Mikhail Lermontov
The Demon

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M. Y. Lermontov
(1814–1841)

When we think of Lermontov, we see in our minds a huge mountain-peak somewhere in the heart of the Caucasus. Eternal silence reigns in its clefts and gorges. Its mass of ice and stone looks a picture of gloomy solitude. It seems to be indifferent to the turmoil of life. Still, there is boiling lava deep in its heart. Time and again it shakes from the fury of compressed inner forces. On its bare stony body little trees with lacy foliage climb higher and higher; and when the world is in bloom, winds laden with fragrance blow on its ragged brow, bringing the lure of distant lands.

Such is the poet Lermontov. This is, perhaps, why he loved the Caucasus all his life.

He is the most tragic of the Russian poets. From his very boyhood he was full of disdain for humanity, whose life he thought shallow, empty, and ugly; at the same time, he was irresistibly attracted by this very meaningless life. He cherished the ideal of a demon, a proud, lonely, and powerful superhuman creature challenging peaceful virtues and conventional happiness; at the same time he was fiercely craving for mortal love and sunlit human happiness, the absence of which filled his heart with pain. He had a cool and strong intellect, a power of analysis and criticism which revealed the futility of endeavor in this world and dictated an attitude of bored aloofness; at the same time he was torn by mad passions prompting him to the most unreasonable actions. He was inclined to protest, to repudiate, to curse, and almost without noticing he drifted into a prayer or saw the vision of an angel singing his quiet song over «a world of grief and tears». Altogether he is a profoundly unhappy nature, just the reverse of his older brother Pushkin.

If Pushkin is primarily the poet of the Russian soul and Russian nature, Lermontov is the first of the great Russian poets of the spirit. And if Pushkin is fundamentally national, acquiring international significance through his closeness to his native land, Lermontov is of universal value in himself as expressing those doubts and moods and gropings which are common to all cultured men. This did not prevent him from being a genuine Russian poet. One is even justified in looking for a connection between his dark rebellious moods and the dark conditions of the society in which he lived.

Lermontov is a self-centered poet. «The most characteristic feature of Lermontov's genius», Vladimir Solovyov says, «is a terrific intensity of thought concentrated on himself, on his ego, a terrific power of personal feeling». This, however, is no self-centeredness. Lermontov seeks refuge within himself because he finds no values in the ephemeral existence of the world. He sinks into brooding moods not because he finds in them satisfaction, but because life does not quell his thirst for harmony and truth. He is at war with society, with humanity, with the universe. He is at war even with God in the name of some great unearthly beauty which only at rare moments gives to his soul her luminous forebodings.

If Pushkin is the poet of all the people, Lermontov is the poet of the thinking elements in it. As such he played a colossal rôle in the spiritual history of his country. Generation after generation learned from him to hate the sluggishness of Russian life and the convention of every life, to repudiate compromises, to understand the longing of the soul for things non-existent, and to cherish freedom in the broad sense of the word.

Lermontov's form is in full accord with his moods, varying from the most exquisite tenderness to «verses coined of iron, dipped in poignancy and gall», from slow, thoughtful, and melancholy lines to volcanic outbursts of fury. In expressing delicate shades of emotions and in dignified refinement Lermontov is, perhaps, even superior to Pushkin. There is more of the elusive quality in his poems, that which cannot be expressed in definite words.

«Horrified by the triviality of life, by its corruption and helplessness, Lermontov sounded the motive of indignation. This indignation, so rare in Russia, utterly alien to Pushkin, timidly sounding in the work of Tchatzky[1], unknown to Gogol, was something new and unheard of. Through Lermontov's indignation, the Russian citizen for the first time became aware of himself as a real human being. The feeling of human dignity was stronger in Lermontov than all other feelings. It sometimes assumed unhealthy proportions, it led him to satanical pride, to contempt for all his surroundings. And in the name of this human dignity, unrecognized and downtrodden, he raised the voice of indignation».

«It appeared to him that not only society, those hangmen of freedom and genius, but also the Deity that gave him life, are making attempts on his inalienable rights as a man and are preventing him from living a full, eternal life which alone was of value to him. He saw no prospect of eternal life, no fullness of existence, no love without betrayal, no passion without satiety, and he did not wish to agree to less, as a deposed ruler does not wish to receive donations from the hand of the victor…»

«Lermontov is a religious nature, but his religion is primarily a groping, an indefinite, hazy admittance of life's tragic mystery».

