,
And where the moon most brightly mellow

Doth beam when mists of evening fall;
Where midst his harem's countless blisses

The Moslem spends his vital span,
A sorceress there with gentle kisses

Presented me a Talisman.

And said: "Until thy latest minute

Preserve, preserve my Talisman;
A secret power it holds within it, —

'T was love, true love the gift did plan.
From pest on land or death on ocean

When hurricanes its surface fian,
O object of my fond devotion!

Thou scap'st not by my Talisman.

" The gem in eastern mine which slumbers.

Or ruddy gold 't will not bestow;
'T will not subdue the turbanned numbers

Before the Prophet's shrine which bow;
Nor high through air on friendly pinions

Can bear thee swift to home or dan,
Prom mournful climes or strange dominions^

Prom South to North, — my Talisman.

'' But oh I when crafty eyes thy reason

With sorceries sudden seek to move,
And when in night's mysterious season

Lips cling to thine, — ^but not in love, —
Prom proving then, dear youth, a booty

To those who falsely would trepan.
Prom new heart wounds, and lapse from duty,

Protect thee shall my Talisman."
— Prom The Talisman, and Other Pieces^ by George Borrow,



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