Taras Shevchenko's poem "The Bewitched" (translated by Irina Zheleznova)

Taras Shevchenko

THE BEWITCHED

("Prychynna" / "Причинна")

("Reve ta stohne Dnipr shyrokyi" /
"Реве та стогне Дніпр широкий")

Translated by Irina Zheleznova.

The Dnieper wept and moaned, a piercing
Wind blew and bent the willows nigh
To very ground, and, howling fiercely,
Raised foam and billows mountain high.
A pale moon out the clouds was peeking,
'Twould sink from sight, then reappear,
Much like a boat that, refuge seeking,
Bobs up and down upon the sea.
Then, just 'fore dawn, the sounds grew muted,
No cocks crowed, in the wood beside
The stream, the brown owls softly hooted
And drying ash trees groaned and sighed.

'Neath the hill, on that dark night,
By the wood that, sombre,
Hung above the stream, a white,
Wraith-like figure wandered.
Was't a youthful mermaid' this
Come to seek her mother
Or to tickle and to kiss
Some brave lad or other?—
Nay, a maid!... A Gypsy had
Cast a spell upon her,
And the shore, forlorn and sad,
Looking for her lover,
Roamed she thus.... In spring had she
And her Cossack parted....
Was he dead?... How solemnly,
As she broken-hearted,
Stood before him, had he sworn
To return.... О hated,
Cruel lot! To meet no more
Were the lovers fated?
Slain did he and moveless lie,
His dear face uncovered?
Would her tears not burn his eyes?
Were those eyes beloved
Pecked by kites while lay he there,
In a distant meadow?
Did the wolves to pieces tear
His white flesh?... A shadow
Falls upon the maiden's face....
Vainly has she waited
For her dear one's warm embrace;
Ne'er will he unplait her
Braids for her, alas, or tie,
Proud, her kerchief bridal.
In a lonely grave he'll lie,
Not in bed beside her.

Aye, such is her fate, such her destiny bitter....
О merciful God, must thou punish her so!
An orphan, 'thout mother or father or sister,
She gave all her love, all her heart's youthful glow
To him, to her Cossack!... Forgive her, forgive her!
As lone as a fledgling flown far from its nest
Is she.... Do not let people mock her.... Pray, give her
The joy she deserves! Let this maiden be blest
With all true love's gladness and warmth!... Is't the
                                             fault of
The dove that she cares for her blue-winged mate?
And he—is't his fault that he's slain by a falcon?...
In vain does the sorrowing dove for him wait,
In vain does she seek him, in vain does she call him
And hither and thither despairingly fly!...
But God treats her kindly—in search of her fallen,
Her long-absent mate she can soar to the sky,
The seat of the Maker....
                     Not so our poor orphan:
Not far can she go.... Is her love in yon wood?
Is he on the shore of the Danube?... How often
The thought comes to her that another is wooed
By him and that she is betrayed.... Ah, if only
To fly it were given her, fast would she wing
Across the blue seas, join her lover, and lonely
No more be.... The love of her heart she would bring
Full gladly to him if alive she did find him;
If faithless, her rival she'd strangle; if dead,
His grave make her own.... When to pain it is wed,
The spirit rebels, but its sufferings blindly
Is yet forced to bear.... Poor, lost maid! She's undone!...
Her fate has been shaped! Heaven's will will be done!

She walks in silence by the Dnieper
That now is mute.... The wind has rent
The storm clouds ruthlessly, and, creeping
Onto the shore, lies still and spent.

From sunless sky onto the water
The silver moon its rays pours softly,
A perfect stillness reigns throughout....
Then, suddenly, a laughing crowd of
Young mermaids, bare of clothes, from out
The river depths emerges. Loudly,
The echoes wakening, they shout:
"How warm the air!..." (Their hair's not plaited
But twined with weeds.)
                       "Come, dear ones, late is
The hour, let's sup!" their mother calls.

