Circassian roots age-old. North Caucasus through the centuries

In the village, on their thresholds,

Circassians sit idle.

The sons of the Caucasus say

About abusive, disastrous anxieties,

About the beauty of their horses,

About the pleasures of wild bliss;

Remembering the old days

irresistible raids,

Tricky Bridles (3) ,

Checkers strikes (4) their cruel ones,

And the accuracy of inevitable arrows,

And the ashes of devastated villages,

And the caresses of the black-eyed captives.

Conversations flow in silence;

The moon floats in the night fog;

And suddenly in front of them on a horse

Circassian. He's fast on the lasso

Dragged a young prisoner.

"Here's a Russian!" the predator yelled.

The village ran to his cry

Fierce crowd;

But the prisoner is cold and dumb,

With a disfigured head

Like a corpse, he remained motionless.

He does not see the faces of enemies,

He does not hear threats and screams;

A death dream flies over him

And it breathes pernicious cold.

And for a long time the prisoner is young

He lay in heavy oblivion.

Already noon over his head

Blazed in a merry radiance;

And the spirit of life woke up in him,

An indistinct groan was heard in the mouth;

warmed by the sun,

The unfortunate man quietly got up;

A weak gaze circles around ...

And sees: impregnable mountains

Above him, a mass rose,

Nest of robber tribes,

Circassian liberty fence.

The young man remembered his captivity,

Like a dream of terrible anxiety,

And hears: thundered suddenly

His shackled legs...

Everything, everything said a terrible sound;

Nature eclipsed before him.

Sorry, sacred freedom!

Behind the sacks (5) lies

He's at the thorny fence.

Circassians in the field, no supervision,

Everything is silent in the empty village.

Desert plains before him

They lie in a green veil;

There the hills stretch in a ridge

Monotonous peaks;

Between them a solitary path

In the distance is lost gloomy -

And the prisoner of the young chest

I was agitated by a heavy thought ...

A long way leads to Russia,

To a country where fiery youth

He proudly started without worries;

Where did he first know joy,

Where he loved a lot

Where he embraced terrible suffering,

Where stormy life ruined

Hope, joy and desire

AND better days memory

In a withered heart concluded.

................................................

He knew people and light

And he knew the price of unfaithful life.

In the hearts of friends found treason,

In the dreams of love, a crazy dream,

Bored of being a victim of being accustomed

For a long time despicable vanity,

And dislike bilingual,

And innocent slander

Renegade of light, friend of nature,

He left his native land

And flew to a distant land

With a cheerful ghost of freedom.

Freedom! he is one of you

I also searched in the desert world.

Destroying feelings with passions,

Cold to dreams and to the lyre,

With the excitement of the song he listened,

inspired by you,

And with faith, fiery prayer

Your proud idol embraced.

It's done... the goal of hope

He sees nothing in the world.

And you, last dreams,

And you hid from him.

He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone

He waits so that with a gloomy dawn

The flame of a sad life went out,

And longs for the canopy of the grave.

The sun is already fading behind the mountains;

There was a noisy rumble in the distance;

From the fields people go to the village,

Glittering bright braids.

Came; fires were lit in the houses,

And gradually the noise is discordant

fell silent; all in the shadow of the night

Embraced by a calm bliss;

In the distance the mountain key sparkles,

Escaping from the stone rapids;

Dressed in a veil of clouds

Sleeping peaks of the Caucasus...

But who, in the glow of the moon,

In the midst of deep silence

Is he walking furtively?

The Russian woke up. In front of him,

With gentle and silent greetings,

There is a young Circassian.

At the girl, silently, he looks

And thinks: this is a false dream,

Tired feelings the game is empty.

A little illuminated by the moon

With a smile of pity

On her knees, she

To his lips koumiss (6) is cool

He brings it with a quiet hand.

But he forgot the healing vessel;

He catches with a greedy soul

Pleasant speech sound magical

And the eyes of a young maiden.

He does not understand foreign words;

Live! and the prisoner comes to life.

And he, gathering the rest of his strength,

Submissive to the command of the dear,

I got up and a cup of salutary

Quenched the languor of thirst.

Then he leaned on the stone again

burdened head;

But all to the young Circassian

His fading gaze strove;

And long, long before him

She sat thoughtfully;

As if the participation of the dumb

I wanted to comfort the prisoner;

Mouth involuntarily every hour

With the speech begun, they opened;

She sighed, and more than once

Eyes filled with tears.

After days the days passed like a shadow.

In the mountains, chained, by the herd

Conducts a prisoner every day.

Caves dark cool

He hides in the summer heat;

When the horn of the silvery moon

Shines behind the dark mountain,

Circassian, shady path,

Brings wine to the prisoner

Koumiss, and fragrant honeycomb hives,

And snow-white millet;

He shares a secret supper with him;

A tender look rests on him;

Merges with obscure speech

Eyes and signs of conversation;

Sings to him the songs of the mountains,

And songs of Georgia happy (7)

And an impatient memory

Conveys a foreign language.

For the first time with a virgin soul

She loved, knew happiness;

But Russian life is young

I have long lost my sweetness.

He could not answer with his heart

Infant love, open -

Perhaps a forgotten dream of love

He was afraid to remember.

