S
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THE ONG OF GOR’S CAMPAIGN; Being the song of the campaign of Igor, son of Svyatoslav, grandson of Oleg; as translated from the Old Russian by BILL JOHNSTON; & imprinted in the year Two-Thousand and Six for the Ugly Duckling Presse of Brooklyn, as Eleventh in the Eastern European Poets Series.
The Song of Igor’s Campaign Copyright 2006, Bill Johnston Eastern European Poets Series #11 Ugly Duckling Presse 106 Ferris Street, 2nd Floor Brooklyn NY 11231
THE
SONG OF IGOR’S CAMPAIGN b translated by ill ohnston
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J
This translation is for my friend Kim.
B
rothers! Here is the grievous tale Of the campaign of Igor—Igor, son of Svyatoslav. Should this story not begin The way songs began in times gone by? No—it should start like a story from life, Not the way Boyan would tell it. When Boyan the wizard was making a song, He would become the nightingale, Skipping in thought from tree to tree; He’d race across earth like a running wolf, And soar beneath clouds as a steel-gray eagle. “I remember the wars that once were,” he’d say. Then he’d unleash ten speeding falcons On a flock of floating swans. The swan that first was struck would sing For Yaroslav, who lived long ago; For valiant Mstislav, who slew Rededya Before the eyes of the Circassian armies; And for handsome Roman, son of Svyatoslav. But brothers! It wasn’t ten speeding falcons That he let loose on a flock of swans; It was the fingers of his wizard’s hands Falling upon the living strings, So that the strings themselves resounded, Thundering the glory of those great princes.
*
So, brothers! Let’s begin this song Not with tales of Vladimir of old But with Igor of the present day. Prince Igor fortified his mind with firmness, And he had courage to sharpen his heart. He filled himself with a warrior spirit And led his brave armies from the land of Russia Into the Polovtsian lands.
*
Boyan! Nightingale of times now past! If you’d sung the song of these campaigns, Flitting about in the tree of thought, In your mind’s eye sailing beneath the clouds, Weaving together old glories and new, Following the path that Troyan laid Across the steppe, toward the mountains— This is how you’d begin the tale Of Igor, son of Troyan’s son: “No, it isn’t that a storm Has driven a flock of soaring falcons Across the vastness of the steppe: Rather a black-winged band of jackdaws Is racing toward the mighty Don.”
Or, wizard Boyan, descendant of Veles, You might begin your song like this: “Horses are whinnying across the Sula, Glory is proclaimed in Kiev city; Trumpets ring out in Novgorod, And in Putivl’ banners are raised!”
*
Igor waits for his beloved brother Vsevolod; and Vsevolod, the valiant aurochs, Says to him: “Igor! my only brother, The only brightness lighting my way! You and I both are Svyatoslav’s sons! Brother, mount your fleet-footed horses. My soldiers already are in the saddle, Waiting by Kursk in preparation. Those men of Kursk are fabled warriors; They were swaddled to the war-trumpets’ sound, And weaned where helmets lined the walls, Taking their food from the lance’s tip. They are familiar with all the roads, And all the ravines are known to them. Their bows are strung in readiness, Their quivers open, their sabers sharpened. Like swift gray wolves they race across the steppe; For themselves they long for glory,
And they seek honor for their prince!”
*
Then Igor saw the light-giving sun Cast a great shadow on the earth That covered all of his armies there. And Igor spoke to his gathered warriors: “Brothers! Soldiers! It’s better by far To perish in battle than be taken prisoner. Brothers! Let’s mount our fleet-footed horses And ride till we see the Don’s blue waters.” The prince’s mind was ablaze with ardor; His yearning to see the mighty Don Blinded him to the omen of the eclipse. “I long to snap my lance in two At the place where the Polovtsian lands begin; With you, you men of Russia! I want Either to dip my helmet in the Don And drink from it, or die in the trying.”
*
Then Prince Igor came before them, And placed his foot in the golden stirrup, And rode out onto the open steppe. But his way was barred by darkness Made by the sun; night moaned like a storm,
Waking birds, making animals howl. And Div, the devil-bird of night, Cried from the crown of the highest trees: “Listen to me, you alien land: You, Volga, Pomore, you, land beyond the Sula, You, Khersonese, and also you, Idol of Tmutorakan’!” And now, along untrodden paths The Polovtsians raced towards the Don. At midnight their wagons creaked and screeched As if a flock of swans were flying. While Igor led his troops toward the Don! And already the birds in the oakscrub Waited for misfortune’s blows. Already the wolves deep in the ravines Were stirring up the storm; already The eagles with their shrieking cries Called the beasts to a banquet of bones, While foxes yelped at the crimson shields As they passed by. O Russian land! Now you have passed beyond the hill!
