Gavrílo Petróvich Kámenev. (1772-1803.)
Kámenev wrote very few poems, and his reputation rests on his ballad Gromvál, which is remarkable for its flowing verse, the first two lines being in dactylic measure, and the last two lines of each stanza in anapests. Its main importance, however, lies in the fact that it was the first successful attempt at Romantic verse in the Russian language. Púshkin said of him: “Kámenev was the first in Russia who had the courage to abandon the classic school, and we Russian Romantic poets must bring a fitting tribute to his memory.”
GROMVÁL
In my mind’s eye I rapidly fly, rapidly piercing the dimness of time; I lift the veil of hoary antiquity, and I see Gromvál on his good horse.
The plumes wave upon his helmet, the tempered arrows clang in his quiver; he is borne over the clear field like a whirlwind, in burnished armour with his sharp spear.
The sun is setting behind the mountains of flint, the evening is descending from the aërial heights. The hero arrives in the murky forest, and only through its tops he sees the sky.
The storm, shrouded in sullen night, hastens to the west on sable pinions; the waters groan, the oak woods rustle, and centennial oaks creak and crack.
There is no place to protect oneself against the storm and rain; there is no cave, no house is seen; only through the dense darkness now glistens, now goes out, through the branches of the trees, a little fire in the distance.
With hope in his heart, with daring in his soul, slowly travelling through the forest towards the fire, the hero arrives at the bank of a brook, and suddenly he sees nearby and in front of him a castle.
A blue flame gleams within and reflects the light in the flowing stream; shadows pass to and fro in the windows, and howls and groans issue dully from them.
The knight swiftly dismounts from his horse and goes to the grass-covered gate; he strikes mightily against it with his steel spear, but only echoes in the forest respond to the knocking.
Immediately the fire within the castle goes out, and the light dies in the embrace of darkness; the howls and groans grow silent, too; the storm increases, the rain is doubled.
At the powerful stroke of his mighty hand the firmness of the iron gates gives way: the latches are broken, the hinges creak, and fearless Gromvál goes in.
He unsheathes his sword, ready to strike, and, groping, goes into the castle. Quiet and gloom lie over all, only through the windows and chinks the whirlwind whistles.
The knight cries out in anger and in grief: “Ferocious wizard, greedy Zlomár! You have compelled Gromvál to wander over the world, you have stolen Rognyéda, his companion!
“Many a kingdom and land have I passed, have struck down mighty knights and monsters, have vanquished giants with my mighty hand, but have not yet found my beloved Rognyéda!
“Where do you dwell, evil Zlomár? In wild mountain fastnesses, in caves, in forests, in murky underground passages, in the depth of the sea do you hide her from my view?
“If I find your habitation, wicked magician, evil sorcerer, I will drag Rognyéda out of her captivity, I will pull out your black heart from your breast.”
The knight grows silent, and sleep comes over him. Fatigue and night make him a bed. Without taking off his armour, in the breastplate and helmet, he kneels down and falls into a deep sleep.
The clouds hurry away, and the storm dies down, the stars grow dim, the east grows light; the morning star awakes, Zimtsérla blooms like a crimson rose, but Gromvál is still asleep.
The sun rolls over the vault of heaven, at noon glows with its heated rays, and the pitch of the pines waters through the bark, but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
The forerunner of the night with olive brow glances from the east upon the forest and fields, and from an urn sprinkles dew upon the sward; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
Night, with cypress crown upon its head, in a garment woven of darkness and stars, walks frowning, over stairs, to its throne; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.
Clouds congest in the vault of heaven, darkness grows thick, midnight comes on; the hero, awakening from his deep sleep, wonders when he sees not the crimson dawn.
Suddenly peals roar in the castle like thunder; the walls shake, the windows rattle, and, as lightnings rapidly flash in the darkness, the hall is made bright with a terrible fire.
All the doors bang loud as they open: in white shrouds, with candles in their hands, shadows appear; behind them skeletons carry in their bony hands an iron coffin.
They place the coffin in the vast hall; immediately the lid flies off, and the wizard Zlomár, O horrible sight! lies breathless within, with open eyes.
The floor opens wide, and a hellish fire rises up in a howling whirlwind and thunder, and, embracing the iron coffin, heats it to a white glow; Zlomár sighs the heavy sigh of Gehenna.
In his wild, fierce, bloodshot eyes terror is painted, despair and grief; from his mouth black foam boils in a cloud, but the magician lies motionless, like a corpse.
The ghosts and skeletons, taking each other’s hands, yell, howl, laugh, whistle; raving in rapturous orgy, they dance a hellish dance around his coffin.
Midnight passes in a terrible entertainment, and their groans and howls thunder ever more horrible. But scarcely has the herald of morning crowed three times, when ghosts, skeletons and coffin suddenly disappear.
There is darkness as in the grave, and quiet all around; in the forest nearby is silence and gloom. Gromvál perplexed, marvels at the appearance, and wondering does not believe himself.