Our youth will not suddenly fade,

Not suddenly raptures will leave us,

And unexpected joy

We will hug more than once;

But you, living impressions,

original love,

Heavenly flame of rapture,

You don't fly back.

Seemed like a hopeless prisoner

Get used to a dull life.

Anguish of captivity, rebellious heat

He hid deep in his heart.

Dragging between gloomy rocks

In the hour of early, morning coolness,

He fixed a curious look

To the distant masses

Gray, ruddy, blue mountains.

Great pictures!

Thrones of eternal snows,

Their peaks seemed to the eyes

A motionless chain of clouds,

And in their circle a two-headed colossus,

In a crown of shining ice,

Elbrus is huge, majestic,

White in the blue sky (8).

When, with a deaf merging rumble,

Forerunner of the storm, thunder rumbled,

How often is a prisoner over the village

Sitting motionless on the mountain!

Clouds were smoking at his feet,

Flying ashes rose in the steppe;

Already a shelter between the rocks

Frightened deer searched;

Eagles rose from the cliffs

And they called to each other in the sky;

The noise of the herds, the lowing of the herds

Already the voice of the storm was drowned out ...

And suddenly on the valleys rain and hail

From clouds through lightning erupted;

Waves of a swarm of steepness,

Moving the stones of the ages,

Rain streams flowed -

And the prisoner, from the mountain height,

Alone, behind a thundercloud,

Waiting for the return of the sun

Unreachable by the storm

And storms to the weak howl

He listened with some joy.

But Europeans are all the attention

This wonderful people attracted.

A prisoner watched among the highlanders

Their faith, morals, upbringing,

Loved the simplicity of their lives

Hospitality, thirst for battle,

Movements free speed,

And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand;

He looked for hours,

How agile a Circassian is sometimes,

Wide steppe, mountains,

In a shaggy hat, in a black cloak,

Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups

Leaning with a slender leg,

I flew at the will of the horse,

Getting used to the war in advance.

He admired the beauty

Clothes swearing and simple.

The Circassian is hung with weapons;

He is proud of him, comforted by him:

He wears armor, a squeaker, a quiver,

Kuban bow, dagger, lasso

And checker, eternal friend

His labors, his leisure.

Nothing bothers him

Nothing will blur: on foot, on horseback -

He's still the same; all the same look

Invincible, relentless.

Thunderstorm of careless Cossacks,

His wealth is a zealous horse,

Pet of mountain herds,

Comrade faithful, patient,

In a cave or in the deaf grass

An insidious predator lurks with him

And suddenly, with a sudden arrow,

Seeing a traveler, strives;

In an instant, a sure fight

His mighty blow will decide,

And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains

Already attracts a flying lasso.

The horse strives at full speed,

Filled with fiery courage;

All the way to him: swamp, forest,

Bushes, cliffs and ravines;

A trail of blood runs after him,

There is a clatter in the desert;

A gray stream rustles before him -

He rushes into the depths of the boiling;

And the traveler, thrown to the bottom,

Swallows a muddy wave

Exhausted, asks for death

And he sees her in front of him ...

But his powerful horse is an arrow

It brings foamy to the shore.

Or, grasping a horned stump,

Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm,

When on the hills a veil

The shadow of a moonless night lies,

Circassian on centuries-old roots,

Hangs around on branches

Your battle armor:

Shield, cloak, shell and helmet,

Quiver and bow - and into fast waves

Then he rushes after him,

Tireless and silent.

Silent night. The river roars;

A mighty current carries him

Along the secluded shores,

Where on the elevated mounds,

Leaning on spears, Cossacks

They look at the dark run of the river -

And past them, blackening in the mist,

The weapon of the villain floats...

What are you thinking, Cossack?

Remembering past battles

On the death field your bivouac,

Polkof laudatory prayers

And the homeland?.. An insidious dream!

Excuse me, free villages,

And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don,

War and red maidens!

A secret enemy moored to the shores,

The arrow comes out of the quiver -

Soared - and the Cossack falls

From the bloodied mound.

When with a peaceful family

Circassian in the father's dwelling

Sits in a stormy time

And coals smolder in the ashes;

And, hiding from the faithful horse,

Belated in the desert mountains

A tired stranger will come to him

And timidly sit down by the fire:

Then the owner is kind

Greetings, affectionately, rises

And a guest in a bowl of fragrant

Chikhir (9) is gratifying.

Under a damp cloak, in a smoky sakla,

The traveler enjoys peaceful sleep,

And in the morning he leaves

Hospitable shelter for the night (10) .

It used to be in bright Bairan (11)

The young men will gather in a crowd;

The game is replaced by the game:

Then, having completely dismantled the quiver,

They are winged arrows

Pierced in the clouds of eagles;

That from the height of the steep hills

impatient rows,

At this sign, they will suddenly fall,

Like deer, they strike the earth,

The plain is covered with dust

And they run with a friendly clatter.

But the boring world is monotonous

Hearts born for war

And often the games of will are idle

The game is cruel embarrassed.

Often checkers menacingly shine

In the insane agility of feasts,

And heads of slaves fly to dust,

And in joy babies splash.