Evg. Solovyov (Andreyevitch)

«Lermontov introduced into literature the struggle against philistinism. Not, perhaps, till the end of the nineteenth century did philistinism meet a more ruthless, merciless foe. His aversion to philistinism is the key to his entire conception of life. His hatred for everything ordinary led him to his outspoken individualism and brought him near to that real romanticism which was unknown in Russia before him. It also imbued him with that contempt for the surrounding world which it is customary to view as Lermontov's characteristic pessimism. Lermontov, however, is not only a pessimist. Lermontov believed that life in itself could be beautiful, even at present. It could be beautiful, and it was all soiled under philistine rule, – this was for him the tragic contradiction. Hence his pessimism, his misanthropy, his hatred for life. He sees ethical philistinism in all social groups, in all society, in humanity at large. From this standpoint he is perhaps the most outspoken individualist in all Russian literature».

Ivanov-Razumnik

«The leading motives of Lermontov's charming and sparkling poetry were a protest against the restrictions of individual freedom, a detached attitude towards an oppressing world, and the lure of another world which though not shaped clearly, not based on a definite foundation, is possessed of an irresistible power. This luring world is ordinarily somewhere in the past; it is a reminiscence, not a hope; at times it is heaven, at times, nature, at times, an idea, unclear yet so wonderful that the very sounds which give an inkling of its dark meaning cannot be listened to 'without emotion.' It is this better world which gives real meaning to a soul reminiscent of it, and the idea of this world lives in many of Lermontov's heroes.

The idea of something which does not allow us to accept our world as the best of all worlds, an idea appearing to men in the best moments of their life and stirring them to action and changes, was very strong in Lermontov's mind. The circumstances of his personal life and the conditions of his time might have strengthened his longing for another world; fundamentally, however, this longing is an inherent quality of mankind, and through it, Lermontov is close not only to his own contemporaries, but also to readers of the present and the future».

I. Ignatov

«What an abundance of power, what a variety of ideas and images, emotions and pictures! What a strong fusion of energy and grace, depth and ease, elevation and simplicity!»

«Not a superfluous word; everything in its place; everything as required, because everything had been felt before it was said, everything had been seen before it was put on the canvas. His song is free, without strain. It flows forth, here as a roaring waterfall, there as a lucid stream».

«The quickness and variety of emotions are controlled by the unity of thought; agitation and struggle of opposing elements readily flow into one harmony, as the musical instruments in an orchestra join in one harmonious entity under the conductor's baton. And all sparkles with original colors, all is imbued with genuine creative thought and forms a new world similar to none».

V. G. Byelinsiky

Lyrical poems
(1828–1841)

«Invincible spiritual power; subdued complaints; the fragrant incense of prayer; flaming, stormy inspiration; silent sadness; gentle pensiveness; cries of proud suffering, moans of despair; mysterious tenderness of feeling; indomitable outbursts of daring desires; chaste purity; infirmities of modern society; pictures from the life of the universe; intoxicating lures of existence; pangs of conscience; sweet remorse; sobs of passion; quiet tears flowing in the fullness of a heart that has been tamed in the storms of life; joy of love; trembling of separation; gladness of meeting; emotions of a mother; contempt for the prose of life; mad thirst for ecstasies; completeness of spirit that rejoices over the luxuries of existence; burning faith; pains of soul's emptiness; outcry of a life that shuns itself; poison of negation; chill of doubt; struggle between fullness of experience and destructive reflection; angel fallen from heaven; proud demon and innocent child; impetuous bacchante and pure maiden, – all, all is contained in Lermontov's poetry: heaven and earth, paradise and hell».

V. G. Byelinsky

The Demon. A fantastic poem
(1829–1840)

The Demon, the Spirit of Evil, craves to free himself from his cold loneliness and to rise to heights of harmony through love for a mortal, the nun Tamar. The scene is set in the Caucasus, and the story is full of the mystic glow of the Orient.

The figure of the Demon was the creation Lermontov loved most. He worked on it practically all his life.