*
The night was falling slowly now; The afterglow of sunset faded. A film of mist enfolded the steppe.
The nightingales’ song was lulled to silence; The chatter of starlings took its place. The Russians hefted their crimson shields And barred the boundless steppe with them, Wanting honor for themselves, Seeking glory for their prince.
*
From the first light of Friday’s dawn They crushed the pagan Polovtsian armies And, scattering like arrows across the steppe, They captured the lovely Polovtsian women, And with them seized great hordes of gold, Patterned brocades and precious satins. They took rich cloaks and mantles and furs, And all manner of Polovtsian finery, Then flung them down to make a bridge Across the marshes and muddy places. Crimson the banner, white the pennant, Crimson the tassels, silver the lance-hilt Of the courageous son of Svyatoslav!
*
So the valiant brood of Oleg Slumbered on the steppe. Far have they flown! They were not born to come to harm—
Neither from falcon, nor from gyrfalcon, Nor from you, black raven, pagan Polovtsian! Khan Gzak, one of the Polovtsian chieftains, Hurtles by like a swift gray wolf, Following the path of Konchak his comrade, Heading toward the mighty Don.
*
Early on the second day A bloody sunrise brings the dawn. Black storm-clouds roll in from the sea, And in them bolts of blue lightning flicker, As they try to block four suns. A monstrous thunder there will be! A flood of arrows will come falling From the direction of the mighty Don! In this place lances will shatter, In this place the Russian sabers Will smash down on Polovtsian helmets, Here by the banks of the river Kayala, Near the mighty Don. O land of Russia! Now you have passed beyond the hill!
*
Look! A storm of arrows is blown By sea-winds, children of the wind-god Stribog,
Down on Prince Igor’s valiant armies. The earth is rumbling underfoot; The river waters churn and toss; A pall of dust has blanketed the steppe. The banners announce: The Polovtsians are marching from the Don, And they are marching from the sea; They descend from every side, They surround the Russian armies. Children of the devil they are! With their war-cry they bar the steppe While the valiant Russian warriors Bar the steppe with their crimson shields.
*
Vsevolod! You raging aurochs! You stand there in the thick of battle, Loosing a hail of arrows on the foe, Smashing your sword of Frankish steel Down upon the enemy’s helmets. Aurochs! Wherever you choose to leap, Your bright gold helmet glinting in sunlight, To the left and right there lie The heads of the pagan Polovtsians. You are the one whose tempered blade Cracked wide open the Avar helmets,
Vsevolod, you raging aurochs! Yes—for how can wounds have meaning, Brothers, for one who has forgotten His honor and all of his possessions Far away in Chernigov city, And his father’s golden throne, And the adoring cares and caresses Of Gleb’s daughter, his graceful wife?
*
Past are the ages of Troyan; Gone the years of Yaroslav; Past the campaigns that Oleg led, Oleg, son of Svyatoslav. In those times Oleg was a man Who fashioned discord with his saber And sowed arrows across the land. He set his foot in the golden stirrup In the city of Tmutorakan’; In days gone by, the mighty Yaroslav Had heard that very sound himself, While Vladimir, son of Vsevolod, In Chernigov, every morning Would cover his ears with both his hands. Boris, son of Vyacheslav, Was brought to his doom by desire for glory.
Glory it was that spread for him A green-hued shroud of feathergrass By the banks of the Kanina river; For glory too this youthful prince Suffered for the wrongs that Oleg had known. And feathergrass it was that lined the litter On which, between Hungarian horses, Svyatopolk once transported his father To St. Sophia’s in the city of Kiev. In the days of Oleg, prince of woe, Civil strife was sown and nurtured; The descendants of Dazhbog, god of plenty, Came to lose all that they owned, While the lives of men were cut short In the struggles between the princes. In those days, in the land of Russia Rarely did ploughman call to ploughman; Instead, the ravens would croak to each other, As they divided up the corpses, And the jackdaws would chatter there, Gathering before they flew to the feast.
*
These were things that once had happened In those campaigns and in those battles. Yet now a battle was taking place
The likes of which had never been seen! From dawn to dusk, then from dusk until dawn Arrows of tempered steel came flying; Sabers pounded down on helmets; Lances made of Frankish steel Thudded into the alien steppe Deep within the Polovtsian lands. The black earth beneath the horses’ hooves Was sown with bones and watered with blood, And a harvest of human grief Was gathered across the land of Russia.
*
What’s the sound that I can hear, What is the ringing that I hear, Far off, before the dawn has broken? Igor is turning around his troops. The reason: he has taken pity On his dear brother Vsevolod. They fought all day, then fought another. On the third day, with noon approaching, Igor’s banner came fluttering down. Here on the banks of the swift Kayala The brothers went their separate ways; Here the bloody wine ran dry; Here the brave Russians ended their feast.
