The Demon / Демон. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Лермонтов

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      And so Tamara's family

      To a far convent brought their child,

      And there in all humility

      In hair-shirt rough the maiden mild

      Enrobed her youthful breast.

      Yet in this harsh, monastic garb

      Her troubled heart found no more rest

      From dreams forbidden and debarred

      Than clad in velvet or brocade.

      Before the altar at the hour,

      Of shining candles, solemn prayer,

      Through the sweet chanting of the choir

      Familiar speech would reach her ear

      And there, beneath the cupola,

      A well-known figure would appear

      To glide by as the incense rose…

      Soundless, he leaves no trace, but goes

      Gleaming before her like a star

      Calling and beckoning afar

      But whither? Ah, that no one knows.

      The holy convent was secluded

      In a cool glen between two hills

      By poplars and acacias ringed…

      And, when the night sank weary-winged

      To rest in the ravine, the grills

      Of the young sister's cell would gleam

      Out through their foliage fitfully.

      Without, beneath the almond tree

      In whose thin shade dark crosses brooded

      Like silent watchers on the graves,

      The merry birds made sweet conclaves

      Of melody. The spring-cold streams

      Leapt down from rock to rock, and sang,

      Then merged beneath the overhang

      To foam away in rapid rushes

      Beneath the frosty-flowering bushes…

      Way to the north there was a view,

      A glimpse of mountains. At day's dawning,

      When curling mists of smoky blue

      Rose from the hollows of the hills,

      And from his minaret the priest,

      His face towards the brightening East,

      Called all his flock to prayer at morning,

      Then, too, the trembling resonance

      Of chapel bells awoke the cloister;

      The solemn hour did but enhance

      The stillness of the place, the calm…

      Tamara at this hour came forth

      Bearing a pitcher on one arm

      And, treading where the mists grew lighter

      Down the steep hillside stepped for water.

      The snowy summits to the North

      Showed violet against the sky

      And flung a cloak of rosier dye

      About their shoulders in the evening;

      And there between them, upheaving

      His head between the clouds, their Tsar,

      Kazbek, in robes of silver weaving,

      Towered up towards the polar star.

      Yet, full of tainted thoughts, her mind

      Is shuttered to such pure delights,

      And all her heart is filled with night

      The whole world shadowed and unkind.

      And morning ray and evening dark

      Serve only to ignite the spark

      Of further torment in her soul.

      And, as the sweet, nocturnal cool

      Over the thirsty earth came seeping,

      Almost demented, she would fall

      Before the sacred icon weeping;

      And in the silence of the night

      Her heavy sobbing would affright

      The traveller upon his course;

      «A mountain spirit», he'd surmise

      «Bound in some cavern moaning lies!»

      And hustle on his weary horse…

      So, filled with longing and unease,

      Tamara would sit long and gaze

      Engrossed in lonely meditation

      All day, and sigh with expectation

      Beside her window, staring out…

      That he would come she had no doubt,

      Why else then were her dreams so clear?

      Why else then used he to appear

      With eyes so infinitely sad

      And speech so marvellously tender?

      For many days on end she had

      Been strangely moved – she knew not why…

      She called the good saints to defend her

      But in her heart she called on him;

      And always, when the day grew dim,

      Weary with staring she would lie

      Down on her bed and try to sleep:

      The pillow burnt her flaming cheek

      Fear stifled her, she gasped for breath,

      Then, from her pallet she would leap

      With heaving shoulders, fevered breast

      Trembling, a mist before her sight,

      Her arms outstretched to clasp the night,

      The kisses melting on her lips…

      …

      …

      The Georgian hills were scarcely veiled

      In the transparent dusk of evening

      Before the Demon downward sailed

      Through the grey twilight wreathing

      For long and long, though powerfully

      The convent seemed to draw him, he

      Could not make up his mind to break

      That hallowed peace… One moment more

      And he was ready to forsake

      His cruel intent. Beyond the door

      He paced beneath the circling wall

      Absorbed in thought. The shadowy leaves

      Shook at his steps without a breeze

      He raised his eyes: a quivering light

      Throbbed from her window through the night.

      So, she was waiting – and awake!

      Through the soft silence all about

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