I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
When young I was and full of trust
I passionately loved a young Greek girl.
The charming maid, she fondled me,
But soon I lived the black day to see.
Once as were gathered my jolly guests,
A detested Jew knocked at my door.
Thou art feasting, he whispered, with friends,
But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid.
Moneys I gave him and curses,
And called my servant, the faithful.
We went; I flew on the wings of my steed,
And tender mercy was silent in me.
Her threshold no sooner I espied,
Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed.
The distant chamber I enter alone--
An Armenian embraces my faithless maid.
Darkness around me: flashed the dagger;
To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time.
And long I trampled the headless corpse,--
And silent and pale at the maid I stared.
I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,
But perished the girl, and with her my love.
The shawl I took from the head now dead,
And wiped in silence the bleeding steel.
When came the darkness of eve, my serf
Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.
Since then I kiss no charming eyes,
Since then I know no cheerful days.
I gaze demented on the black shawl,
And my cold soul is torn by grief.
10. The purpose of the author here was only to tell a story; and as
success is to be measured by the ability of a writer to adapt his means
to his ends, it must be acknowledged that Pushkin is here eminently
successful. For the story is here well told; well told because simply
told; the narrative moves, uninterrupted by excursions into side-fields.
In its class therefore this poem must stand high, but it is of the
lowest class.
11. For well told though this story be, it is after all only a story,
with no higher purpose than merely to gratify curiosity, than merely to
amuse. Its art has no higher purpose than to copy faithfully the event,
than to be a faithful photograph; and moreover it is the story not of an
emotion, but of a passion, and an ignoble passion at that; the passion
is jealousy,--in itself an ugly thing, and the fruit of this ugly thing
is a still uglier thing,--a murder. The subject therefore is not a thing
of beauty, and methinks that the sole business of art is first of all to
deal with things of beauty. Mediocrity, meanness, ugliness, are fit
subjects for art only when they can be made to serve a higher purpose,
just as the sole reason for tasting wormwood is the improvement of
health. But this higher purpose is here wanting. Hence I place such a
poem on the lowest plane of art.