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

They reply in voices ringing:
"We'll be playing, we'll be singing.
The night shadows fall, fall,
We're water sprites all, all!
Our mothers they erred, erred,
Unbaptized we were, were.
О moon high above,
You bright-winged dove,
Join us, do, this night for supper;
On the river's sandy bottom
Lies a Cossack with a ring
On his finger glittering.
There are reeds and rushes round him,
In the wood last night we found him,
Young and dark of eye he is....
Cast your rays, О bright moon, please,
On the fields that we may play there
While the witches wax full gay there
And the cocks have not yet crowed....
Stay! Who's there beside the road?...
The night shadows fall, fall,
We're water sprites all, all!
Our mothers they erred, erred,
Unbaptized we were, were."

They laugh, and loud their voices carry
All o'er the forest and the shore;
Then for the oak together, merry,
They make and round it, silent, swarm.

As they stand there, in the shadows
Something gleams — a white-clad,
Graceful form, the tree embracing,
Starts to climb it lightly.
Lo! — 'tis she, the very maiden
Whom the fortune-teller,
Wishing only to amuse her,
Thoughtless, put a spell on.
She has reached the topmost branches,
And she looks around her,
Then descends in haste.... Poor orphan!
How her heart is pounding!...
Laughingly the sprites surround her....
Silently they waited,
Now they pounce.... They kiss and stroke her —
She is dead!... 'Twas fated
From the first.... Upon her beauty
Long they gaze.... The crowing
Of a cock disturbs them. Startled,
In the Dnieper's flowing
Waters plunge the sprites and vanish....
All at once the trilling
Of a skylark rends the stillness,
And, the forest filling
With its plea, a cuckoo chatters
Loudly.... From a clearing
Copies a nightingale's sweet warbling....
Nearer, ever nearer
Daylight draws.... The sky is blushing
O'er the hills.... Beyond them,
Where the Poles once fought their battles,
Violet the rounded
Mounds are turning.... Now the forest
Starts awake and whispers,
But the maiden 'neath the oak tree
Never stirs.... Her sleep is
Deep, she does not hear the cuckoo
Calling to its nestlings,
Does not count its calls or listen
To the oak leaves rustling.

At that very hour a Cossack
Out the wood came riding.
Painfully his sable stallion
Bore him.... "Aye, my kindly
Friend and comrade," said the Cossack,
"You are spent and weary,
But 'tis soon a lass will meet us
By her gate.... We're nearly
There.... But stay — what if the lassie
Has betrayed your master?
What if she her love has given
To another?... Faster,
Faster go, my steed!" The stallion
Stumbles down the roadway.
Round the Cossack's heart suspicion
Snake-like coils and holds him
Tense.... He stares.... "Why, there's my
                              sweet lass
'Neath the oak tree sleeping!
'Twas to welcome me, I'll wager,
Came she here...." And leaping
From his horse's back, he hastens
To her side.... Dear Heaven!
Though her lips and eyes he kisses,
She'll not wake, not ever.
"Why, О why have we been parted!..."
Back he steps, then rushes
To the oak tree, and his proud head
'Gainst its rough trunk smashes.

Bound for the field, a group of lasses
Goes singing by. They sing of those
Who with the Tatars cross their lances
Far from their sweethearts and their homes.
They pass an oak; without its rider
A horse stands there, the lassies see,
And near it, a young maid beside him,
A Cossack lies beneath the tree.
Up to the two they creep, delighted;
To tease the youthful pair — what fun!
Then, seeing they are dead, affrighted,
Away in sudden panic run.

See — the lassies stand a'weeping,
They don't laugh or sing,
While the lads two graves in silence
Slowly start to dig.
Bells are tolling, priests are chanting,
O'er the dead they pray.
By the Lord's command the lovers
Laid to rest are they.
By the wayside near the forest
In their graves they lie.
None, methinks, will learn, not ever,
How they came to die.
At his head a spruce was planted
And a sycamore,
And at hers, a flaming rowan,
And forevermore,
Side by side the two will sleep there,
And a songbird's trill
O'er their lonely graves will carry
All night long it will.
'Twill be heard while o'er the Dnieper
Steals the moon's bright ray,
And the mermaids in its cool light
Warm themselves and play.

St. Petersburg, 1837.