They plied the wedding-guests with wine Then laid down their lives for the land of Russia. The grass stooped low in anguish; the trees Bowed to the ground in their bitter grief.
*
Brothers! A time of misery is here; The steppe-grass has swallowed the Russian army. Dressed in the guise of a fine young woman, Harm has come to the many soldiers In the army of Dazhbog’s grandson. She has set foot in the land of Troyan; Plashing her swanlike wings in the water Of the blue sea at the mouth of the Don, She’s stirred up a time of caustic strife. When princes perish in the pagan victories Brother begins to say to brother: “This thing is mine, and this one too.” And other princes start to say Of a small thing, “This thing is great,” And so forge discord with one another. Meanwhile, from each and every side There come the victorious pagan armies Bringing defeat to the land of Russia.
*
Far, oh far has the falcon flown, Killing a host of other birds On its path to the sea. Yet the valiant armies Of Igor will never rise again! The mourning-women will keen in their wake And the specter of lamentation Will sweep across the land of Russia, Scattering sparks from her funeral torch. The women of Russia take up their weeping, Saying: “Our loved ones all are gone. No more will they be in our thoughts, Nor shall they be present in our minds, Nor shall our eyes see them again, Nor shall our hands touch silver or gold.�
*
So, brothers, Kiev howled with grief And Chernigov groaned in affliction. Anguish engulfed the land of Russia; Caustic grief flooded that land. While the princes forged discord against each other, The pagans won victory after victory And invaded the land of Russia, Demanding the tribute of a squirrel-skin From every household in their path.
*
Now the two sons of Svyatoslav, Igor and Vsevolod, those valiant brothers, Have awakened the ancient evils That were lulled to sleep by their father Svyatoslav, mighty and terrible, Great prince of Kiev. He inspired fear With the ranks of his powerful army And his swords of Frankish steel; He had invaded the Polovtsian lands, Thundering across the hills and ravines, Churning the waters of river and lake, Making the marshes and streams run dry. Like the whirlwind he was; Kobyak the pagan He snatched at the place where the seashore bends From amongst the iron-clad enemy soldiers. And Kobyak fell in the city of Kiev, There in Svyatoslav’s great hall. Today the glory of Svyatoslav Is sung by German and by Venetian, By Greek and by Moravian too. Yet in those songs Prince Igor is rebuked For casting his riches in the Kayala, And squandering all the gold of Russia. Now Igor exchanged his golden saddle For the saddle of a prisoner.
The parapets of the city mourn And happiness must hang its head.
*
Then, as he slept amid the hills of Kiev, Svyatoslav dreamed a troubling dream. “This night,” he recounted, “when evening came They dressed me in a long black shroud And laid me on a yew-wood bed. They gave me a cup of purple wine That somehow had been mixed with sorrow. Out of an empty quiver like those The pagan Turkic tribesmen carry, They poured a handful of massive pearls Onto my breast, and they caressed me. And in my gold-roofed upper hall The ridgepole was missing—I read the bad omen. All through the night since evening-time There came a cawing of black ravens; And on the low meadows by Plesensk A funeral sleigh came speeding past And swept off toward the great blue sea.”
*
Then the boyars said to the prince: “Prince, your mind is in thrall to sorrow:
Now two falcons have swooped down From their father’s golden throne To take the city of Tmutorakan’ And perhaps to drink from the Don with their helmets. Now the wings of those two falcons Have been clipped by the pagans’ swords, And they themselves bound by iron fetters. And on the third day it grew dark: For two bright suns had ceased to shine, Two burning pillars had been extinguished, While two young moons, Oleg and Svyatoslav, Were veiled in shadow and sank in the sea. Shadows covered light on the river Kayala. Across the land of Russia the Polovtsians Scattered like a brood of marauding leopards, And disruption crossed the land. Now great shame descended on glory; Now bursting violence shattered freedom; Now Div the devil-bird fell on the land. Look: the beautiful maidens of the Goths Burst into song along the blue sea; To the clinking of Russian gold, They sing the praises of Polovtsian princes, Exalting the vengeance exacted for Sharokan And for his defeat at Russian hands. We, your followers, thirst for good news!”
