For thus arrayed, she’s seen by none,
What does Ludmila?... Silent, teary,
She walks the garden paths alone
And pines for Prince Ruslan, her dearly
Beloved spouse; then, to her home
In far-off Kiev her thoughts flying,
She brightens and, no longer sighing,
Embraces father, brothers, sees
Her youthful playmates in her dreams
And her old nannies; separation
And thralldom suddenly forgot,
She’s back among them all; but not
For long does her imagination
Bear her away with it, and soon
Anew is she immersed in gloom....
As for the lovesick villain’s minions,
His orders wordless they obey
And search the castle, the pavilions.
The grounds ‘thout respite night and day.
They shout, they rush about insanely,
But all, let us admit it, vainly,
For being an accomplished tease,
The maid provoked them without cease.
Before them suddenly appearing,
She’d call out happily, “Yoo-hoo!”
And spotting her as well as hearing
Her voice, the slaves, a motley crew,
Would run to catch her only to
Seize upon empty air; her tinkling
Laugh sounded as the cap she drew
Down on her head, and in a twinkling
Was gone.... Where she had passed, they knew,
For signs of it, however fleeting,
Were to be seen: from off a tree
Ripe fruit might vanish, grass might be
Left crushed and limp; that she’d been eating
Or drinking or else resting there
They could not help but be aware.
A cedar or a birch provided
The maid with shelter; on a bough
She’d perch and try to doze, but how
Could sleep come to a maiden blinded
By endless tears, her heart grief-torn!...
Against a tree trunk weakly leaning,
She might sigh wearily and yawn
And fall a prey to fitful dreaming....
But when the new-born light of day
Night’s shadows drove away, and pearly
The skies turned, ‘neath the fall’s cool spray
She’d wash. The dwarf, one morning early,
Saw, upward forced by hands unseen,
The water play, then join the stream....
Till darkness had anew descended
And moonbeams the lone gardens combed,
Of spirit sore, by none attended,
Ludmila its far reaches roamed.
At times the echoes would be bringing
Her sweet voice closer, softly singing.
Threads from a Persian shawl, a leaf
Chewed through, a tear-stained handkerchief,
A garland by her quick hands made
Might be found lying in a glade.
His passion and frustration mounting.
All else save his piqued pride discountins
The dwarf has but a single thought:
That the young princess must be caught.
Thus did famed Lemnos’ hobbling smith,
Accepting the connubial wreath
From the unrivaled Aphrodite,
Decide to snare her charms, delighting
The laughing gods by showing them
Of love the cunning stratagem.
One day the maid sat bored and weary
Inside a marble summer-house
And gazed abstracted through the boughs
Of trees by wind swayed at the cheery,
Bloom-covered meadow just beyond.
“My love!” she hears. Ruslan! The sound
Of his dear voice. He’s there, in person:
His face, his form; but dull of eye
And pale is he, he bleeds, his thigh
Is gashed: a wound, a bad one. “Mercy!
Ruslan, ‘tis you!” And with a cry
She flies to him, and, heartsore, shaking
In tears, says to him, her voice breaking:
“Ruslan, my husband, you are here
And wounded, bleeding.... Oh, my dear!”
Her arms go round him.... God in Heaven!
What horror’s this! She cannot stir,
She’s trapped, a net enmeshes her!...
The cap falls off. Who is her craven
And foul pursuer? Cold of limb,
She hears: “She’s mine!” Her gaze grows dim....
The dwarf, none other! Quite defenseless
Is she again; she sees his face
Dreams now enfold her, she falls senseless.
Poor child! What sight is there more chilling,
More certain to provoke our rage!
His brazen hand the puny mage
Lays on the charms of young Ludmila.
Is he-foul thought!-to taste of bliss?
But hark! A horn sounds. What means this?
A challenge to him? Yes! The midget’s....
Face shows cold fear. He quails, he fidgets...
A louder blare! Back on her head
The magic cap he puts, and, paling,
Is off, his beard behind him trailing,
To meet the fate that lies ahead.
RUSLAN AND LYUDMILA: CANTO THE FIFTH
How dear my princess is, one bows
‘Fore her, to sing her praises anxious:
She is so tender, unpretentious,
So faithful to her marriage vows;
Capricious, yes, but not unduly,
Which makes her only sweeter, truly.
Her ways delight us, they endear
Her to us, leaving us enchanted.
How to compare her with Delphire
Who’s so unfeeling, so flint-hearted!
By fate endowed has been the first
With mien and manner most beguiling;
To hear her speak, to see her smiling
Makes one’s heart throb, with love athirst.
Delphire now, spurs and whiskers added,
Would make a true Hussar. But stay!