But the Russian is indifferently mature

These bloody games.

He loved before the game of glory

And burning with a thirst for death.

Slave of merciless honor,

He saw his end up close,

In fights, hard, cold,

Encountering fatal lead.

Perhaps, immersed in thought,

He remembered that time

When, surrounded by friends,

He feasted with them noisily...

Did he regret the days gone by

About the days that deceived hope,

Ile, curious, contemplated

The harsh simplicity of fun

And the manners of the wild people

In this faithful mirror I read -

Tail in silence he is deep

The movements of your heart

And on his high forehead

Nothing has changed.

His careless courage

Terrible Circassians marveled,

Spared his young age

And whisper among themselves

They were proud of their booty.

(1) Beshtu, or, more correctly, Beshtau, Caucasian mountain 40 versts from Georgievsk. known in our history.

(2) Aul. This is the name of the villages of the Caucasian peoples.

(3) Bridle, chief or prince.

(4) checker, Circassian sword.

(5) Saklya, hut.

(6) Kumys made from mare's milk; This drink is in great use among all the mountainous and nomadic peoples of Asia. It is quite pleasant to the taste and is revered as very healthy.

(7) The happy climate of Georgia does not reward this beautiful country for all the misfortunes that it always endures. Georgian songs are pleasant and mostly mournful. They glorify the momentary successes of Caucasian weapons, the death of our heroes: Bakunin and Tsitsianov, betrayals, murders - sometimes love and pleasure.

(8) Derzhavin, in his excellent ode to Count Zubov, was the first to depict wild pictures of the Caucasus in the following stanzas:

O young leader, having made campaigns, You passed with the army of the Caucasus, Ripe horrors, the beauties of nature: As from the ribs of terrible mountains pouring there, Angry rivers roar into the darkness of the abyss; As from their foreheads with a roar of snow Will fall, lying whole eyelids; Like chamois, with their horns bowed down, Seeing in the darkness calmly beneath them The birth of lightning and thunder. You are mature, as clear at times There are rays of the sun, among the ice, Among the waters, playing, reflecting, A magnificent view seems; How, in multi-colored sprays scattering There, thin rain burns; Like a lump there is gray-amber, Hanging, looks into the dark forest; And there the golden crimson dawn Through the forest amuses the eye. Zhukovsky, in his letter to G. Voeikov, also devotes several charming verses to the description of the Caucasus: You matured, like the Terek in a fast run Noisy between the vineyards, Where, often hiding on the shore, a Chechen or a Circassian sat, Under a cloak, with a fatal lasso; And in the distance in front of you, Dressed in a blue fog, The mountain rose above the mountain, And in the host of their gray-haired giant, Like a cloud, Elborus is two-headed. Terrible and majestic Everything there shines with beauty: Mossy masses of cliffs, Falls running with a roar Into the darkness of the abyss from granite rocks; Forests that have been sleeping for centuries Neither the sound of axes, nor a man The merry voice did not revolt, In which the gloomy vestibule The daylight ray has not yet penetrated, Where occasionally there are only deer, Orla, having heard a menacing cry, Crowding into the crowd, rustling branches, And goats with light legs Run across rocks. There everything appears to the eyes of the Splendor of creation! But there, among the solitude of the Valleys lurking in the mountains, Both the Balkar and the Bakh nest, And the Abazekh, and the Kamucin, And the Korbulak, and the Albazin, And the Checheryan, and the Shapsuk. Pishchal, chain mail, saber, bow And horse, fast-footed comrade-in-arms - Their treasures and gods; Like chamois jumping over the mountains, Throwing death from behind a cliff; Or along the marshy shores, In the high grass in the thicket of the forest, Spread out, they are waiting for prey; The rocks of freedom are their shelter. But the days in their auls wander On crutches of gloomy laziness: There their life is a dream; shy in a circle And in a fraternal pot with tobacco Stuck chibouks like shadows They sit in the swirling smoke And talk about murders; Or praise well-aimed squeaks, From which their grandfathers shot; Or sabers on flint sharpen, Preparing for the murders of the new. (nine) Chikhar, red Georgian wine.

(10) Circassians, like all wild peoples, are distinguished by hospitality before us. The guest becomes a sacred person for them. To betray him or not to protect him is considered among them the greatest dishonor. Kunak (that is, a friend, acquaintance) is responsible for your safety with his life, and with him you can go deep into the very middle of the Kabardian mountains.

(11) Bairan or Bayram, the feast of the breaking of the fast. ramadan, Muslim post.

(12) Mstislav, son. St. Vladimir, nicknamed daring, specific prince of Tmutarakan (Taman Island). He fought with the Kosogs (in all likelihood, the current Circassians) and in single combat defeated their prince Rededya. Cm. East State. Ross. Volume II.


STORY

1820-1821

DEDICATION.

N. N. RAEVSKY.

Accept with a smile, my friend,

Free muse offering:

To you I dedicated the song of the exiled lyre

And inspirational leisure.

When I was dying, innocent, joyless,

And the whisper of slander listened from all sides,

When the dagger of treason is cold

When love is a heavy dream

I was tortured and killed

10 I still found peace near you;

I rested my heart - we loved each other:

And the storms over me tired the ferocity,

I blessed the gods in the peaceful harbor.