*
Then great Svyatoslav let fall A golden word that was mingled with tears: “My nephews! Igor and Vsevolod! How quick you were to begin the business Of harrying the Polovtsian lands with your swords, And seeking glory for yourselves. Dishonorable, though, have been your triumphs, For without honor you both have spilled The blood of the pagans. Your valiant hearts Both were forged in Frankish steel, And both were tempered in fearlessness. What have you done to my silver-gray hair? No longer can I see the power Of Yaroslav my brother, one Rich and mighty, with many warriors; Gone are his grandees of Chernigov, Gone his knights from all the tribes: His Tatrans, Shelbirs, and his Topchaks, And his Revugs, and all his Olbers; For all of these great warriors, shieldless, Armed with the dagger each keeps in his boot, Have vanquished whole armies with a war-cry In which their forefathers’ glory resounds. But you: you said, ‘All on our own We’ll prove our courage; all alone
We’ll seize the glory that is to come, And afterwards, amongst ourselves We’ll share the glory of the past!’ Brothers—is it such a wondrous thing That an old man should be young again? When the falcon is in molt, It will attack the other birds High in the sky, yet will allow No harm to come to its own nest. But here’s the crux of all the evil: The princes are of no help to me, And the times are turned inside-out. Right now, in Rimov they are wailing Beneath the sabers of the Polovtsians, While Vladimir weeps from his wounds. Grief and anguish have come to Gleb’s son!”
*
You, mighty prince Vsevolod! Won’t you at least come flying from afar To guard your father’s golden throne? You have the power to drain the Volga At one oar-plash, and with your helmet Empty the waters of the Don! If you were here, Polovtsian slaves
Would be ten a penny, both boys and girls. You can launch sheets of river-ice Across dry land, with Gleb’s brave sons!
*
You, valiant Rurik! And you, David! Were those not your own great warriors In their gold helmets, wading in blood? Are those not your brave retainers Howling now like wounded aurochs, Cut by the sabers of the Polovtsians Out upon the alien steppe? Then climb in the golden stirrup, lords! Do this for the wrongs our age has seen; Do it for the land of Russia, And for the wounds that Igor has suffered, Igor the valiant son of Svyatoslav!
*
Yaroslav the Wise, Prince of Halicia! You gaze from high on your gold-wrought throne; You guard the mountains of Hungary With your iron-strong armies there. You block the way that leads to the king, And lock the gate of the river Danube, Hurling stone missiles as high as the clouds,
Administering justice along the Danube. Your thunder rolls across the land; You open up the gates of Kiev And from your father’s golden throne Fire arrows on sultans in other lands. Yaroslav! Loose your arrows now Upon Konchak, the pagan villain! Do this for the land of Russia, Do it for the wounds that Igor has suffered, Igor, the valiant son of Svyatoslav!
*
And you, valiant Roman! You, Mstislav! Bold thinking leads your mind to action. Fearlessly soaring, you fly into action Like a falcon high on the winds That in its bravery hunts a small bird And swoops down low to overpower it. Your men are clad in the western way, With Latin helmets and breastplates of iron. So dressed, you cause the earth to quake, And many nations of the world— Hun, Lithuanian, and Yatvingian, Prussian, and Polovtsian too— All of them let drop their lances, All of them have bowed their head
Beneath your swords of Frankish steel!
*
But now, Prince Igor, there come bad omens: The light of the sun begins to dim, The leaves have fallen from the trees: Along the Ros’ and the Sula rivers The enemy has captured the cities, Dividing the spoils amongst themselves. And the courageous armies of Igor— They shall never rise again! Prince—the Don cries out to you, Summoning the princes to victory. The sons of Oleg, brave princes all, Began to ready themselves for battle.
*
Listen, Ingvar’! Listen, Vsevolod! Listen, all three sons of Mstislav, Hawk-brood from a magnificent nest! Through your own power, you have acquired Lands that are invincible! Where then are your golden helmets, Your Polish lances and your shields? Take up your sharpened arrows, and with them Bar the great gate of the steppe.
Do this for the land of Russia; Do it for the wounds that Igor has suffered, Igor, the valiant son of Svyatoslav!
*
No longer now does the Sula river Flow with a silver-glittering stream Towards the city of Pereyaslavl’; While the Dvina runs thick with mud For the redoubtable townsfolk of Polotsk Under the pagan battle-cries. Izyaslav alone, son of Vasilko, Rang the blade of his sharp sword Against the helmets of the Lithuanian pagans. He vanquished the fame of Vseslav his forefather. But he himself was vanquished in turn, Brought down by Lithuanian swords. He fell onto the bloodied grass, There beneath the crimson shields, Like a husband with his bride Falling upon the marriage bed. Boyan would say: “Prince, the vultures Have draped your retainers with their wings, While wild beasts have licked their blood.” Izyaslav’s brother Bryacheslav Was not there, nor Vsevolod,
His other brother; all alone He rendered up his pearl-like soul Out of his courageous flesh, Through the gold torc around his neck. Voices fell silent all around, Joy was gone, while trumpets sounded In his city of Gorodets.
