THE ALXEXADR PUSHKIN PAGE

Pushkin's *Confession* to Alina Osipova (1826)


I love you -- though I storm and stress,
Though vain this toil and melancholy,
And to this shameful, hapless folly
Here at your feet I will confess!


It ill-becomes me; I get older...
Time, time to be more sensible!
And yet I know the love-disorder
By all the symptoms in my soul:


I'm bored without you -- I keep yawning;
I'm sad with you -- I suffer through,
And barely hold myself from owning,
My angel, how I care for you!


When in the parlor your light footfall
Or dress's rustle reaches me,
Or voice so innocent, so youthful,
I lose my senses suddenly.


You smile at me -- I'm glad, immensely;
You turn aside -- I'm sad again;
Your pallid hand may recompense me
For the whole day of utter pain.


When you embroider diligently,
Bent over casually, though gently,
Eyes, ringlets down -- I am beguiled;
In silence, tenderly, intently
I watch, admire you like a child.


But then how wretched my existence,
How desolate my jealous pain,
When you set out into the distance
(At times despite the cold and rain);


And then your solitary grieving,
And, in a corner, twosome talks,
And twosome piano of an evening,
And twosome trips, and twosome walks...


Alina! have a little mercy.
I wouldn't dare to ask for love:
Perhaps, for sins I'm guilty of,
My angel, I'm of love unworthy...


But feign it!  All can be achieved
By that expressive gaze, believe me!
Ah, it's so easy to deceive me!..
I'm glad myself to be deceived!_
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*In Russian, the word for "declaration" (of love)
also means "confession".
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THE FLOWER
Pushkin, 1828


A flower shrivelled, lacking fragrance,
Forgotten in a book I see,
And instantly my soul awakens,
Filled with a curious reverie:

When did it bloom?  Last spring? or earlier?
And for how long?  Where plucked?  By whom?
By fingers alien? familiar?
And why put here, as in a tomb?

To mark a tender meeting by it?
A parting with a precious one?
Or just a walk, alone and quiet,
In forests' shade? in meadows' sun?

Is she alive?  Is he still with her?
Where is their haven at this hour?
Or did they both already wither,
Like this unfathomable flower?
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An Elegy written in 1820 aboard
the ship carrying the 20-year old
Pushkin to his southern exile.

"Adieu, adieu, my native land!"
Lord Byron


The light of day went out and under;
The fog of evening has descended on the sea.
Obedient sail, keep beating, thunder, thunder;
You gloomy element, keep troublng under me.
I look ahead, in that direction
I can already see the magic southern strand;
With trouble and languishment I speed unto that land,
Elated with a recollection...

And feel: again my eyes are full of newborn tears;
The soul is turning hotter, chillier;
Around me flies a dream, both stirring and familiar;
I have remembered love, mad love of former years,
And all that burned my heart, and all that filled with     
  wonder,
The wearisome desires, the hopes illusory...
Obedient sail, keep beating, thunder, thunder;
You gloomy element, keep troubling under me.

Dash, vessel, carry me to distant territories
By menacing caprice of the deceptive seas...
But not unto the doleful shores
Of my fog-laden homeland, please --
Where flames of passion used to seize
For the first time my budding spirit,
Where tender muses used to smile on me in secret,
Where early, early ceased to bloom


My wasted youth, both short and stormy,
Where light-winged happiness unfaithfully forswore me
And turned my frigid heart to suffering and gloom.
Resolved to look for new sensations,
I fled you, fatherland, my native earth;
I fled you, fosterlings of delectations,
The momentary friends of momentary youth;
And you too, confidantes of dissolute temptations,

To whom without real love I sacrificed my whole
Tranquility and fame and liberty and soul,
I have forgotten you, fair traitresses, the youthful
Friends of my golden spring, friends secret,friends          
untruthful --
I have forgotten you...  but found no remedy
For the deep wounds of love that tore my heart asunder

Obedient sail, keep beating, thunder, thunder;
You gloomy element, keep troubling under me...         
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Pushkin, 1825

The wondrous moment of our meeting...
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.

In hopeless ennui surrounding
The worldly bustle, to my ear
For long your tender voice kept sounding,
For long in dreams came features dear.

Time passed.  Unruly storms confounded
Old dreams, and I from year to year
Forgot how tender you had sounded,
Your heavenly features once so dear.

My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet --
Dull fence around, dark vault above --
Devoid of God and uninspired,
Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.

Sleep from my soul began retreating,
And here you once again appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.

In ecstasy the heart is beating,
Old joys for it anew revive;
Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting
The fire, and tears, and love alive.
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Pushkin, 1830     

When in the heat of my embrace
I capture your elastic figure
And lavish words of loving praise
On you with tenderness and vigor,
Dear friend, you free your slender build
Of my contracted arms in silence,
And to my words sincere and thrilled
Reply with your mistrustful smiling;
Safeguarding in your memory
Sad tales of loyalty's declension,
Without compassion or attention
You listen drearily to me...
I curse my crafty aspirations
Of youth, with all its vain delights,
And waiting for the assignations
In gardens, in the silent nights;
I curse the words' romantic mumble,
Mysterious melodies of verse,
And kisses of believing girls,
And then their tears, and later grumble.
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1829
I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for awhile the feeling may remain;
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness -- though in vain --
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.
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Pushkin (1829)

On hills of Georgia lies the covering of night;
Aragva streams in front of me.
Such sadness and such ease; my melancholy's light,
My melancholy's full of thee,
Of thee, of only thee...  No anxiousness, no pain
Unsettles my despondency;
My heart again on fire, it burns and loves again,
For otherwise it cannot be.
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A Georgian Romance

O sing, fair lady, when with me
Sad songs of Georgia no more:
They bring into my memory
Another life, a distant shore.

Your beautiful, your cruel tune
Brings to my memory, alas,
The steppe, the night -- and with the moon
Lines of a far, unhappy lass.

Forgetting at the sight of you
That shadow fated, shadow dear,
I hear you singing -- and anew
Imagine it before me here.

So sing, fair lady, when with me
Sad songs of Georgia no more:
They bring into my memory
Another life, a distant shore.
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*translated from Pushkin* (1828) 
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An Elegy (Pushkin, 1830)

The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter
Oppress me like a hazy morning-after.
But sadness of days past, like alcohol,
The further on, the stronger in my soul.
My course is dull.  The future's troubled ocean
Forebodes me work, misfortune and commotion.

But no, my friends, I do not want to leave;
To live I wish, so as to think and grieve,
And I shall have my share of delectations
Amid the pains, concerns and agitations:
At times again, will savor harmony,
Melt into tears about a phantasy,
And on my sad decline, to ease affliction,
Yet love may shine a smile of valediction.
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The End