Blest is he who at end of day
Has a Ludmila waiting for him
In some lone nook, and from her hears
That he’s her love, that she adores him.
And likewise blest is a Delphire’s
Admirer who is too clear-headed
To court her long and runs away.
But let’s not stray too far. Come, say,
Vho was it that the dwarf invited
So daringly to fight him? Who
Defiantly the trumpet blew
And by its sound the villain frightened ?-
Ruslan. Afire with vengeance, he
Has reached the midget’s castle. See?
Beneath the palisades he’s halted;
The trumpet’s sound comes storm-like, loud,
The steed paws at the snowy ground;
The prince awaits the dwarf. A bolt of
What seems like thunder deafens him.
A crushing blow! It has descended
Upon his helmet. Though defended
By this his head is, yet with dim,
Dull sight it is he upward gazes
And sees the dwarf above him fly,
A mammoth bludgeon lifted high.
Ruslan bends down, his great shield raises
And waves his sword, but Chernomor
Sweeps upward; then, appearing o’er
The prince again and downward swooping
He flies straight at him, whereupon
The latter feints, his rival duping,
And down the midget falls, straight on
The well-packed snow, with fear nigh frozen.
Ruslan dismounts, and, never pausing,
&n
bsp; The space between them neatly cleared,
Grabs the magician by the beard!
The captive grunts and strains, and, heaving
Himself from off the bank of snow,
Sails skyward with our hero, leaving
The knight’s astonished steed below.
They’re ‘neath the clouds, Ruslan still gripping
The beard and swinging in the air.
O’er seas and forests, o’er the bare
And rugged hills, their summits tipping,
The dwarf wings, and the stalwart knight,
Though numb and stiff his hand is growing,
Holds dogged on. The dwarf is quite
Used up by now and winded. Slowing
His progress through the air at length,
Amazed and awed by Russian strength,
He turns to our young knight and slyly
Says to him: “Prince, I’ll do you ill
No more; in faith, I value highly
Young valour such as yours and will
Descend at once-on one condition....”
“Be silent, dastardly magician!”
Ruslan exclaims. “I will not treat
With my beloved bride’s tormentor,
Nor into any dealings enter
With you! This sword-’tis only meet
Will punish you, and this most surel’
All of your wiles will serve you poorly!
Fly to the stars, if you so choose,
And still your whiskers you will lose!”
A horrid fear the wizard seizes,
In vain to free himself he tries,
The prince’s grip is like a vise,
He tweaks the beard, and, gleeful, teases
The dwarf by plucking out the hairs
For two whole days the midget bear
Ruslan, but on the third, a’quiver
With fright, he cries: “Have mercy, pray!
I’ve no breath left at all. Deliver
Me from this plight without delay.
I’m in your hands. Where’er you say
We will alight.” “Aha, you shiver!
Well, then, admit you’re overcome
By Russian strength! And, villain, come,
To my Ludmila quickly take me!”
What is old Chernomor to do?
Obedience is his rival’s due!
And so he’s off, quite ill and shaken
And flying home. Midst hills of ice
He sets the prince down. In a trice
Ruslan the Head’s sword raises briskly
With one strong hand; then, ‘thout delay,
The other using, grasps the whiskers
And cuts them off like so much hay.
“There now,” he tells him, “that will teach you!
Where is that handsome tuft you prize
Your strength and pride, you thieving creature?”
And to his helm the dwarfs beard ties.
He calls his bay who joins him, neighing,
Into a bag the pasty-faced
And half-dead wizard stuffs in haste,
The dancing steed no longer staying,
And starts uphill. The top. They ride
Up to the massive palace portal.
Ruslan-there is no happier mortal-
In hot impatience steps inside.
The throng of Moors and slave girls, seeing
His helm with beard graced, know the knight
To be the victor and are fleeing
Before him, fading out of sight
Like ghosts. Ruslan from hall to hall
Strides all alone; we hear him call
To his young spouse-the echo answers....
Is she not in the necromancer’s
Great castle, then? The garden door
He opens wide, all expectation,
And on walks fast. His eye sweeps o’er
The empty grounds in agitation:
All’s dead, naught stirs, still are the groves,
The leafy arbours and the coves;
The river banks, the slopes-deserted,
The valleys too.... He’s disconcerted,
For nowhere e’en a trace is there
Of her he seeks, nor can he hear
The slightest sound. There passes through him
A sudden chill, the world grows dark
About him, and bleak thoughts come to him:
“Captivity.... of grief the mark....
A moment, and the waves-” These fancies,
How dismal they! His head hung, he
Stands like a rock there movelessly....
