That naught was sacred in his eyes;
That kindness could ne’er touch his heart;
That ties of love were weak to bind;
That blood he freely shed unmoved;
That liberty he scoffed and scorned;
And that he knew no fatherland.
Long the traitor, false and cunning,
Had planned and mused a deadly plot;
But sharper, keener eyes than his,
Those of a foe, his scheme had bared.
“Nay, base kite, breeder foul of shame!”
The old man cried and gnashed his teeth,
“Thou needst not fear, I’ll spare thy home,
My wretched daughter’s prison-house;
Thou shalt not perish in its flames,
Nor find release in easy death
From Cossack blow. Not so, vile one!
In the hands of Moscow headsman,
In vain denials of thy guilt,
In torture, writhing on the rack,
Thou shalt curse the day, curse the hour,
When thou wert sponsor to our child;
The banquet when I filled to thee,
And loving-cup of honour drank;
The night when, like a bird of prey,
Thou durst to steal our darling dove”.
There was a time Mazeppa old
And Kotzubei were close friends;
When ties of friendship bound them fast
With household bread, and salt, and oil;
When oft their steeds, close side by side,
Had brought them safe through scudding shot:
When oft, in secret room secure,
The I letman would a part reveal
Of his unsated, restless heart;
Would darkly hint in careful phrase
Of coming change, and treaties new,
And well-planned popular revolt.
Of this he spake, for in those days
The father of Marie was pledged
To aid and help Mazeppa’s cause.
But now, the slave of passion fierce,
He had alone one aim in life:
Himself be slain, or else to slay,
His child dishonoured to revenge.
Meanwhile, his bold and daring scheme
He keeps close hidden from the world.
“Im old and powerless”, he said,
“I have one wish, the grave’s sweet sleep.
The Hetman will I work no harm,
My daughter was alone to blame:
A father’s blessing I will give.
Let her to heaven the crime atone,
That brought dishonour to our house,
And shamed the law of God and man”.
He now, with eagle glance full keen,
Among bis house-retainers seeks
A faithful, trusty servant bold,
Resolved in will, and incorrupt;
Confides his purpose to his wife:
And, filled with more than woman’s spite,
The wife, all bent to strike the blow,
Will nothing hear of wise delay,
But, in the silent waste of night,
Like spirit restless and untombed,
Quick vengeance whispers in his ear,
And, with reproachful tears, entreats
Him swear to sweep to his revenge;
Until he binds himself by oath.
The blow is planned. With Kotzubei
The bold Iskra in concert acts.
And both believe: “We must succeed,
Our hated foe shall surely fall.
But where’s the man, whose eager zeal,
Devoted to his country’s weal,
Will tempt him brave the Hetman’s rage,
And dare to lay at Peter’s feet
The damning proofs of his false guilt?”
Among the Cossacks of the Don,
Whose suit the maiden had repulsed,
Was one who from his youngest years
Had loved her with the purest love.
At morn, or in the evening hour,
Along his native river’s shore,
Beneath the Ukraine-cherry’s shade,
He oft would wait the fair Marie,
And, waiting, pined, till one soft word
Should healing bring to his sad heart.
He knew too well, he loved in vain,
Nor ever urged a useless prayer,
Lest loss of her should make the world
A void. And when his comrades gay
Proclaimed their noisy vows of love,
He silence kept, nor spake a word
But now her name is linked with shame,
And gossip, glad to scoff the fallen,
Makes her the theme of unclean wit,
Marie still keeps her early righis,
And is to him what she had been.
And if, perchance, Mazeppa’s name.
Were in his presence praised or blamed,
His face grew pale, and, lost in grief,
He sat with eyes cast down to earth.
Who rides his steed so fast and late,
With naught to guide him save the stars?
Whose steed scuds o’er the boundless steppe,
With straining neck and loosened girth?
The Cossack keeps the northern tract,
Nor will the Cossack slacken pace
In open field, or forest grove,
Or check his steed near dang’rous ford.
Like crystal clear his sword shines bright,
A bag is girded to his breast;
Nor stumbles once his mettled steed,
But gallops on with flowing mane.
The rider needs his well-filled purse,
The soldier; pride is in his sword,
The restive steed is his dear pet;
But dearer still is his fur cap.
Sooner than it, he well might lose
His steed, full purse, and shining sword;
Would fight to death in its defence,
And shed last drop of his wild blood.
What makes his cap so dear to him?
Within it lies the missive hid,
Wherein the Hetman is denounced
As traitor to the mighty Tsar.
Unconscious of the brooding storm,
And fearing naught from secret foe,
Mazeppa weaves his subtle plot.