«Lermontov's Demon is not a symbol of the eternal Evil; he is not the Satan, he is a proud spirit, embittered and therefore sowing evil. He lived a lonely, monotonous life. He spread evil without satisfaction to himself. The Demon is an idealist suffering from disappointment. His hatred for mortals is too human. His love for Tamar suddenly transforms him. Her appearance makes him comprehend the sanctity of 'love, the good, and the beautiful' which had never been foreign to his soul, but lay hidden in its remotest corners. A Demon, however, is not destined for joy. Victory does not satisfy his heart, and torn by despair, he goes to tear the one he loves».

K. I. Arabazhin

Mtzyri[2]
(1840)

The poem of freedom. A Circassian boy brought up in a monastery and ready to become a monk, is lured by the wild freedom of nature. On a stormy night he runs away from his half-voluntary prison. For three days he is absent. On the fourth, he is found in the fields near the monastery. He is exhausted and dying. The poem consists mainly of the boy's story. He tells what he experienced in his dash for freedom.

In Mtzyri, Lermontov expressed one of his strongest emotions: his desire to be free like the wind, like the eagle on top of a mountain, like a powerful horse running through the boundless steppe. It is the fullness of life that lured both Lermontov and his Caucasian hero.

<…>

Much has been spoken about the influence of Byron on Lermontov's poetry. Lermontov himself was aware of a certain kinship of souls between himself and Byron. Careful investigators agree, however, that there was only a certain affinity of moods between both poets, but that Lermontov never imitated Byron.

Song of Tzar Ivan Vassilyevitch.[3] Epic poem
(1838)

Lermontov was a singer of heroism. Heroic moods and heroic deeds were at the very heart of his poetry. He found the heroic in his demon, in the wild inhabitants of the Caucasus, but he also looked for heroes in the past of Russia. The Song of Tzar Ivan Vassilyevitch presents a hero coming from the rank of the people and challenging the authority of the Tzar even under the threat of death. The poem is written in the tone and in the spirit of the heroic folk-tales and as such was considered a remarkable contribution to Russian literature.

Moissaye J. Olgin

The Demon
An Eastern Legend

Part I

I

His way above the sinful earth
The melancholy Demon winged
And memories of happier days
About his exiled spirit thronged;
Of days when in the halls of light
He shone among the angels bright;
When comets in their headlong flight
Would joy to pay respect to him
As, chaste among the cherubim,
Among th' eternal nebulae
With eager mind and quick surmise
He'd trace their caravanserai
Through the far spaces of the skies;
When he had known both faith and love,
The happy firstling of creation!
When neither doubt nor dark damnation
Had whelmed him with the bitterness
Of fruitless exile year by year,
And when so much, so much… but this
Was more than memory could bear.

II

Outcast long since, he wandered lone,
Having no place to call his own,
Through the dull desert of the world
While age on age about him swirled,
Minute on minute – all the same.
Prince of this world – which he held cheap —
He scattered tares among the wheat…
A joyless task without remission,
Void of excitement, opposition —
Evil itself to him seemed tame.

III

And so – exiled from Paradise —
He soared above the peaks of ice
And saw the everlasting snows
Of Kazbek and the Caucasus,
And, serpentine, the winding deeps
Of that black, dragon-haunted pass
The Daryal gorge; then the wild leaps
Of Terek like a lion bounding
With mane of tangled spray that blows
Behind him, and a great roar sounding
Through all the hills, where beast and bird
On mountain scree and azure steeps
The river's mighty voice had heard;
And, as he flew, the golden clouds
Streaked from the South in tattered shrouds…
Companions on his Northbound course;
And the great cliffs came crowding in
And brooded darkly over him
Exuding some compelling force
Of somnolence above the stream…
And on the cliff-tops castles reared
Their towered heads and baleful stared
Out through the mists – wardens who wait
Colossal at the mighty gate
Of Caucasus – and all about
God's world lay wonderful and wild…
But the proud Spirit looked with doubt
And cool contempt on God's creation,
His brow unruffled and serene
Admitting no participation.