His very reason clouds, his senses
Fail him. He’s all ablaze, he flames;
Despairing love’s dark poison surges,
A mighty torrent, in his veins.
Is’t not his lady who emerges
From darkness, is’t not she who clings
To him?... He roars her name, he flings
Himself about, and, frenzied, raving,
His sword in mad abandon waving,
At boulders strikes and makes them roll
Downhill, and hacking, mowing, slashing,
Pavilions to the ground sends crashing,
Reduces grove and lea and knoll
To barren wastes, and tumbles bridges
Into the streams. The distant ridges
Send back the clang, the boom, the din;
Ruslan’s sword sings and whistles. Grim
The scene is: all is devastation;
Insensed and maddened, our young knigt
A victim seeks; on left and right
His sword the air cuts ‘thout cessation....
Then all at once a chance thrust sends
The midget’s magic headdress flying
From off his captive’s brow; so ends
The spell cast on her. ‘Fore him lying,
Enmeshed, Ruslan Ludmila sees.
He does not trust his eyes, he is
O’ercome by happiness, and, falling
At his bride’s feet, tears up the nets,
And with his tears her limp hands wets,
And kisses them, her dear name calling.
But closed her lips are and her eyes,
And sensuous are the dreams she’s seeing
That make her bosom sink and rise.
Fresh sorrow fills our knight’s whole beir
What means this sleep? Is she perchance
To be forever in a trance?...
But hark!-a friend’s voice.... ‘Tis the Finn,i
His councillor, who speaks to him:
“Take heart, O Prince! Upon your way
For home set off with fair Ludmila
And, strength of purpose your heart filling,
To love and honour faithful stay.
God’s bolt will strike, defeating malice;
You shall know peace, all will be well.
In Kiev, in Vladimir’s palace,
Your bride will wake, free of her spell.”
Ruslan, much cheered, no longer weary,
Lifts up his calmly sleeping bride,
And down a slope we see him guide
His horse and leave the mountain eyrie.
The midget to his saddle tied,
Across a vale, across a forest
He hurries, by no rival harassed.
In his arms his love rests, a precious
And welcome burden. Oh, how fresh is
Her face! The vernal dawn can be
No more so. ‘Gainst her husband’s shoulder
It rests, all sweet serenity....
The wind born in the barrens boldly
Plucks at her silky golden hair.
She sighs, the roses on her fair
Young cheeks play. Her beloved’s name
She whispers; ‘tis her dreams that bring her
His image and her heart inflame;
On her lips love’s avowals linger.
And he-he’s all fond contemplation
(The sight of her his spirit cheers) -
Oh, that sweet smile, those glistening tears,
That lovely bosom’s agitation!...
Meanwhile, by day, by night they journey
Up hill, down dale, but still unspanned
The distance is, still far the land
Which to behold Ruslan is yearning.
The maid sleeps on.... Did our young knight,
By fruitless, unassuaged desire
Worn-for it seems like years-not tire
Of guarding her? Did he delight
In virtuous dreams, immodest longing
Subduing and in no way wronging
His drowsy charge? So told are we
By one, a monk, who put in writing
The story of the prince, inviting
Inquisitive posterity
To profit by’t. And I-I fully
Believe the annalist, for, truly,
What’s love unshared?-An irksome thing
That can but little pleasure bring.
Ludmila’s sleep did not resemble
Yours in the least, nymphs of the mead,
When languid springtime’s call you heed
And in the cooling shade assemble
Of leafv trees.... I well recall
That happy day in early summer,
A tiny glade at evenfall,
And lovely Lida feigning slumber...
That kiss of mine, so light, so shy,
So hurried, young love’s fresh, sweet token,
Could not awake the maid; unbroken
It left her sleep.... But, reader, why
Do I talk nonsense? Why this needless
Remembrance of a love long dead?
Forgot its joys, its pain, its heedless
And trying ways. To speak I’m led
Of those not long from my thoughts gone:
Ludmila, Chernomor, Ruslan.
A vale before them spreads; upon it
Rise clumps of spruces, and a mound
Looms farther out, its strangely round
And very dark and gloomy summit
Against the bright blue sky outlined.
Our youthful knight at once divined
That ‘twas the Head before them showin;
The steed speeds on, more restive growing;
Across the plain its great hooves thunder....
And lo!-they’re close, they’re nearly there;
Before them is the nine days’ wonder,
It fixes them with glassy stare.
It is a thing repulsive, horrid:
Its inky hair falls on its forehead;
Drenched of all life, the hue of lead
Its face is, while the huge lips, parted,
And, like the cheeks, of colour bled,
Disclose clenched teeth; over the Head
Its hour of doom hangs. Our brave-hearted
And doughty knight rides up and faces