Narrative poem

The Bridegroom

 

 

 For three days Natasha

 The merchant’s daughter,

 Was missing. The third night,

 She ran in, distraught.

 Her father and mother

 Plied her with questions.

 She did not hear them,

 She could hardly breathe.

 

 Stricken with foreboding

 They pleaded, got angry,

 But still she was silent;

 At last they gave up.

 Natasha’s cheeks regained

 Their rosy colour,

 And cheerfully again

 She sat with her sisters.

 

 Once at the shingle-gate

 She sat with her friends

 -And a swift troika

 Flashed by before them;

 A handsome young man

 Stood driving the horses;

 Snow and mud went flying,

 Splashing the girls.

 

 He gazed as he flew past,

 And Natasha gazed.

 He flew on. Natasha froze.

 Headlong she ran home.

‘It was he! It was he!’

She cried. ‘I know it!’

I recognized him! Papa,

 Mama, save me from him!’

 

Full of grief and fear,

 They shake their heads, sighing.

 Her father says: ‘My child,

 Tell me everything.

 If someone has harmed you,

 Tell us … even a hint.’

She weeps again and

 Her lips remain sealed.

 

 The next morning, the old

 Matchmaking woman

 Unexpectedly calls and

 Sings the girl’s praises;

 Says to the father; ‘You

 Have the goods and I

 A buyer for them:

 A handsome young man.

 

‘He bows to no one,

 He lives like a lord

 With no debts nor worries;

 He’s rich and he’s generous,

 Says he will give his bride,

 On their wedding-day,

 A fox-fur coat, a pearl,

 Gold rings, brocaded dresses.

 

‘Yesterday, out driving,

 He saw your Natasha;

 Shall we shake hands

 And get her to church?’

The woman starts to eat

 A pie, and talks in riddles,

 While the poor girl

 Does not know where to look.

 

‘Agreed,’ says her father;

‘Go in happiness

 To the altar, Natasha;

 It’s dull for you here;

 A swallow should not spend

 All its time singing,

 It’s time for you to build

 A nest for your children.’

 

Natasha leaned against

 The wall and tried

 To speak – but found herself

 Sobbing; she was shuddering

 And laughing. The matchmaker

 Poured out a cup of water,

 Gave her some to drink,

 Splashed some in her face.

 

 Her parents are distressed.

 Then Natasha recovered,

 And calmly she said:

‘Your will be done. Call

 My bridegroom to the feast,

 Bake loaves for the whole world,

 Brew sweet mead and call

 The law to the feast.’

 

 ‘Of course, Natasha, angel!

 You know we’d give our lives

 To make you happy!’

They bake and they brew;

 The worthy guests come,

 The bride is led to the feast,

 Her maids sing and weep;

 Then horses and a sledge

 

 With the groom – and all sit.

 The glasses ring and clatter,

 The toasting-cup is passed

 From hand to hand in tumult,

 The guests are drunk.

 

 Bridegroom

‘Friends, why is my fair bride

 Sad, why is she not

 Feasting and serving?’

 

The bride answers the groom:

‘I will tell you why

 As best I can. My soul

 Knows no rest, day and night

 I weep; an evil dream

 Oppresses me.’ Her father

 Says: ‘My dear child, tell us

 What your dream is.’

 

 ‘I dreamed,’ she says, ‘that I

 Went into a forest,

 It was late and dark;

 The moon was faintly

 Shining behind a cloud;

 I strayed from the path;

 Nothing stirred except

 The tops of the pine-trees.

 

‘And suddenly, as if

 I was awake, I saw

 A hut. I approach the hut

 And knock at the door

 -Silence. A prayer on my lips

 I open the door and enter.

 A candle burns. All

 Is silver and gold.’

 

Bridegroom

‘What is bad about that?

 It promises wealth.’

 

Bride

‘Wait, sir, I’ve not finished.

 Silently I gazed

 On the silver and gold,

 The cloths, the rugs, the silks

 From Novgorod, and I

 Was lost in wonder.

 

‘Then I heard a shout

 And a clatter of hoofs …

Someone has driven up

 To the porch. Quickly

 I slammed the door and hid

 Behind the stove. Now

 I hear many voices …

Twelve young men come in,

 

‘And with them is a girl,

 Pure and beautiful.

 They’ve taken no notice

 Of the ikons, they sit

 To the table without

 Praying or taking off

 Their hats. At the head,

 The eldest brother,

 

 At his right, the youngest;

 At his left, the girl.

 Shouts, laughs, drunken clamour …’

 

Bridegroom

‘That betokens merriment.’

 

Bride

‘Wait, sir, I’ve not finished.

 The drunken din goes on

 And grows louder still.

 Only the girl is sad.

 

‘She sits silent; neither

 Eating nor drinking;

 But sheds tears in plenty;

 The eldest brother

 Takes his knife and, whistling,

 Sharpens it; seizing her by

 The hair he kills her

 And cuts off her right hand.’

 

 ‘Why,’ says the groom, ‘this

 Is nonsense! Believe me,

 My love, your dream is not evil.’

She looks him in the eyes.

‘And from whose hand

 Does this ring come?’

The bride said. The whole throng

 Rose in the silence.

 

 With a clatter the ring

 Falls, and rolls along

 The floor. The groom blanches,

 Trembles. Confusion …

 ‘Seize him!’ the law commands.

 He’s bound, judged, put to death.

 Natasha is famous!

 Our song at an end.

By Alexander Pushkin