IV

Before him now another scene
In vivid beauty blooms.
The patterned vales' luxuriant green
Spread like a carpet on the looms
Of Georgia, rich and blessed ground!
These poplars like great pillars tower,
And sounding streams trip over pebbles
Of many colours in their courses.
And, ember-bright, the rose trees flower
Where nightingales forever warble
To marble beauties fond discourses
Forever deaf to their sweet sound.
On sultry days the timid deer
Seek out an ivy-curtained cave
To hide them from the midday heat;
How bright, how live the leaves are here!
A hundred voices soft conclave
A thousand flower-hearts that beat!
The sensuous warmth of afternoon,
The scented dew which falls to strew
The grateful foliage 'neath the moon,
The stars that shine as full and bright
As Georgian beauties' eyes by night!..
Yet in the outcast's barren breast
Abundant nature woke no new
Upsurge of forces long at rest,
Touched off no other sentiment
Than envy, hatred, cold contempt.

V

Right high the house, right wide the court
Grey-haired Gudaal has builded him…
In tears and labour dearly bought
By slaves submissive to his whim.
Across the neighbouring cliffs its shade
From sunrise dark and cool is laid
A steep stair in the cliff-face hewn
Leads from the corner-tower down
To the Aragva. Down this stair
Princess Tamara, young and fair,
Goes gleaming, snow white veils a-flutter,
To fetch her jars of river water.

VI

In austere silence heretofore
The house has looked across the valleys;
But now wide open stands the door
Gudaal holds feast to mark the marriage
Of his Tamara: now the wine
Flows freely and the zurna[4] skirts;
The clan is gathered round to dine
And on the roof-top, richly spread
With orient rugs, the promised bride
Sits all amongst her laughing girls:
In games and songs their time is sped
And merriment. Beyond the hills
The semicircle of the sun
Has sunk already. Now the fun
Crows fast and furious. Now the steady
Rhythmic clapping and the singing
The bride brings to her feet, poised ready,
Her tambourine above her head
Is circling, she herself goes winging
Bird-light above rug, then stops,
Looks round, and lets her lashes drop
That envious hide her shining glance;
And now she raises raven brows,
Now suddenly sways forward slightly
Her slender foot peeps out, and lightly
It slides and swims into the dance;
And see she smiles – a joyous gleam
Aglow with childish merriment.
And yet… the white moon's sportive beam
In rippling water liquid bent
With such a smile could scarce compare
More live than life, than youth more fair.

VII

So by the midnight star I swear
By blazing East and beaming West
No Shah of Persia knew her peer
No King on earth was ever blessed
To kiss an eye so full and fine.
The harem's sparkling fountain never
Showered such a form with dewy pearls!
Nor had mortal fingers ever
Caressed a forehead so divine
To loose such splendid curls;
Indeed, since Eve was first undone
And man from Eden forth must fare
No beauty such as this, I swear,
Had bloomed beneath the Southern sun.

VIII

So now for the last time she danced
Alas! Tomorrow, she, the heir
Of old Gudaal, the daughter fair
Of liberty must bow her head
To a slave's fate like one entranced,
Adopt a country not her own,
A family she'd never known—
Often a secret doubt would shed
A shadow on her radiant face;
Yet all her movements were so free
Appealing, redolent of grace
So full of sweet simplicity
That, had the Demon soaring high
Above looked down and chanced to see…
Then, mindful of his former race,
He had turned from her – with a sigh…

IX

The Demon did see… For one second
It seemed to him that heaven beckoned
To make his arid soul resound
With glorious, grace-bestowing sound —
And once again his thought embraced
The sacrosanct significance
Of Goodness, Beauty and of Love!
And, strangely moved, his memory traced
The joys that he had known above
A chain of long magnificence
Before him link on link unfolding
As though he watched the headlong flight
Of star on star shoot through the night…
And, long the touching scene beholding,
Held spell-bound by some Power unseen,
New sadness in his heart awoke.
Then, suddenly, emotion spoke
In accents once familiar;
Could this yet be regeneration?
The subtle promptings of temptation
Had gone as though they had not been…
Oblivion? – God gave this not yet: —
Nor would he, if he could, forget!..
…