*
Yaroslav, and all the scions Of Vseslav! Lower your banners now, And put away your damaged swords. You are far from your forefathers’ glory. With the discord amongst your own You’ve lured the pagans to the land of Russia, And brought them here to Vseslav’s possessions. Violence has come from the Polovtsian lands.
*
Once, in the seventh age of Troyan, Vseslav cast lots for a maiden he loved. With great skill, he vaulted on his spear, Leapt all the way to Kiev city, Took his spear and touched its shaft To the golden throne of Kiev. In the guise of a wild beast,
Secretly, by dead of night He bounded from the city of Belgorod, All enwrapped in a blueish mist; Three times there were when he seized good fortune: He opened the gates of Novgorod, Smashed the glory of Yaroslav, And, taking on the guise of the wolf, Leapt from Dudutki to the Nemiga.
*
There, on the banks of the river Nemiga, The sheaves laid out are human heads, Threshed with flails of Frankish steel. Lives are laid on the threshing-floor, And souls are winnowed from their flesh. The river Nemiga’s bloodied banks Are sown, not with a blessed seed, But with the bones of Russia’s sons.
*
Prince Vseslav ruled his people justly; He allotted cities to each of the princes While he himself in the dead of night Would become a speeding wolf: From Kiev, before the dawn could break He would run to Tmutorakan’
And, leaping in the guise of the wolf, He’d cross the path of the sun-god Khors. In Polotsk the matin bells would ring At St. Sophia’s church for him; The chimes would still be in his ears When he was back in Kiev city. Yet, though he had a wizard’s soul That was cased in courageous flesh, Misfortune often visited him. For him, it seemed, once long ago The wizard Boyan in his great wisdom Had uttered this saying: “The cunning man Nor the clever man, nor the clever bird— None of these shall ever be able To flee the fate that God has assigned them.”
*
Oh, how the land of Russia will wail When it remembers the times that were, And the princes that once were! Vladimir, the great prince of old, Could not be contained by the hills of Kiev; Now, half his banners are with Rurik, The other half have gone to David, And so his pennants flutter apart. On the Danube the lances sing!
*
Now comes the voice of Yaroslavna, Igor’s wife; plaintive, cuckoolike, She cries in the morning: “I shall fly Like a cuckoo along the great river; I’ll dip my sleeve of beaver-fur In the waters of the Kayala, And I’ll clean the prince’s wounds Where they bleed on his powerful body.”
*
Yaroslavna weeps in the morning Out on the ramparts at Putivl’. She cries: “Wind! Listen, sweet wind! Why, lord wind, do you blow so hard? Why do you carry Hungarian arrows On your light and carefree wing Against the warriors of the one I love? Was it not enough for you To blow the clouds across the sky And rock the ships out on the blue sea? Why, lord wind, did you take my joy And scatter it over the feathergrass?”
*
Yaroslavna weeps in the morning On the ramparts of Putivl’. She cries: “Dnieper, you mighty river! You’ve fought your way through stony mountains Across the land of the Polovtsians. You rocked the boats of Svyatoslav Upon your waters, bringing them To Kobyak’s camp. O Lord Dnieper! Bring my loved one back to me, So I no longer must send him tears Down to the sea in the early morning.”
*
Yaroslavna weeps in the morning Out on the ramparts of Putivl’. She cries: “Bright, three times bright sun! Your beauty and your warmth exist For everyone. Why, lord sun, Why do you send your burning rays Upon the warriors of my loved one? Out on the vast and waterless steppe Why do you shrivel their bows with thirst And stop up all their quivers with sorrow?”
*
The sea of midnight swirls with foam;
Waterspouts move forward like mist. Prince Igor is led by the hand of God Out of the Polovtsian lands, Back into the land of Russia, To his father’s golden throne. The glow of evening fades from sight. Igor sleeps; Igor wakes; Igor measures the steppe in his mind From the mighty Don to the little Donets. Vlur, a friend though one of the foe, Brings a horse, whistles by the river To let Prince Igor understand: His captivity soon will end! He gave a cry; the ground rumbled, There came a rustling of the grass, And a stirring among the tents Where the Polovtsian warriors slumbered. Prince Igor leapt into the reeds With the agility of an ermine, Like a white duck into the water. Then he leapt up on his swift horse And down again, running like the whitefoot wolf. He hurtled towards the Donets meadows, Soaring like a falcon beneath the mists, Killing geese and slaying swans For morning, noon, and evening meals. They both wore out their fleet-footed horses;
And, as Igor flew like a falcon, Beside him Vlur raced like the wolf, Shaking off the cold morning dew.