The jesuit, his close ally,
Excites the people to revoit,
And gives him promise of the throne.
The two, like thieves, at night debate
The sum that buys each man they need;
Invent a cipher safe and sure,
That none their treason may suspect;
They fix a price on Peter’s head;
With cheating oaths their vassals bribe.
An almsman... none knew whence he came...
Begins to haunt the palace-folk;
Orlick, the rebel Hetman’s aid,
Oft sends him there, or calls him thence;
Where’er they come, his purchased spies
Disorder spread and discontent,
They raise the Cossacks of the Don,
Ally themselves with Bolavine,
The wild horde’s love of war enflame,
And far beyond the Dnieper-falls
Sow fears of Peter’s iron rule.
None scape Mazeppa’s watchful eye;
From north to south, from east to west,
Both far and wide he missives sends.
By cunning threats Crimean Khans
Are set to war against Moscow.
The King of Poland follows suit;
And Turkey lends her ready hand:
Whilst Charles prepares to draw the sword.
Active, alert, he knows no rest,
Awaits the hour to strike the blow;
Nor does his will one moment slack,
As he pursues his guilty aim.
Like thunderbolt from clearest sky
,
The crushing blow Mazeppa dazed;
But not for long: new plots are schemed.
He soon received from Russian lords,
Despatched to him. their country’s foe,
The missive from Poltava writ,
In place of blame, caressing words,
As if he were base slander’s prey!
And, plunged in troubled cares of war,
The Tsar condoled with Judas false,
And, angered, took the false for true,
The warning words unheeded left;
Resolved ere long to crush revolt
By punishment severe and stern.
With feignèd grief he sends the Tsar
His cringing plea of loyal faith:
“God and man I call to witness,
For twenty years your willing slave
Has served his Tsar with truth and zeal;
And far beyond his meed enjoyed
His master’s gracious love and trust.
But spite is ever rash and blind!
What gain if, in declining years,
He learns to play the traitor’s part,
And blast with shame his-unstained name
Was it not he with righteous scorn
Refused to aid sly Stanislas,
Refused the proffered Ukraine crown,
And, moved by duty’s call, disclosed
The lying traitor’s papers false?
Was it not he, by Khans approached,
Renounced alliance with the Turk?
Was it not he proved well his zeal
Against the White Tsar’s banded foes,
And step by step, with brain and sword,
Thwarted their plots, and freely risked
His life to win his liege’s cause?
And now they dare dishonour bring
Upon his hairs in service gray!
And who? Iskra and Kotzubei,
Who both so long had been his friends”.
And, coldly shedding poisoned tears,
Triumphant in his insolence,
The wretch demands their instant death.
Whose death? Oh, man of iron will,
Whose daughter, nestling, warms thy- breast?
The sleepy whisper of remorse
Is hushed by heartless reason cold,
And thus he dulls the still, small voice:
,The stubborn fool hath freely sought
The fight unequal and foredoomed;
With hoodwinked eyes he courts defeat,
And gives the axe a keener edge.
Where can he fly with eyes close-shut?
What hope can fan his proud conceit?
Or thinks he... No! the daughter’s love
Shall ne’er outbuy the father’s life.
The lover to the Hetman yields,
Or else, disgraced my blood must flow!”
Alas, Marie! What fate betides thee,
Marie, Circassia’s peerles bride?
Knowst thou not what deadly serpent
Now feeds and fattens on thy breast?
By what unknown, mysterious power
Art thou with strongest fetters bound,
Tied to a harsh, corrupted heart?
To whom art thou a docile slave
His flowing locks of silvered hair,
His searching eyes, deep-set and keen,
His brow well scathed with lines of thought,
His music voice that knows to charm,
To thee were dearer than world’s wealth;
For them thou couldst forget and dare
A father’s wrath, a mother’s love;
For them prefer a couch of shame
To home’s sweet care and shelter sure.
His wondrous eyes that pierce the soul
Have cast on thee their witching spell;
His pleading vows of reckless love
Have lulled the warning voice within.
As on the face of worshipped saint,
Thou lookst on him with blinded gaze,
Repaying love with love more sweet.
As others find in virtue joy,
Thy very shame thou makst thy pride,
And in thy fall hast ever lost
The priceless charm of woman’s shame.
She heeds not shame nor scorn of men:
What now to her the world’s repute?
The proud old man oft bends his head,
And lowly lays it on her knee;
Forgets with her the plaguing toil,
The noise and cares of outer world;
Reveals to her, the timid maid,
His hopes and fears, his wily schemes.
But, though she ne’er regrets the past,
At times, a thick and labouring cloud
Creeps o’er and darkens all her soul.