In the days of sad parting

My thoughtful sounds

Reminds me of the Caucasus

10 The blows of their cruel checkers,

And the accuracy of inevitable arrows,

And the ashes of devastated villages,

And the caresses of the black-eyed captives.

Conversations flow in silence;

The moon floats in the night fog;

And suddenly in front of them on a horse

Circassian. He's fast on the lasso

Dragged a young prisoner.

“Here is a Russian!” - the predator cried out.

20 Aul ran to his cry

Fierce crowd;

But the prisoner is cold and dumb,

With a disfigured head

Like a corpse, he remained motionless.

He does not see the faces of enemies,

He does not hear threats and screams;

A death dream flies over him

And it breathes pernicious cold.

And for a long time the prisoner is young

30 Lying in heavy oblivion.

Already noon over his head

Blazed in a merry radiance;

And the spirit of life woke up in him,

An indistinct groan in the mouth was heard,

warmed by the sun,

The unfortunate man quietly got up.

Around circles a weak gaze ...

And sees: impregnable mountains

Above him, a mass rose,

40 Nest of robber tribes,

Circassian liberty fence.

The young man remembered his captivity,

Like a dream of terrible anxiety,

And hears: thundered suddenly

His chained feet ...

Everything, everything was said by a terrible sound;

Nature eclipsed before him.

Sorry, sacred freedom!

50 He's at the barbed fence.

Circassians in the field, no supervision,

Everything is silent in the empty village.

Desert plains before him

They lie in a green veil;

There the hills stretch in a ridge

Monotonous peaks;

Between them a solitary path

In the distance is lost gloomy:

And the prisoner of the young chest

60 ...

95

A long way leads to Russia,

To a country where fiery youth

He proudly started without worries;

Where did he first know joy,

Where he loved a lot

Where he embraced terrible suffering,

Where stormy life ruined

Hope, joy and desire,

And memories of better days

70 In a withered heart concluded.

He knew people and the world,

And he knew the price of unfaithful life.

In the hearts of friends found treason,

In the dreams of love, a crazy dream,

Bored of being a victim of being accustomed

For a long time despicable vanity,

And dislike bilingual,

And innocent slander

Renegade of light, friend of nature,

80 He left his native limit

And flew to a distant land

With a cheerful ghost of freedom.

Freedom! he is one of you

I also searched in the desert world.

Destroying feelings with passions,

Cold to dreams and to the lyre,

With the excitement of the song he listened,

inspired by you,

And with faith, fiery prayer

90 Your proud idol embraced.

It's done ... purpose of hope

He sees nothing in the world.

And you, last dreams,

And you hid from him.

He is a slave. Leaning head on the stone

He waits so that with a gloomy dawn

The flame of a sad life went out,

And longs for the canopy of the grave.

The sun is already fading behind the mountains;

100 In the distance there was a noisy rumble;

From the fields people go to the village,

Glittering bright braids.

They came. The lights were on in the houses

And gradually the noise is discordant

fell silent; all in the shadow of the night

Embraced by a calm bliss;

In the distance the mountain key sparkles,

Escaping from the stone rapids;

Dressed in a veil of clouds

110 Caucasus dormant peaks ...

But who, in the glow of the moon,

In the midst of deep silence

Is he walking furtively?

I woke up Russian. In front of him,

With gentle and silent greetings,

There is a young Circassian.

He silently looks at the girl

And thinks: this is a false dream,

Tired feelings the game is empty.

120 A little illuminated by the moon,

With a smile of pity

On her knees, she

And an impatient memory

Conveys a foreign language.

For the first time with a virgin soul

She loved, knew happiness;

170 But Russian life is young

I have long lost my sweetness.

He could not answer with his heart

Infant love, open -

Perhaps a forgotten dream of love

He was afraid to remember.

Our youth will not suddenly fade,

Not suddenly raptures will leave us,

And unexpected joy

We will hug more than once:

180 But you living impressions,

original love,

Heavenly flame of rapture,

You don't fly back.

Seemed like a hopeless prisoner

Get used to a dull life.

Anguish of captivity, rebellious heat

He hid deep in his heart.

Dragging between gloomy rocks,

In the hour of early, morning coolness,

190 He fixed a curious look

To the distant masses

Gray, ruddy, blue mountains.

Great pictures!

Thrones of eternal snows,

Their peaks seemed to the eyes

A motionless chain of clouds,

And in their circle a two-headed colossus,

In a crown of shining ice,

Elbrus is huge, majestic,

200 White in the blue sky.

When, with a deaf merging rumble,

Forerunner of the storm, thunder rumbled,

How often is a prisoner over the village

Sitting motionless on the mountain!

Clouds were smoking at his feet,

Flying ashes rose in the steppe;

Already a shelter between the rocks

Frightened deer searched;

Eagles rose from the cliffs

210 And they called to each other in heaven;

The noise of the herds, the lowing of the herds

Already the voice of the storm was drowned out ...