X

Meanwhile, his gallant steed all lathered
Hastening to join his kin forgathered
To celebrate his wedding day
The bridegroom made his urgent way…
Good fortune yet attended him
To bright Aragva's verdant bank.
A line of camels after him
So weighted down with costly gifts
They scarce from hoof to hoof could shift
Wound down the pathway, rank on rank,
Now clear to view, now lost to sight,
Bells chiming softly as they plod.
Their master rode on in the van
To guide his laden caravan
That followed where his horse had trod…
Erect, the lithe waist girdled tight;
Sabre and dagger-hilts shine bright
Beneath the sun; and on his back
A gleaming rifle, notched in black.
The wind is fluttering the sleeve
Of his chukhá[5] – all bravely braided
His saddle-cloth of richest weave,
The saddle with gay silks is broidered
The reigns are tasseled – and his steed
Is of a priceless, golden breed.
Nostrils dilated, twitching ears
He glances down and snorts his fears
Of the deep drop, the flying foam
That crests the rapids' leaping waves.
How perilous the path they follow,
The cliff o'erhangs the way so narrow,
The deep ravine the torrent paves.
The hour is late. – The sunset glow
Is fading on the peaks of snow.
The caravan makes haste for home.

XI

But see – a chapel by the way…
Here now has rested many a day
Some prince, now canonized, but then
By vengeful hand untimely slain. —
And here the traveller must stay
Whether he hastes to fight, or whether
To join the feast, here he must ever
Rein in his horse and humbly pray
The good saint to protect his life
Against the lurking Moslem's knife.
But now the bridegroom, overbold,
Forgot his forefathers of old
And, by perfidious dreams misled
Of how, beneath the cloak of night,
He would embrace his bride, instead
Of holding by their pious rite
He yielded to the Demon's will
Seduced by turbid thoughts – until
Two figures – then a shot – ahead
What was it? Rising in his stirrups
Cramming his high hat on his brow
The gallant lover, at the gallop,
Plunged like a hawk upon his foe!
No word he spoke, his whip cracked once
And once blazed forth his Turkish gun…
Another shot. Wild cries. The Prince
Goes thundering on. The groans behind
Long echoes in the valley find…
Not long the fight. Of timorous mind,
The Georgians turn and run!

XII

Now all is silence; sadly huddled
The camels stand and stare befuddled
Upon their erstwhile master – man,
Lying dead amongst these silent fells.
The only sound their harness bells,
Ravaged and robbed their caravan;
And see, the owl flies softly round
The Christian bodies on the ground!
No peaceful tomb beneath the stones
Of some old church will take these bones
Like those in which their fathers lie;
Mothers nor sisters will not come
In their long floating veils to cry
Over these graves so far from home!
Instead, by zealous hands, a cross
Was raised to mark the dreadful loss
Just where the road hugs close the sheer
And towering cliff-wall, close to where
They perished in the raid…
And ivy, growing lush in spring,
An emerald net about it flings…
Here, weary of the toilsome road,
The traveller yet lays down his load
To rest in God's good shade…

XIII

Swift as a stag still runs the horse
Snorting as though he held his course
In some fierce charge, now plunging on
Now pulling up as though to harken
His nostrils flared to sniff the wind:
Then leaps up and comes ringing down
On all four hooves, sets sparking
The stones and, in his mad career,
His tangled mane streams out behind.
A silent rider he does bear
Who lurches forward now and then
To rest his head in that wild mane.
The reins lie slack in useless hands,
The feet are deep-thrust in the stirrups,
And on his saddle-cloth the bands
Of blood are broadening as they gallop
Ah gallant steed, your wounded master
You bore from battle swift as light
The ill-starred bullet sped yet faster
And overtook him in the night!

XIV

Gudaal's is now a house of mourning,
The people crowd into the court:
Whose horse comes galloping in terror
To fall before the rock-hewn gate?
The lifeless rider, who is he?
The battle fury on his face
Has left a deep inscribed trace
On coat and weapons they could see
Fresh bloodstains, and a wiry strand
Of mane was twisted in his hand,
Not long you waited, youthful bride,
And looked to see your bridegroom come:
Alas, though he has gained your side
To join the feasting at your home
His princely word he keeps in vain…
Never will he mount horse again.

