"The Snowslide" and "…Again I visit"

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"The Snowslide" and "…Again I visit" Translated by Alyssa Dinega Gillespie2 Alexander Pushkin The Snowslide (1829)1 Swift wave-crests surging in the gloomPummel the cliff face, foam and boom,As high above me eagles scream And pine trees swish,And frigid mountain summits gleam Through drifting mist. From there a snowslide once broke freeAnd with a dreadful crash careened,Cascaded, clogged the gorge between Two rock-faced walls,And River Terek's mighty stream Leapt to a halt. Abruptly chastened and demure,O Terek, you choked off your roar,But chasing breakers' stubborn ire Burst through the snows…You rushed your banks in fierce despair And overflowed. Long afterward, the snow lay deep,Unmelting in a massive heap;The Terek, frenzied, ran beneath, And made assaultWith foam and spray upon the steep And icy vault. Across it led an ample track:Horses would canter, oxen lag,Steppe merchants with their laden packs And camels wend [End Page 209] Where none but Aeolus now walks, Lord of the wind. Alexander Pushkin … Again I visitThat corner of the earth where once I passedTwo unmarked years in solitary exile.Already since that time ten years have fled—And much in life has changed for me, and I,Myself obedient to the common rule,Have also changed—yet here the past againEmbraces me in all its vivid hue,And so it seems just yesterday I wanderedAmidst these groves. Behold the wretched homesteadWhere erstwhile I and my poor nanny dwelt.The dear old lady's gone—the next room overNo longer do I hear her heavy steps,Nor does her prudent oversight still reign. Behold the wooded hill where many a dayQuite motionless I sat and fixed my gazeUpon the lake, while sadly reminiscingOn other distant shores, and other waves…Among the golden grain-fields and green pasturesIts blue profusion shimmers far and wide;Across the broad, unfathomable watersThere sails a fisherman who drags behind himA raggèd seine. About the sloping banksAre scattered villages—and just beyondA crooked windmill stands, with effort turningIts sails against the wind… Upon the marginThat bounds my grandfather's estate, just where [End Page 210] The road, deep-pitted by spring rains, beginsIts slow uphill meander, three old pinesStand—one aside, aloof; two others closelyEntangled—here, when of a moonlit nightMy horse would amble past, their soughing summitsWould greet me with fond murmur. Now alongThat selfsame road I travel, and before meAgain I see those pines. They're still the same,My ear is still accustomed to their murmur—But near their ancient mass of branching roots(Where once the ground was always bare and barren)A youthful grove now vigorously burgeons,A family of green; the shrubs crowd inBeneath their canopy like children. YetTheir sombre comrade stands apart, a loneDecrepit bachelor, whilst all around himIs barren as before. All hail, new tribe,Youthful and undiscovered! I'll not liveTo witness your magnificent full growth,When you will overtop these friends of mine,And in your turn conceal their agèd crownsFrom eyes of passers-by. But may my grandsonOne day take in your murmured salutationsAs he returns from some late cordial jaunt;And brimming full of cheerful, pleasant musings,May he pass by you in the midnight darknessAnd spare a thought for me. [End Page 211] Alyssa Dinega Gillespie Bowdoin College Footnotes 1. 1829 is the composition date given for this poem in all Pushkin editions. According to V. D. Rak, however, this date is incorrect, and the poem was in fact composed in 1830. See Michael Wachtel, A Commentary to Pushkin's Lyric Poetry, 1826–1836 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2012), 161. 2. An earlier version of this translation was published in New England Review 34, no. 3–4 (2014): 88–89. Copyright © 2019 Alyssa Dinega Gillespie