Translation of Poem by IVAN BUNIN, "НА РАСПУТЬЕ," "Where Paths Diverge (The Quandary)"

                Vasnetsov,  «Витязь на распутье» ("Knight Where Paths Diverge"), 1882

Ivan Bunin

(1870-1953)

 

НА РАСПУТЬЕ

 

На распутье в диком древнем поле
Чёрный ворон на кресте сидит.
Заросла бурьяном степь на воле,
И в траве заржавел старый щит.

На распутье люди начертали
Роковую надпись: «Путь прямой
Много бед готовит, и едва ли
Ты по нём воротишься домой.

Путь направо без коня оставит —
Побредёшь один и сир и наг, —
А того, кто влево путь направит,
Встретит смерть в незнаемых полях…»

Жутко мне! Вдали стоят могилы…
В них былое дремлет вечным сном…
«Отзовися, ворон чернокрылый!
Укажи мне путь в краю глухом.

Я покинул остров Царь-девицы,
Сине море, терем и сады.
Не ищу я по свету Жар-Птицы, —
Укажи мне ключ живой воды!»

Дремлет полдень. На тропах звериных
Тлеют кости в травах. Три пути
Вижу я в желтеющих равнинах…
Но куда и как по ним идти?

Где равнина дикая граничит?
Кто, пугая чуткого коня,
В тишине из синей дали кличет
Человечьим голосом меня?

И ужели нет пути иного,
Где бы мог пройти я, не губя
Ни надежд, ни счастья, ни былого,
Ни коня, ни самого себя?

Веет поле тишиной великой!
Мертвецы в могилах древних спят.
Очарован красотою дикой,
Опускаю я покорно взгляд.

И один я в поле, и отважно
Жизнь зовёт, а смерть в глаза глядит…
Черный ворон сумрачно и важно,
Полусонный, на кресте сидит.

 

1900

 

 

Literal Translation

 

Where Paths Diverge

 Where paths diverge in a wild, ancient field

A black raven perches on a cross.

The steppes are overgrown with tall weeds,

And an old shield lies rusted in the grass.

 

Where paths diverge people have written

A baleful message: “The straight path

Prepares [for you] much calamity, and not likely

You’ll return home if you take it.

 

The path to the right will leave you horseless,

You’ll wander alone, orphaned, naked.

And he who sets out on the path to the left

Will meet his death in unknown fields.”

 

I’m terrified! In the distance there are graves . . .

Within them what has been now drowses in eternal sleep . . .

“Answer me, black-winged raven!

Point me out the way in this desolate land.

 

I’ve just left the island of the Tsar Maiden,

The blue seas, the terem towers, and the gardens,

I’m not wandering the earth in search of the Firebird—

But show me the source of the Water of Life.”

 

The midday drowses. Along the byways trodden by wild animals

Bones lie rotting in the grass. Three paths

I spy amidst the yellowing plains . . .

But how and where to go, which path?

 

Where is the border of the wild plain?

Who is it, spooking my sensitive horse,

That cries out to me in a human voice

From the silence of the azure distance?

 

And is there really no other path

That I can take without destroying

My hopes, my happiness, all my past,

My horse, my very self?

 

A deep silence wafts over the field,

The dead men sleep in the ancient graves.

Enchanted by the wild beauty,

I humbly lower my gaze.

 

And I am alone in the field, and Life

Bravely calls to me, and death looks me in the eyes . . .

The black raven gravely and gloomily

Sits half asleep on the cross.

 

 

 

â

                                            Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

The Quandary

 Where paths diverge in field all parched, primeval,

Upon a cross a coal-black raven perched.

The steppes are lush with weeds and bristly teasel,

A rusted shield lies in the grass, besmirched.  

Where paths diverge upon a sign aglow,

A baleful message stares me in the eyes:

“If you take the straight way you’ll find woe,

And no plan leading home will you devise. 

 

“Choose the path to right, you’ll be unhorsed,

Alone you’ll wander naked and bereft, 

And if you leftward go, then you’ll be forced

To slog through barren fields till you meet death.”

 

My fearful eyes see graves in distant haze,  

Where those who lived now drowse in endless sleep.

“Black raven, palliate my dread malaise,

Please show me egress from this vile glebe.

 

I’ve left behind the Isle of Tsar Queen-Maiden,

The Ocean-Blue, Elysian parks, and strife;

I seek not now The Bird with Fire Emblazoned,

But show me the source of the Water of Life.”

 

Midst midday drowse along the savage byways

Men’s bones lie rotting in the dry foul air.

Three paths on yellowed plains my eyes appraise,

Which one to take, and how to go, and where?

 

Does this wild plain have limits, ends or border?

Who spooks my touchy steed, my nerves abrase

With human cries that reek of doom, disorder,

From silence of the azure distant haze?

 

Could it be true there is no other path

That I can take without annihilating

My horse, my hopes, all human trace, my past?

The dreams of my long life obliterating?

 

O’er the fields there wafts a sombre hush,

Asleep they lie, the dead men in their graves.

Enchanted, numbed by beauty feral, lush,

I slump in saddle, humbly lower my gaze.

 

Alone I am out in the field, “Be brave,”

Calls Life, but Death stares straight into my eyes . . .

Still half asleep he’s perched on cross o’er grave,

The baleful raven, framed against the skies.

 

d

 

Note

The title, “Na rastput’e” is sometimes translated “At the Crossroads,” but the expression indicates not crossroads, but a place where all different paths diverge. First published in the journal “Books of the Week,” St. Petersburg, No. 10, October, 1900, Bunin’s poem is based roughly on a famous painting by V. M. Vasnetsov (1848-1926), “A Knight Where Paths Diverge,” to which it is dedicated. In Bunin’s final published variant of the poem, which has only seven stanzas, he apparently omitted several stanzas from the original poem. These include three that appear in my translated variant (Stanzas No. 5, 8, and 9 above). For a full listening of all the stanzas in the original, see Bunin’s Russian-language Collected Works, Vol. 1 (1965), p. 124-25; p. 482-83.