*
The Donets river spoke: “Prince Igor! There’ll be no lack of glory for you; For Konchak there’ll be vexation, And great joy for the land of Russia!” Igor replied: “Donets river! There’ll be no lack of glory for you— You rocked the prince upon your waters; You spread the green grass at his feet Along your silver-colored banks; You enswathed him in warm mists And gave him the shade of leafy trees; You bid the birds watch over him— The goldeneye out on the water, The gulls that ride upon the stream, The lapwing flying in the wind.” Yet the Stugna river made no speech; The waters of its course were meager, Swallowing other creeks and streams; It took the boy-prince Rostislav, Dragged his body on the riverside bushes, And drowned him in the darkness there.
Now the mother of Rostislav Weeps at the death of her young son. The flowers droop in their weary sorrow; The trees bow down to the ground in their grief.
*
This is not the chatter of magpies: Gzak and Konchak, the Polovtsian khans, Are riding fast on Igor’s trail. Now the ravens have stopped their croaking, The jackdaws all are silent now, And the magpies have ceased their chatter. Only the woodpecker is there, Flitting among the waterside willows; Its drumming signals the way to the river, While the sunrise is foretold By the bright song of nightingales.
*
Says Gzak to Konchak, his Polovtsian comrade: “The falcon is flying back to his nest; We should take our golden arrows And shoot the young falcon from the sky.” Then Konchak replies to Gzak: “This falcon’s flying to his nest; Let’s ensnare the fine young falcon
With the charms of a lovely young woman.” And then Gzak replies to Konchak: “Even if we should ensnare him With the charms of a lovely young woman, In the end we’d be left with nothing— Neither the falcon, nor the young woman— And we’d find ourselves attacked By great flocks of other birds Out on the Polovtsian steppe.”
*
Boyan was a singer of ancient times— He sang for Yaroslav, son of Oleg, Those early princes—yet his words Rang true for Igor, son of Svyatoslav: “Though it’s always hard for the head When it is parted from the shoulders, It’s also true that the body suffers When it no longer has a head.” Here, the body is the land of Russia, And Prince Igor is its head.
*
The sun shines brightly in the heavens; Prince Igor is back in the land of Russia! Young women sing along the Danube;
Their voices carry across the sea All the way to Kiev city. Igor rides up Borichev hill To Our Lady of the Tower. The countryside is filled with joy And all the cities are elated!
*
Now we have sung to the ancient princes, Let’s also honor those of today: Glory to Igor, son of Svyatoslav! Glory to Vsevolod, valiant aurochs! Glory to Vladimir, son of Igor! Long live the princes and their retainers— All of those who fight for the Christians Against the armies of the pagans! Glory to the prince and his retainers! Amen.
AFTERWORD The Song of Igor’s Campaign (Slovo o polku Igoreve) is widely regarded as the first flowering of Russian literature. It describes a disastrous foray led by Prince Igor of Chernigov (Chernihiv in present-day Ukraine) in 1185 against the Polovtsians, a nomadic Turkic tribe inhabiting the steppe. The unilateral campaign waged without the support of other Kievan princes led to Igor’s capture, imprisonment, and subsequent escape. The poem is part martial epic, part lament, and part political diatribe castigating Igor’s rashness and calling for unity among the Russian princes. It is impossible to write about the Song without also describing the circumstances under which the text appeared. This story is almost as dramatic as the events it recounts. The first version of the text was said to have been found in a set of manuscripts purchased in the 1790’s by Count Alexei Musin-Pushkin, a collector of antiquities, from the former head of a disbanded monastery. The text of the Song, written without word or line breaks and with numerous unclear, ambiguous, and erroneous elements, seemed to have been transcribed around the 16th century by a monk who did not fully understand the original text, written in what even then was fourhundred-year-old Russian. Musin-Pushkin published the text, with further errors, alongside an equally problematic translation into modern Russian, in 1800. Then, in 1812, the original 16thcentury manuscript was said to have been lost in a fire during the occupation by Napoleon’s forces. All that remained was the version published by Musin-Pushkin and a transcript supposedly made from the original for Catherine the Great. According to the customary history of the Song, it was composed, probably orally, around 1187, immediately after the events it described. It was not transcribed till considerably later, and many of the textual problems faced by present-day readers and scholars are caused by errors arising during multiple copyings.