And suddenly on the valleys rain and hail

From clouds through lightning erupted;

Waves of a swarm of steepness,

Moving the stones of the ages,

Rain streams flowed -

And the prisoner, from the mountain height,

Alone, behind a thundercloud,

220 I was waiting for the return of the sun,

Unreachable by the storm

And storms to the weak howl

He listened with some joy.

But Europeans are all the attention

This wonderful people attracted.

A prisoner watched among the highlanders

Their faith, morals, upbringing,

Loved the simplicity of their lives

Hospitality, thirst for battle,

230 movements of free speed,

And the lightness of the legs, and the strength of the hand;

He looked for hours,

How agile a Circassian is sometimes,

Wide steppe, mountains,

In a shaggy hat, in a black cloak,

Leaning towards the bow, on the stirrups

Leaning with a slender leg,

I flew at the will of the horse,

Getting used to the war in advance.

240 He admired the beauty

Clothes swearing and simple.

The Circassian is equipped with weapons;

He is proud of him, he is comforted by him;

He wears armor, a squeaker, a quiver,

Kuban bow, dagger, lasso

And checker, eternal friend

His labors, his leisure.

Nothing bothers him

Nothing will blur; foot, equestrian

250 He's still the same; still the same look

Invincible, relentless.

Thunderstorm of careless Cossacks,

His wealth is a zealous horse,

Pet of mountain herds,

Comrade faithful, patient.

In a cave or in the deaf grass

An insidious predator lurks with him

And suddenly, with a sudden arrow,

Seeing a traveler, strives;

260 In an instant, a sure fight

His mighty blow will decide,

And a wanderer in the gorges of the mountains

Already attracts a flying lasso.

The horse strives at full speed,

Filled with fiery courage;

All the way to him: swamp, forest,

Bushes, cliffs and ravines;

A trail of blood runs after him,

There is a clatter in the desert;

270 The gray stream before him makes noise -

He rushes into the depths of the boiling;

And the traveler, thrown to the bottom,

Swallows a muddy wave

Exhausted death asks

And sees her in front of him ...

But the powerful horse with his arrow

It brings foamy to the shore.

Or grasping a horned stump,

Thrown into the river by a thunderstorm,

280 When on the hills a veil

The shadow of a moonless night lies,

Circassian on centuries-old roots,

Hangs around on branches

Your battle armor

Shield, cloak, armor and helmet,

Quiver and bow - and in fast waves

Then he rushes after him,

Tireless and silent.

Silent night. The river roars;

290 A mighty current carries him

Along the secluded shores,

Where on the elevated mounds,

Leaning on spears, Cossacks

They look at the dark run of the river -

And past them, blackening in the mist,

The weapon of the villain floats ...

What are you thinking, Cossack?

Remembering past battles

On the death field your bivouac,

300 regiments of laudatory prayers

And homeland? ... Insidious dream!

Excuse me, free villages,

And the house of the fathers, and the quiet Don,

War and red maidens!

A secret enemy moored to the shores,

The arrow comes out of the quiver -

Soared - and the Cossack falls

From the bloodied mound.

When with a peaceful family

310 Circassian in father's dwelling

Sits in a stormy time

And coals smolder in the ashes;

And, hiding from the faithful horse,

Belated in the desert mountains

A tired stranger will come to him

And timidly sit down by the fire:

Then the owner is kind

Greetings, affectionately, rises

And a guest in a bowl of fragrant

320 Chikhir is gratifying.

Under a damp cloak, in a smoky sakla,

The traveler enjoys peaceful sleep,

And in the morning he leaves

The lodging for the night is hospitable.

The young men will gather in a crowd;

Game becomes game.

Then, having completely dismantled the quiver,

They are winged arrows

330 Pierced in the clouds of eagles;

That from the height of the steep hills

impatient rows,

At this sign, they will suddenly fall,

How fallow deer strike the earth,

The plain is covered with dust

And they run with a friendly clatter.

But the boring world is monotonous

Hearts born for war

And often the games of will are idle

340 Embarrassed by the cruel game.

Often checkers menacingly shine

In the insane agility of feasts,

And heads of slaves fly to dust,

And in joy babies splash.

But the Russian indifferently matured

These bloody games.

He loved before the game of glory

And burning with a thirst for death.

Slave of merciless honor,

350 Near he saw his end,

In fights, hard, cold,

Encountering fatal lead.

Perhaps, immersed in thought,

He remembered that time

When, surrounded by friends,

He feasted with them noisily ...

Did he regret the days gone by

About the days that deceived hope,

Ile, curious, contemplated

360 Severe simplicity of fun

And the manners of the wild people

In this faithful mirror I read -

Tail in silence he is deep

The movements of your heart

And on his high forehead

Nothing changed;

His careless courage

Terrible Circassians marveled,

Spared his young age

370 And whisper among themselves

They were proud of their booty.

You recognized them, maiden of the mountains,

Delights of the heart, sweetness of life;

Your fiery, innocent gaze

He expressed love and joy.

When your friend is in the dark of night

I kissed you with a dumb kiss,

Burning with malice and desire,

You forgot the earthly world

You said: "dear prisoner,

10 Cheer up your dull eyes,

Lean your head on my chest

Forget freedom, forget your homeland.

I'm glad to hide in the desert

With you, king of my soul!