Before her rise the griefful forms
Of father stern and mother pale;
With dimming eyes she sees them there,
Abandoned in their childless age,
And thinks to hear their soft reproach.
Ah, if but now she only knew
The common talk of the Ukraine!
Alas, from her is closely kept
The secret of revenge and crime.
POLTAVA. CANTO THE SECOND.
In gloom Mazeppa sits. His mind
Is tossed with fear of failure’s shame.
Marie, with wistful eyes of love,
In silence watches her old man,
Approaching softly, clasps his knee,
And sweet words whispers in his ear.
In vain: no more her love has strength
To chase away his musings dark.
Cold he lowers his absent glance
Before the kneeling maid, nor deigns
Reply to her reproaching look.
Stung to the soul, in wonder lost,
Half choked, she rises from her knees.
“Listen, Hetman”, she cries, “for thee
I have forgotten home and all.
And when my soul chose thee her lord,
I had but one desire... thy love:
For that I sacrificed my all!
Nor do I now regret the past.
Rememb’rest thou how in that nignt,
The night I gave myself to thee,
To love me ever thou didst swear:
Tell me, then, why thy love has ceased.
MAZEPPA.
Hearken, Marie, thou art unjust.
Shake off these vain and childish fears!
Let not doubt sow poison in thy heart,
Or blinded passion idly stir
And vex thy young and ardent soul.
Believe, Marie, my love for thee
Exceeds my love of rule or fame.
MARIE.
‘Tis false, and thou dost play with me
Then were we one in heart and soul;
My fond embrace thou fleest now,
My love has dull and irksome grown.
Thy days are with the elders spent,
At feasts or raid,... and I alone!
All night, close locked in room, thou art
In counsel with the almsman-priest.
If I renewal seek of love,
My sole reward is cold repulse.
And yestern eve, I learn, thou drankst
To Dulskaya...’ twas news to me...
Who is this Dulskaya?
MAZEPPA.
And art
Thou jealous, then? Is it for me,
Already aged and worn in years,
To seek from heartless courtesan
A greeting cold, or passing smile?
Shall I, the stern old man, begin
To play the skipping youngster’s part,
And, sighing, lustful, sport in chains,
To win a wanton’s idle glance?
MARIE.
Nay, answer me without deceit,
And answer simply: yes or no.
MAZEPPA.
To me thy peace is ever dea
r.
Thy will be done, and learn the truth.
With caution have we hatched the plot,
That now is ripe for quick success.
Propitious are the times; the hour
Has come to strike the fatal blow.
Deprived of freedom, robbed of fame,
Too long we bear a foreign yoke,
Now as Warsaw’s humble vassals,
Now slaves to Moscow’s tyrant rule.
In freedom’s cause the sword we’ll draw,
Nor fear I ‘gainst the Tsar himself
The standard of revolt to raise.
Our plans are formed; allies are found;
And secret treaties have been drawn
Between myself and both the kings;
And soon, as fruit of battle fierce,
May be, a royal throne I’ll rear.
Friends I have, whom Ï can trust,
Princess Dulskaya, Zalenskoi,
Together with the almsman sure;
And they will bring my scheme to end.
‘Tis through their faithful hands the kings
Their orders and instructions send.
And now thou knowst our dread designs,
Art thou content? And are thy doubts
Now laid to rest?
MARIE.
Oh, dearest chuck!
Thou shalt be our new country’s Tsar!
And well the royal crown shall suit
Thy snowy locks!
MAZEPPA.
Stay, soft awhile!
As yet it is not won. The storm
But lours. Who knows what fate will bring?
MARIE.
Where thou art, fear can have no place.
Thou art so mighty! Well I know,
The throne awaits thee!
MAZEPPA.
Or the block!
MARIE.
If so, with thee I share the block
Dost thou think, I will survive thee?
But no! thou wearst the kingly sign.
MAZEPPA.
Lovst thou me, Marie?
MARIE.
I? Love thee?
MAZEPPA.
But tell me, which, sire or husband
Dost thou the dearer hold?
MARIE.
Nay, friend,
And why this question? Or why delight
To torture me in vain? My home
I would forget. To them I am
A thing of shame! And who can know?...
Oh, thought to make the boldest blench!...
May be, my father has accursed me,
And for whom?
MAZEPPA.
But am I dearer
Than father? Silent still?
MARIE.
Ah, God
MAZEPPA.
Well, answer me!
MARIE.
Reply thyself!
MAZEPPA.
Suppose, thou must pronounce the wor
Which of us, thy sire or I, should die?
Whom wouldst thou doom to condign fate,
Whom wouldst chou save from sentenced death?
MARIE.
Oh! cease! Tear not my heart in twain!
The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Page 10