Yet not all specialists agree that the work in fact dates from the 12th century. A few decades before the appearance of the Song, in the 1760’s, James Macpherson (1736-1796), a Scottish poet, had published a series of books of poetry purporting to be translations from the ancient Gaelic language; these included Temora, an epic supposed to have been written by a 3rd-century Gaelic poet called Oisín or Ossian. It subsequently transpired that the Ossian poems were a fabrication by Macpherson (though this did not diminish their huge influence on the Romantic movement). Almost since the first appearance of The Song of Igor’s Campaign, there have been scholars both in Russia and elsewhere who have argued that like the poems of Ossian, the Song is a later fabrication, possibly produced in the late 18th century by someone in Count Musin-Pushkin’s circle. Impressive arguments have been marshaled on both sides. The case for authenticity was made forcefully by the Russian linguist Roman Jakobson, and by countless ranks of other scholars, led by Soviet historian Dmitrii Likhachov. Especially in Russia, both tsarist and Soviet, the defense was a passionate one. Other “believers” included, notably, Vladimir Nabokov, who published a “literal rendering” of the text into English in 1960. The case for authenticity rests on a number of points. First, some time after the Igor tale appeared, several versions of a 16th-century manuscript now known as the Zadonshchina came to light. This poem recounts the 1380 Battle of Kulikovo Field, but it contains a great many linguistic elements identical or very similar to elements in the Igor tale; at the same time, it is much more crudely written than the latter. Scholars have used this as an argument to demonstrate that the (anonymous) author of the Zadonshchina borrowed from an already-existing Song. Furthermore, researchers have pointed to a host of details of both history and nature in the text that suggest the author must have been close in time to the events described. The more time went by, the more the authenticity of the text became important to the Russian cultural mythos—the story that Russians tell themselves about their history and culture. As Harvard historian Edward Keenan writes, the Song became a “national icon” in “the Slavophile and
nationalist Russia of the latter nineteenth century.” Historically speaking, the Song confirmed the geopolitical aspirations of the growing Russian empire (and, of course, subsequently the Soviet empire). In terms of literature, the Song rapidly established itself as evidence of an advanced literary culture existing in Kievan Rus’—that, as Nabokov put it, “a great bard flourished in Russia at the end of the twelfth century,” the author of a “masterpiece” that “not only lords it over Kievan letters but rivals the greatest European poems of its day.” The Song assumed the role of a Russian Beowulf, offering “an indigenous linguistic and poetic space in which Russian letters could grow without apology and flourish without self-doubt,” in Keenan’s words. For these two reasons—historical and literary—it might be said, to paraphrase Voltaire, that for Russian nationalist politics and for modern Russian literature, if the Song did not exist it would be necessary to invent it. Yet in his recent book on the Song, Keenan makes a particularly convincing case for the latter: specifically, for 18th-century authorship. Keenan attributes the poem to the Abbé Josef Dobrovsky (1753-1829), a Czech scholar who was the leading Slavic specialist of his time. After presenting a detailed case for Dobrovsky’s authorship, Keenan hypothesizes that the Song was written not as a deliberate forgery but as a partly private exercise (or in fact series of exercises) in “imitation” of the ancient texts—including, putatively, the Zadonshchina—that Dobrovsky had studied thoroughly in the Russian archives. According to Keenan, through a combination of accident, deliberate chicanery, and willful self-deception on the part of Dobrovsky, MusinPushkin, and a host of intermediaries, the poem took on a life of its own and its authenticity became accepted. /
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According to Keenan’s reading, the poem remains a political statement, but one written from the perspective of a late 18th-century self-professed “Slavophile,” arguing for Slavic unity (something that at the time was under threat, for example by the partitions of Poland), and for a particular geopolitical understanding of what were “Russian” lands. Keenan argues that the poem is also 18th-century, and specifically pre-Romantic, in its treatment of nature, and in numerous
other characteristics. (Even Nabokov acknowledges the echoes of Macpherson in the poem’s language.) The Song’s fractured structure, in turn, Keenan explains by the fact that its author composed it in fragments and in fact may never have intended them to be put together, and may not have been privy to this process. Keenan builds his case by pointing to a host of textual and linguistic references to post-12th-century texts and language, demonstrating convincingly that the poem cannot possibly have been composed earlier than the late 18th century. He concurs with the argument made much earlier by French slavist André Mazon that the different versions of the Zadonshchina were drawn on in writing the Song, not the other way round. Keenan’s reading may not be widely accepted in Russian literary and historical circles, where, for the reasons given above, so very much energy has already been invested in the assumption that the Song is a genuine 12th-century text. Yet, objectively speaking, his case is extremely persuasive. It explains a great deal about the poem that is otherwise problematic—its numerous obscure hapax legomena, some of which Dobrovsky borrowed from Old Czech and other Slavic languages; its idiosyncratic language, the result of Dobrovsky’s imperfect command of Old Russian; its fragmentary structure; and first and foremost the central mystery of the Song—how such a mature, complex, and accomplished work could have appeared suddenly out of nowhere in the otherwise much less sophisticated literature of 12th-century Kievan Rus’ and equally suddenly disappeared, leaving virtually no trace of influence. /
