Biography

Aleksandr Pushkin was born into a noble Moscow family on June 6, 1799. He took particular pride in his great-grandfather Hannibal, a black general who served Peter the Great. Educated at the Imperial Lyceum at Tsarkoye Selo, Pushkin demonstrated an early poetic gift. In 1817 was taken into the ministry of foreign affairs in Saint Petersburg; there he mingled in the social life of the capital and belonged to an underground revolutionary group. In 1820 this came to the attention of the authorities, and Pushkin was exiled to Caucasus; nonetheless, he continued to hold official posts and incurred the stern disapproval of a superior. Pushkin was dismissed from government service in 1824 and banished to his mother's estate near Pskov. In 1826 Czar Nicholas I, recognizing his enormous popularity, pardoned him. Pushkin died February 10, 1837, from wounds that he suffered in a duel which he had fought in St. Petersburg. Pushkin provided a literary heritage for Russians, whose native language had hitherto been considered unfit for literature. He was also a versatile writer of great vigor and optimism who understood the many facets of the Russian character. His lyric poetry-said to be delightful to the Russian ear but untranslatable-and his simple, vivid prose were invaluable models for the writers who followed him. The influence of Lord Byron shows itself, along with Pushkin's own love of liberty, in many of his poems.

Remembrance

by Aleksandr Pushkin

When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.


--Translated by Maurice Baring

From "World Poetry," edited by Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W.W. Norton: 1,338 pp.)