Love me; no one until now

Did not kiss my eyes;

To my lonely bed

Circassian young and black-eyed

Did not sneak in the silence of the night;

20 I am reputed to be a cruel virgin,

Relentless beauty.

I know the lot is ready for me:

My father and brother are stern

They want to sell to someone

In a foreign village at the cost of gold;

But I will beg my father and brother,

Otherwise, I'll find a dagger or poison.

Unfathomable, miraculous power

I am all attracted to you;

30 I love you, dear slave,

Your soul is intoxicated ... “

But he with silent regret

I looked at the passionate girl

And, full of heavy thoughts,

Listened to her words of love.

He forgot. Crowded in it

Memories of past days

And even tears from the eyes

Once they rolled like hail.

40 Lying in the heart like lead,

The anguish of love without hope.

Before the young maiden at last

He poured out his suffering:

"Forget about me; your love

I'm not worthy of your admiration.

Do not waste priceless days with me;

Call another young man.

His love will replace you

My soul is sad cold;

50 He will be faithful, he will appreciate

Your beauty, your sweet look,

And the heat of infantile kisses,

And the tenderness of fiery speeches;

Without rapture, without desire

I wither a victim of passions.

You see the trail of unhappy love,

The trace of a spiritual storm is terrible;

Leave me alone; but have pity

About my mournful fate!

60 Unfortunate friend, why not before

You appeared to my eyes

In those days I believed in hope

And delightful dreams!

But it's too late: I died for happiness,

Hope the ghost has flown away;

Your friend has lost the habit of voluptuousness,

For tender feelings petrified ...

How hard with dead lips

Respond to live kisses

70 And eyes full of tears

Meet with a cold smile!

Exhausted by jealousy in vain,

Falling asleep with an insensible soul,

In the arms of a passionate friend

How hard it is to think about another !..

When so slowly, so gently

You drink my kisses

And for you hours of love

Pass quickly, serenely;

80 Eating tears in silence

Then scattered, dull

Before you, as in a dream,

I see an image forever sweet;

I call him, I strive for him,

I am silent, I do not see, I do not heed;

I surrender to you in oblivion

And I embrace a secret ghost.

I shed tears about him in the desert;

He walks with me everywhere

90 And gloomy melancholy brings

I swear at my soul.

Leave me my glands

solitary dreams,

Memories, sadness and tears:

You cannot separate them.

You heard the confession of the heart;

sorry ... give me your hand - goodbye.

Not long a woman's love

Cold parting saddens;

100 Love will pass, boredom will come,

Beauty will love again."

Opening your mouth, crying without tears,

A young lady sat.

Foggy, fixed gaze

The Silent One expressed reproach;

Pale as a shadow, she trembled;

In the hands of a lover lay

Her cold hand;

And finally love longing

110 In a sad speech poured out:

“Ah, Russian, Russian, for what,

Not knowing your heart

I have given myself over to you!

Not long on your chest

In oblivion the maiden rested;

Not many happy nights

Fate sent her to share!

Will they ever come again?

Has joy gone forever? ..

120 You could, prisoner, deceive

My inexperienced youth

Even if only out of pity,

Silence, feigned caress;

I would delight your lot

Care tender and submissive;

I would guard the minutes of sleep,

The peace of a yearning friend;

You did not want ... But who is she

Your beautiful friend?

130 Do you love Russian? you are loved ?..

I understand your suffering ...

Forgive me and you my sobs,

Do not laugh at my sorrows."

Silenced. Tears and groans

They pressed the poor maiden's chest.

Mouth without words murmured songs.

Without feelings, hugging his knees,

She could hardly breathe.

And a prisoner, with a quiet hand

140 Picking up the unfortunate woman, he said:

"Do not cry: I am also driven by fate,

And I experienced heartache.

No, I did not know mutual love,

Loved alone, suffered alone;

And I go out like a smoky flame,

Forgotten among the empty valleys;

I will die far off the desired shores;

This steppe will be my coffin;

Here on the bones of my exiles

150 The burdensome chain will rust ... “

The lights of the night were eclipsed;

In the distance they were transparent

Masses of snowy mountains;

Head bowed, eyes downcast,

They parted in silence.

A dull prisoner from now on

One wanders around the village.

Dawn on the sultry sky

He builds new days after days;

160 After the night, the night goes after;

He yearns for freedom.

Will the chamois flash between the bushes,

Will the saiga jump in the mist:

He, flashing, rattles with chains,

He is waiting, is the Cossack sneaking,

Night aul destroyer,

Slave is a brave deliverer.

calling ... but everything around is silent;

Only the waves are roaring,

170 And the beast smelling man,

Runs into the dark desert.

One day a Russian prisoner hears

A military call was heard in the mountains:

“To the herd, to the herd!” They run, they make noise;

Bridles of copper rattle,

The cloaks turn black, the armor shines,

Saddled horses boil

The whole village is ready for the raid,

And wild pets of scolding

180 River poured from the hills

And gallop along the banks of the Kuban

Collect violent tribute.

The village calmed down; sleeping in the sun

The saklyas have guard dogs.

Babies swarthy, naked

In free playfulness they make noise;

Their great-grandfathers sit in a circle,

From the pipes, the smoke curls blue.