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In any case, speaking as a translator I find the question of authenticity absolutely fascinating but not central to my own task. Though this translation was produced before the appearance of Keenan’s book, the authenticity or otherwise of the text does not fundamentally alter the translation process, just as my acceptance of Keenan’s thesis does not lessen my admiration for the text. It remains a beautiful work (it is independently known that Dobrovsky was in fact something of a poet) and a gripping piece of writing; if it is indeed a fabrication, it is a thoroughly remarkable one that deserves to be translated. Furthermore, whatever the final verdict on its authenticity, the importance of the Song in the literature of Russia and in its historical self-image cannot be /
overstated, and so for this reason alone it is a text of central importance. The problems of transcription and of interpretation mentioned earlier are real whether or not the text is fabricated (according to Keenan’s version, Dobrovsky’s original manuscript was mistranscribed at numerous points), and so in translating the poem I have in many cases had to take risks and make certain conjectural leaps. In contrast to the “literalist” approach of Nabokov and the frequently over-academic efforts of previous translators, I have taken certain liberties and have tried above all to convey the sheer beauty of the poem. Other translations have expressed its meaning; but none, at least of those I have seen, constituted poetry. I would like my own translation to stand or fall on this criterion. /
In seeking a voice for the Song, I have used a loose four-beat line that contains a conscious echo of Anglo-Saxon poetry. However, this is not an attempt to “Anglicize” the quintessentially Slavic Song, only to offer something familiar in the encounter with what for present-day English speakers remains a remote and mysterious text. I have also striven for an urgent, direct diction that matches the lapidary language of the original. This translation was based on the version of the original text presented in The Heritage of Russian Verse, edited by Dimitri Obolensky; I have borrowed a few felicitous phrases from the prose translation that Obolensky provides. I also drew on Roman Jakobson’s reconstruction of the tale as printed in the Glossary of the Igor’ Tale by Cizevska, and on Vladimir Nabokov’s annotated literal translation; I follow the latter in shifting the passage concerning the eclipse (ll. 73–88 in my version) from its original earlier position between lines 33 and 34, that is, immediately preceding the invocation to Boyan. The versions mentioned here often differed in their interpretation of certain words, phrases, or passages; I have chosen the understanding that seemed to make the most sense. (It is worth noting that in light of Keenan’s textual analysis, which was not available to me when I was working on my version, a fresh translation may well be called for.) ^ ^
I have taken a few small liberties with the text, in the interests of rendering it more poetic and more comprehensible to a 21st-century English-language readership. I have slightly rearranged the first few lines to create an opening that is more striking to the English ear. In a few places in the text, I have added a phrase of explanation into the narrative rather than make a footnote; the aim was to focus more attention on the text itself, and I feel that such interpolations are part of the translator’s craft. In some passages I have gone out on a limb with my interpretation in order to make the text more coherent. Whether the Song is from the 12th century or the 18th, it is an extraordinary and important piece of literature. I hope that this translation will help to bring this remarkable poem closer to English-speaking audiences of the present day.
Bill Johnston
Bloomington, Indiana September 2005
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Tatjana Cizevska: Glossary of the Igor’ Tale. The Hague: Mouton, 1966. Edward L. Keenan: Josef Dobrovsky and the Origins of the Igor’ Tale. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003. Dmitrii Sergeevich Likhachov: Slovo o polku Igoreve (2nd ed.) Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1955. Robert Mann: Lances Sing: A Study of the Igor Tale. Columbus, OH: Slavica. André Mazon: Le Slovo d’Igor. Paris: Librairie Droz, 1940. Vladimir Nabokov: The Song of Igor’s Campaign. An Epic of the Twelfth Century. New York: Vintage Books/Random House, 1960. Dimitri Obolensky: The Heritage of Russian Verse. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1976. /
COLOPHON Bill Johnston’s translation of The Song of Igor’s Campaign was set in Steinbeck with Windsor Antique titles by Don’t Look Now! designs for Ugly Duckling Presse. The artist Yulya Deych of Olympia, Washington, created a series of three distinct cover designs and printed each in a limited edition of 115 using photolithographic plates and hand-set type on Rives Heavyweight paper. Each cover was hand torn and initialed by the artist. The booklet was laser-printed and hand bound in an edition of 345 by the collective at the UDP Workshop at the Liberty Warehouse by the banks of the Buttermilk Channel in Red Hook, Brooklyn, New York. Ugly Duckling Presse is grateful to the New York State Council on the Arts for their ongoing support of the Eastern European Poets Series. The copyright of the translation and the afterword printed herein is the sole property of Bill Johnston. To find out more visit www.uglyducklingpresse.org.