XV

Like thunder, the Lord's judgement broke
About this unsuspecting house!
Tamara, sobbing on her couch,
Gives free rein to the heavy tears
Till, shaken, she on them must choke…
Then, suddenly, it seems she hears
Above her words of wonder spoke:
«Weep not, my child! Weep not in vain!
Those tears are no life-giving rain
To call an unresponsive corpse
Back to the living world again.
They only serve to dull their source
In those clear eyes, those cheeks to burn…
And he is far and will not learn
Of all your bitter sorrow now;
The winds of heaven now caress
His high, angelic brow;
And heavenly music, heavenly light…
What are the dreams and dark duress,
The little hopes and stifled sighs
Of earthly maidens in the sight
Of one who dwells in paradise?
Ah no, the lot of mortal man,
Believe, my earthly angel dear,
It merits not one second's span
Your precious sorrow here.

      On the wastes of airy ocean
     Rudderless and stripped of sail
     Through the mists in listless motion
     Stars in courses never fail;
     Through the boundless fields of heaven
     Traceless pass the fluffy sheep —
     Clouds dissolving in the even
     Reaches of the azure steppe.
     Hour of parting, hour of meeting,
     Brings them neither joy nor sorrow;
     Nor regrets for past fast fleeting;
     Nor desires for any morrow.
     Let remembrance day be only
     One long sorrow-laden day;
     For the rest, be strong and lonely
     Free of earthly cares as they!»

«As soon as night has spread her veil
To cover the Caucasian heights;
As soon as nature 'neath the spell
Of magic words falls silent quite;
As soon as on the cliffs the wind
Runs rustling through the fading grass,
And the small bird that hides behind
The brittle blades flies up at last;
And, drinking in the evening dew
Beneath the vine-leaves in the gloom,
Night flowering blossoms come to bloom;
As soon as the great, golden moon
Above the mountain quietly peeps
To steal a stealthy glance at you;
I shall come flying to watch your sleep
And on your silken lashes lay
Enchanted dreams of golden day…»

XVI

And softly as a strange delusion
The voice fell silent, sound on sound.
The maid sprang up and gazed around,
An inexpressible confusion
Within her breast; – sorrow nor fear
Nor ecstasy could now compare
With this great upsurge of emotion.
The soul from its fast fetters broke
And burning fire coursed through her veins
It seemed as though the voice still spoke
Unknown and wonderful – and then
The sleep she craved came down to bless
Her weary eyes with heaviness;
But now he troubled even her thought
With dreams prophetic and unsought:
A stranger, mist-enshrouded, stood
Beside her bed and spoke no word
But, glimmering with unearthly beauty,
He looked at her with quiet devotion
And sadly, as it were in pity.
But this was not her guardian angel,
No visitant from realms divine:
About his head no radiant halo
Upon the shadowy curls did shine
Nor was it some tormented sprite
Some vicious spirit of hell – ah no!
Neither of darkness nor of light!..
More like the gentle afterglow
As evening deepens into night!..

Part II

I

«Ah, father, father, leave your threat's
Scold not your daughter yet again.
For see these tears! I'm weeping yet
You know full well since when
The suitors come to seek my hand
From all the corners of the land…
As though in Georgia only one
Young maid there were they'd have as bride…
But I–I can be wife to none!..
Oh, father, father, do not chide,
You see yourself – a poison slow
Envenoms all my waking thought
The evil one won't let me go
By overwhelming dreams distraught
I fade and perish utterly!
Have pity, let your foolish girl
Seek refuge in a monastery
There, if I can but take the veil
The saviour will take care of me
And I shall tell Him all my woe.
The world, I know it all too well,
Holds nothing for me: let a cell
In twilit shadow shelter me…
As in a grave – precociously…»

II

And so Tamara's family
To a far convent brought their child,
And there in all humility
In hair-shirt rough the maiden mild
Enrobed her youthful breast.
Yet in this harsh, monastic garb
Her troubled heart found no more rest
From dreams forbidden and debarred
Than clad in velvet or brocade.
Before the altar at the hour,
Of shining candles, solemn prayer,
Through the sweet chanting of the choir
Familiar speech would reach her ear
And there, beneath the cupola,
A well-known figure would appear
To glide by as the incense rose…
Soundless, he leaves no trace, but goes
Gleaming before her like a star
Calling and beckoning afar
But whither? Ah, that no one knows.