They are silently young maidens

190 Familiar listen to the chorus,

And old people's hearts are getting younger.

Circassian song

An explosive shaft runs in the river;

In the mountains, silence is night;

The tired Cossack dozed off,

Leaning on a steel spear.

Do not sleep, Cossack: in the darkness of the night

The Chechen walks across the river.

The Cossack is sailing on a canoe,

Dragging along the bottom of the river network.

200 Cossack, you will drown in the river,

How little children drown

Bathing in hot weather:

The Chechen walks across the river.

On the shore of sacred waters

Rich villages bloom;

A cheerful round dance is dancing.

Run, Russian singers,

Hurry, red ones, go home:

The Chechen walks across the river.

210 Thus sang the virgins. Sitting on the shore

Russian dreams of escape;

But the slave's chain is heavy,

fast deep river ...

Meanwhile, fading, the steppe fell asleep,

The tops of the rocks are darkened.

Through the white huts of the village

The pale light of the moon flickers;

The deer slumber over the waters,

The late cry of the eagles fell silent,

220 And deafly echoes the mountains

The distant clatter of herds.

Then someone was heard

The veil of the virgin flashed,

And now - sad and pale

approached him she.

The lips of the beautiful are looking for speech;

Eyes filled with sadness

And fall in black waves

Her hair is on her chest and shoulders.

230 A saw glitters in one hand,

In another dagger her damask;

It seemed as if the maiden was walking

For a secret battle, for a feat of arms.

Look up at the prisoner

“Run,” said the maiden of the mountains:

A Circassian will not meet you anywhere.

hurry up; do not waste the night hours;

Take the dagger: your footprints

No one will notice in the dark."

240 Taking the saw with a trembling hand,

She bowed at his feet;

Iron squeals under the saw,

An involuntary tear rolled down -

And the chain broke and rattles.

“You are free,” the maiden says,

Run!” But her gaze is insane

He depicted a rush of love.

She suffered. noisy wind,

Whistling, her veil swirled.

250 "O my friend! - the Russian cried out, -

I am yours forever, I am yours to the grave.

Let's leave a terrible edge, both

Run with me ... “-“ No, Russian, no!

She disappeared, the sweetness of life;

I knew everything, I knew joy

And everything passed, and the trace disappeared.

Is it possible? you loved another !..

Find her, love her;

What else do I miss?

260 What is my despondency about? ..

Sorry! love blessings

They will be with you every hour.

Forgive me - forget my torment

Give me your hand ... last time".

He stretched out his hands to the Circassian woman,

With a resurrected heart, he flew to her,

And a long kiss of parting

Union of love imprinted.

Hand with hand, despondency is full,

270 Went down to the shore in silence -

And Russian in the noisy depths

Already floating and foaming waves,

Already nasty rocks reached

Already grabbing for them ...

Suddenly the waves crashed

And a distant groan is heard ...

On the wild shore he goes,

Looking back ... the shores cleared

And the plump ones turned white;

280 But there is no young Circassian

Neither near the shores, nor under the mountain ...

Everything is dead ... on the banks of the sleeping

Only the sound of the wind is heard,

And by the moon in the waters splashing

Streamy disappearing circle.

He understood everything. With a parting glance

He embraces for the last time

Empty village with its fence

Fields where the captive herd grazed,

290 Rapids, where he dragged shackles,

The stream where I rested at noon,

When in the mountains the Circassian is severe

Sang a song of freedom.

Thinning deep darkness in the sky,

The day fell on a dark valley,

The dawn has risen. The distant path

The freed prisoner walked;

And in front of him already in the mists

Russian bayonets flashed,

300 And called out on the barrows

Guard Cossacks.

So Muse, an easy friend of Dreams,

I flew to the borders of Asia

And for a wreath I plucked myself

Caucasian wild flowers.

She was captivated by the harsh outfit

Tribes raised in war

And often in this new clothes

The sorceress appeared to me;

Around the deserted villages

10 One wandered over the rocks

And to the songs of orphaned maidens

She listened there;

I loved swearing villages,

Anxiety of the brave Cossacks,

Mounds, quiet tombs,

And the noise, and the neighing of the herds.

Goddess of song and story,

Memories are full

Maybe she will repeat

20 Traditions of the formidable Caucasus;

Will tell the story of distant countries,

Mstislav ancient duel,

Treason, death of Russians

In the bosom of vindictive Georgians;

And I will sing of that glorious hour,

When, sensing a bloody battle,

To the indignant Caucasus

Our two-headed eagle has risen;

When gray-haired on the Terek

30 For the first time the battle thundered

And the roar of Russian drums,

And in the cross section, with a daring brow,

The ardent Tsitsianov appeared;

I will sing to you, hero,

O Kotlyarevsky, scourge of the Caucasus!

Wherever you rushed with a thunderstorm -

Your move is like a black infection

Destroyed, destroyed the tribes ...

You left the saber of revenge today,

40 War does not please you;

Missing the world, in the ulcers of honor,

You taste idle peace

And the silence of domestic valleys ...

But behold - the East raises a howl ...

Hang with your snowy head

Humble yourself, Caucasus: Yermolov is coming!

