After Lermontov

Translations for the Bicentenary

Mikhail Lermontov, Peter France, Robyn Marsack, Peter France, Robyn Marsack

• Publisher: Carcanet Poetry
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781847775351
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41) is best known in the West today as the author of the novel A Hero of Our Time. But at the time of his death, aged only 26, he was widely regarded as Russia's greatest living poet. He achieved almost instant fame in 1837 with On the Death of a Poet', his tribute to Pushkin - whose death in a duel foreshadowed Lermontov's own. Over the course of the next four years he went on to write many short poems, both lyric and satirical, and two long verse narratives. He was particularly known for his depictions of the Caucasus, where he was exiled for a time, taking part in battles such as the one described in his poem Valerik'. Lermontov traced his ancestry to Scotland, and this book offers a Scottish perspective on the Russian poet. Most of the translators are Scottish or have Scottish connections, and some of the poems are translated into Scots. As Peter France writes in his introduction, this bicentennial volume aims to bring Lermontov's poems to a new readership by enabling them to live again' in English and in Scots.

The Demon: An Eastern Tale
(Part I, 1–9)

1

A mournful demon, outcast spirit,

Flew high above the sinful earth,

And in a multitude the memories

Of better days came swarming forth;

Of those days when in radiant halls

He shone, a perfect child of light,

And when the fiery comet, racing

Across the heavens would love to hail him,

Exchanging smiles of fond delight,

When through wreaths of mist eternal,

Thirsty for knowledge, he had traced

The paths of caravans that wandered

Across the vast celestial wastes;

When he had still known love and faith,

Blessed first-born of creation!

To evil and to doubt a stranger,

His mind untroubled by the round

Of fruitless ages without number;

And more – and so much more, besides

That it still pained him to remember.

2

The outcast had long roamed this world,

Which seemed to him a hostile desert:

Age after age had flown by, just

As minute follows after minute,

In a monotonous parade.

Over the wretched world he reigned,

Sowed evil with a weary heart,

And nowhere did he meet his equal

Or find resistance to his art –

And he grew tired of doing evil.

3

Over the Caucasus’ steep ridges

Flew heaven’s outcast; down below

Like a raw diamond, Kazbek glittered,

White with the everlasting snow,

And deep beneath it, black with menace,

Like some great serpent’s rocky crevice,

The Darial wound its tortuous road.

The Terek, like a lioness bounding,

Maned with a shaggy crest of white,

Roared – and the beasts upon the mountain,

The eagles in the azure heights,

All heard the message of its waters;

And golden clouds that made their way

From southern lands, from far away,

Followed it as it travelled northwards.

And crags that clustered in dense throngs

All heavy with mysterious slumber

Bent their great heads to look upon

The gleaming ripples of the river.

And on the crags the castle towers

Watched ominously through the mists.

Like giant sentries, set to guard

The gateway to the Caucasus.

Before him, wonderful and wild

Was all God’s earth; but, full of pride,

He cast a scornful eye about him,

At everything his God had made,

And not a shadow of emotion

Was on his lofty brow betrayed.

4

And then beneath him a new vision

Revealed itself in colours bright;

A fertile Georgian valley, spreading

Like a rich carpet, far and wide;

Abundant land, most happy sight!

With poplars straight and tall as pillars

And brightly echoing streams that glide

On jewelled beds of stones, and bowers

Of roses, where the nightingales

Still serenade unheeding beauties

In the sweet voice of love’s delight.

The sycamore’s wide-spreading branches

Crowned with dense ivy, and the caves

Where, in the scorching heat of day,

The timid deer conceal themselves

The dazzle, life and noise of leaves;

The chorus of a hundred voices,

The breathing of a thousand flowers!

The sensual swelter of the midday;

And the warm nights that follow, bathed

In the refreshing dewfall fragrant,

And stars as bright as eyes, resplendent

As a young Georgian maiden’s gaze;

But save a feeling of cold envy

Nature’s beauty could arouse

In the heart of that barren outcast

No fresh emotion, no fresh powers;

And everything before his eyes

He either hated or despised.

5

A tall house and a spacious court

Gudal had built upon the mountain,

By years of toil and tears of countless

Humble servants dearly bought;

At dawn the neighbo...