III

The holy convent was secluded
In a cool glen between two hills
By poplars and acacias ringed…
And, when the night sank weary-winged
To rest in the ravine, the grills
Of the young sister's cell would gleam
Out through their foliage fitfully.
Without, beneath the almond tree
In whose thin shade dark crosses brooded
Like silent watchers on the graves,
The merry birds made sweet conclaves
Of melody. The spring-cold streams
Leapt down from rock to rock, and sang,
Then merged beneath the overhang
To foam away in rapid rushes
Beneath the frosty-flowering bushes…

IV

Way to the north there was a view,
A glimpse of mountains. At day's dawning,
When curling mists of smoky blue
Rose from the hollows of the hills,
And from his minaret the priest,
His face towards the brightening East,
Called all his flock to prayer at morning,
Then, too, the trembling resonance
Of chapel bells awoke the cloister;
The solemn hour did but enhance
The stillness of the place, the calm…
Tamara at this hour came forth
Bearing a pitcher on one arm
And, treading where the mists grew lighter
Down the steep hillside stepped for water.
The snowy summits to the North
Showed violet against the sky
And flung a cloak of rosier dye
About their shoulders in the evening;
And there between them, upheaving
His head between the clouds, their Tsar,
Kazbek, in robes of silver weaving,
Towered up towards the polar star.

V

Yet, full of tainted thoughts, her mind
Is shuttered to such pure delights,
And all her heart is filled with night
The whole world shadowed and unkind.
And morning ray and evening dark
Serve only to ignite the spark
Of further torment in her soul.
And, as the sweet, nocturnal cool
Over the thirsty earth came seeping,
Almost demented, she would fall
Before the sacred icon weeping;
And in the silence of the night
Her heavy sobbing would affright
The traveller upon his course;
«A mountain spirit», he'd surmise
«Bound in some cavern moaning lies!»
And hustle on his weary horse…

VI

So, filled with longing and unease,
Tamara would sit long and gaze
Engrossed in lonely meditation
All day, and sigh with expectation
Beside her window, staring out…
That he would come she had no doubt,
Why else then were her dreams so clear?
Why else then used he to appear
With eyes so infinitely sad
And speech so marvellously tender?
For many days on end she had
Been strangely moved – she knew not why…
She called the good saints to defend her
But in her heart she called on him;
And always, when the day grew dim,
Weary with staring she would lie
Down on her bed and try to sleep:
The pillow burnt her flaming cheek
Fear stifled her, she gasped for breath,
Then, from her pallet she would leap
With heaving shoulders, fevered breast
Trembling, a mist before her sight,
Her arms outstretched to clasp the night,
The kisses melting on her lips…
…
…

VII

The Georgian hills were scarcely veiled
In the transparent dusk of evening
Before the Demon downward sailed
Through the grey twilight wreathing
For long and long, though powerfully
The convent seemed to draw him, he
Could not make up his mind to break
That hallowed peace… One moment more
And he was ready to forsake
His cruel intent. Beyond the door
He paced beneath the circling wall
Absorbed in thought. The shadowy leaves
Shook at his steps without a breeze
He raised his eyes: a quivering light
Throbbed from her window through the night.
So, she was waiting – and awake!
Through the soft silence all about
The chingar[6] thrummed harmoniously
And over them a song rang out
A song that poured mellifluousty
Like tears that fall in measure slow,
A song so tender that at times
It seemed as though in loftier climbs
It had been made for earth below.
Some angel, maybe, had descended
To seek a being he'd once befriended
To bring him secret consolation,
To ease his pain, past bliss recall.
Love's anguish and love's exaltation
Now held the Demon fast in thrall
For the first time; he would have flown
But his great wings were turned to stone!
A miracle! His eyes are dim
And down his cheek there rolls one tear…
Now, to this day, the stones still bear
The fiery traces of its falling…
A tear of flame, a trace appalling,
But not a human tear!