And the ardent cry of war ceased,

Everything is subject to the Russian sword.

Caucasian proud sons,

50 You fought, you died terribly;

But our blood did not save you,

Nor enchanted armor,

Neither mountains, nor dashing horses,

No wild liberties love!

Like the Batu tribe,

Will change the great-grandfathers of the Caucasus,

Forget the greedy scolding voice,

Leave the arrows fighting.

To the gorges where you nested,

60 A traveler will drive up without fear,

And announce your execution

Traditions are dark rumors.

NOTES.

1 Beshtu, or, more correctly, Beshtau, Caucasian mountain 40 versts from Georgievsk. known in our history.

2 Aul. This is the name of the villages of the Caucasian peoples.

3 Uzden, chief or prince.

4 checker, Circassian sword.

5 Saklya, hut.

6 Kumys made from mare's milk; This drink is in great use among all the mountainous and nomadic peoples of Asia. It is quite pleasant to the taste and is revered as very healthy.

7 The happy climate of Georgia does not reward this beautiful country for all the misfortunes it endures forever. Georgian songs are pleasant and mostly mournful. They glorify the momentary successes of Caucasian weapons, the death of our heroes: Bakunin and Tsitsianov, betrayals, murders - sometimes love and pleasure.

8 Derzhavin, in his excellent ode to Count Zubov, was the first to depict wild pictures of the Caucasus in the following stanzas:

O young leader, having made campaigns,

You passed with the army of the Caucasus,

Ripe horrors, beauties of nature:

As from the ribs of terrible mountains pouring there,

Angry rivers roar into the darkness of the abyss;

As with their people with a roar of snow

Fall, lying whole eyelids;

Like chamois, bowing their horns down,

They see in the darkness calmly under them

The birth of lightning and thunder.

You are mature, as clear at times

There are sunbeams, among the ice,

Among the waters, playing, reflecting,

Magnificent seem the view;

How, in multi-colored scattering

There is a spray, a thin rain is burning;

How bluish-amber there is,

Hanging, looks into the dark forest;

And there is the golden crimson dawn

Through the forest amuses the eye.

Zhukovsky, in his letter to G. Voeikov, also devotes several charming verses to the description of the Caucasus:

You are mature, like Terek in a fast run

Noisy between the vineyards

Where, often hiding on the shore,

A Chechen or a Circassian was sitting,

Under a cloak, with a disastrous lasso;

And far in front of you

Dressed in blue mist

The mountain rose above the mountain

And in the host of their gray-haired giant,

Like a cloud, Elborus is two-headed.

Terrible and majestic

There everything shines with beauty:

Mossy cliffs,

Roaring waterfalls

In the darkness of the abyss from granite rocks;

Forests that sleep from the ages

Neither the sound of the axes, nor the man

The merry voice did not revolt,

In which the gloomy vestibule

The daylight has not yet penetrated,

Where occasionally there are only deer,

Orla heard a terrible cry,

Crowding into the crowd, rustling branches,

And goats with light feet

They run over the rocks.

Everything is there for the eyes

The splendor of creation!

But there, among the solitude

Valleys hidden in the mountains

Both the Balkar and the bang nest,

Both Abazeh and Camucin,

Both Korbulak and Albazin,

Both Checherean and Shapsuk.

Pishchal, chain mail, saber, bow

And a horse, a swift comrade-in-arms -

Their treasures and gods;

Like chamois jumping over the mountains,

Throw death from behind a cliff;

Or along the swampy shores,

In the tall grass in the thicket of the forest

Scattered, they wait for prey;

The rocks of freedom are their shelter.

But the days in their villages wander

On crutches of gloomy laziness:

There their life is a dream; shy in a circle

And in a fraternal pot with tobacco

Sticking chibouks like shadows,

They sit in the swirling smoke

And they talk about murders;

Ile praise well-aimed squeaks,

From which their grandfathers shot;

Or sabers on flint sharpen,

Ready for the kill nova.

9 Chikhir, red Georgian wine .

10 The Circassians, like all wild peoples, are distinguished by their hospitality. The guest becomes a sacred person for them. To betray him or not to protect him is considered among them the greatest dishonor. Kunak(i.e. friend, acquaintance) is responsible for your safety with his life, and with him you can go deep into the very middle of the Kabardian mountains.

11 Bairan or Bayram, the feast of the breaking of the fast. ramadan, Muslim post.

12 Mstislav, son. St. Vladimir, nicknamed daring, specific prince of Tmutarakan (Taman Island). He fought with the Kosogs (in all likelihood, the current Circassians) and in single combat defeated their prince Rededya. Cm. East State. Ross. Volume II.

Pletnev P. A. "Prisoner of the Caucasus". Tale. Op. A. Pushkin // Pushkin in lifetime criticism, 1820-1827 / Pushkin Commission of the Russian Academy of Sciences; State Pushkin Theater Center in St. Petersburg. - St. Petersburg: State Pushkin Theater Center, 1996. - S. 116-124. http://next.feb-web.ru/feb/pushkin/critics/vpk/vpk-116-.htm

P. A. PLETNEV

"Prisoner of the Caucasus". Tale. Op. A. Pushkin

Notes