VIII

And so he came, prepared to give
His heart in love, his soul to light.
He thought the time had come to live
A new life on this longed-for night.
As though at a first assignation
The proud soul felt a strange, shy thrill,
A shuddering, timid expectation:
It was a sign that boded ill!
He entered, looked around. Before him
The lovely sinner's Guardian stood,
Heaven's messenger, bright cherubim,
With smiling lips and brow of flame.
So, the fell enemy forestalling,
The brilliant spirit of the Good
Had gathered her beneath his wing.
The Demon looked for tender greeting —
But light divine upon him beating
And stern rebuke upon him came:

IX

«Spirit of idleness and sin,
At this dark hour who called you? say!
You have no servants here within
These sacred walls, nor to this day
Has breath of evil visited
This charge of mine, to you forbid…
Who called you?» – Subtly in reply
The Demon smiled but in him woke
The ancient hate of hell. His eye
Flashed fiery-jealous as he spoke
Upon the messenger divine:
«Leave her!» he said. «For she is mine!
Too late you came, good guardian – see
You are no judge of such as we
For her proud heart belongs to me.
No charge is she of powers above
Here I am lord, and here I love!» —
Sad-eyed, the angel bent his glance
Upon the evil spirit's prey
Then slowly flapped his great wings once
And through the ether soared away.
…

X

Tamara
     Who are you? You are perilous
Say – are you come from heaven or hell?
What do you want?

The Demon
     What loveliness!

Tamara
But speak, who are you? You must tell.

The Demon
     I am he to whom you barkened
In the stillness of the night,
He whose thought your mind has darkened,
He whose sadness you have felt,
Whose image haunts your waking sight,
Whose name the end of hope has spelt
To every soul with whom I treat.
I am he no man may love,
A scourge to all my mortal slaves,
The ill in nature. Enemy
To Heaven and all the powers above.
Lord of knowledge, liberty.
And, as you see, I'm at your feet.
Moved beyond all that I have known
I would speak softly in your ears
Quiet prayers of love. Tell of my pain,
My first on earth, and my first tears.
Ah hear me out, for pity's sake!
One word from you would quite restore me.
Robed in the love of your pure heart
I might again resume my part
In the angelic ranks and take
An aspect new and a new glory.
Ah, hear me, hear me I implore you,
I am your slave and I adore you!
No sooner did I see you than
I felt a sudden, veiled revulsion
For immortality and power;
And I was drawn by strange compulsion
To envy the frail joys of man;
Life without you became a torment
To be apart from you – a horror.
A living ray of warmth, a portent
Of fair renewal touched my heart
And set the cold blood coursing. Sorrow
Beneath the scar stirred like a serpent
Awakening an ancient pain.
For, tell me, without you what gain
Is there in my infinity?
Endless dominion, majesty?
Loud, empty words – a spacious fane
Devoid of all divinity!

Tamara
     Leave me, false spirit of deceit
Be silent, for I will not trust
The Enemy. Ah God… some sweet
Insistent poison saps resolve —
I cannot say the prayer I must —
Your words are fire and I dissolve
And melt in them. I cannot see…
But say: how came you to love me?

The Demon
     How, lovely one? – I do not know,
My life is wondrous full and new,
The crown of thorns I proudly cast
With my own hands from off my brow.
All that I have been shattered lies:
My heaven and hell are in your eyes.
I love you with a passion vast.
You cannot love as I love you,
With all the ecstasy and power
Of deathless thought and dreams sublime.
Since the beginning of all time
Your image on the eternal air
Has gone before me – till this hour.
My soul has long been troubled by
The sweet sounds of the name you bear;
And in my days of blessedness
You were my only lack. If only
You could but understand the lonely
Embittered boredom of existence
When, century on century,
Alone in suffering and joy
In evil meeting no resistance,
For good receiving no reward,
Enclosed in self, by self most bored,
A never-ending war to wage
Past hope to triumph or destroy
Past hope of making peace again!
To pity where I would desire.
To know all things from age to age,
Seek hatred's all-consuming fire
And nought to find but cool disdain!
For since God's curse upon me came
All natural ardours have grown cold.

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Примечания

1

Tchatzky (Chatsky) is the main character of the comedy «Woe from Wit» by A. Griboedov. – Ed.

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2

«Mtzyri» («Mtsyri») means in Georgian «a non-ordained monk», «a novice». – Ed.

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3

«Song of Tzar Ivan Vassilyevitch» and «The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov» are alternative names for «The Lay of Tsar Ivan Vassilyevich, His Young Oprichnik and the Stouthearted Merchant Kalashnikov». – Ed.

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4

Zurna – a woodwind musical instrument with a double reed. – Ed.

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5

Chukha (chokha) – a part of the traditional male dress of the peoples of the Caucasus. – Ed.

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6

Chingar – a guitar. – Ed.

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