Suddenly a magic flute is heard, and the sound of the harp strikes his ears: the vault of the hall bursts open, and a rose-coloured beam, with its soft light, dispels dense night.
In a light cloud of fragrant vapours, as if a fresh breeze were blowing and a swan gently gliding high up in the air, a sorceress softly descends into the hall.
Purer than the lily is her garment; her girdle shines on her waist like hyacinth; like the twinkle of the gold-gleaming eastern star, merriment beams in her eyes.
With a pleasant voice Dobráda speaks: “Sad knight, submit to your fate! Zlomár is no longer; fate has for ever cleared the world from that wrongdoer.
“Into the abyss of hell he has been hurled for ever; the jaws of Gehenna have swallowed him; with the gurgling of the lava and the roar of the fire, the abyss alone will hear his howl and groan.
“Death, transgressing the law of nature, has not deprived the magician’s body of feeling: the shades of persons by him destroyed nightly torment him here in the castle.
“Knight, hasten to your Rognyéda! To the south of the forest, in a sandy plain, in a steel prison of Zlomár’s castle, two winged Zilants watch her.
“Accept this magic horn from me; it has the power to close the jaws of monsters. But listen! You cannot save Rognyéda without shedding her blood,—thus the fates have decreed.”
The magic strings sound again; the cloud is wafted upwards with Dobráda. Struck dumb by this speech, and beside himself, Gromvál, like a statue of stone, follows her with his glances.
Holding the emerald horn in his hand, in bitter resentment, the hero exclaims: “Ill-starred gift of the faithless sorceress, you promise happiness to me by the death of Rognyéda!
“No! I tremble at the very thought, and my heart flies a sacrifice to her. But, Gromvál, obey the dictum of fate, and hasten to destroy Zlomár’s sorcery.
“If you cannot save Rognyéda, lay the castle in ruins, vanquish the Zilants,—shed your heroic blood for her, and crown your love with an heroic death!”
A beautiful morning with radiant beam gilds the tops of century oaks. Turning his horse to the midday sun, our knight leaves both the castle and forest.
Ravines, cliffs, rapids, crags, groan under the heavy beats of the hoofs; dense dust like a cloud and whirling in a pillar flies upwards where Gromvál races.
Through the gloomy pass of a rocky mount the knight rides into a vast steppe: an ocean of sand spreads before his view, and in the distance, it seems mingled with the sky.
No wind stirs the sandy waves; heat breathes there its pestiferous breath; no shrubs rustle there, nor brooks babble: all is quiet and still as in the cemetery at midnight.
Through that wilderness, those terrible fields, no road leads, no tracks are seen; only in the east one can discern a steep mountain, and upon it a mighty castle stands out black in the distance.
Struggling three days with thirst and heat, the hero passes the barrier of death; on his worn-out steed, and in a bloody perspiration, he slowly reaches the foot of the mountain.
Over slippery paths on overhanging cliffs that threaten to crash down into the valley, slowly ascending the narrow footpath above an abyss, Gromvál reaches the top and castle.
Zlomár has built this castle with the power of Gehenna and the spirits of Hell. The turrets that tower above black cliffs announce destruction and evil death.
With Rognyéda in his heart, with bravery in his soul, Gromvál, like a fierce storm, breaks the hinges of the cast-iron doors, and with his tempered spear enters the terrible castle.
Furious he advances,—under his mighty heel dead bones and skulls crack; ravens, birds of the night and bats are awakened in the mossy crevices of the walls.
They hover like a cloud above the castle, and their terrible cries shake the air; the Zilants, hearing Gromvál’s arrival, begin to howl and whistle, and flap their wings.
Opening their jaws, they fly against him; their stings issue from their mouths like spears; they rattle their scales, bending their tails, and stretch out their destructive claws from their feet.
The hero blows his emerald horn,—the sound deafens them, and they fall like rocks; their wings are clipt, their jaws are closed; falling into a sleep of death, they lie in mounds.
In rapture the knight flies to the dungeon to embrace Rognyéda with flaming heart; but instead, an enormous door is opened, and a giant, mailed in armour, comes to meet him.
His furious glances are comets in the dark; brass is his corselet, lead his warclub; grey moss of the bog is his beard, a black forest after the storm the hair on his head.
Swinging his club with a terrible might, the giant lets it fall on Gromvál and strikes his valiant head: the echo shakes, reverberating through the castle.
The helmet clangs and is shattered to pieces; sparks issue from his dark eyes. From the stroke the club is bent as a bow, but Gromvál, like a rock, does not move from the spot.
The sword flashes in his heroic hand, and strikes the wretch like a thunderbolt; his strong brass would have broken to splinters, but the blade glides down his magic coat of mail.
The giant roars in evil madness, breathes flames, trembles with anger; he swells the muscles of his powerful shoulders, and threatens to crush Gromvál in his claws.
Death is unavoidable, destruction near; his terrible hands touch his corselet; but Gromvál, seizing his leg like an oak, makes him totter, and brings him to his fall.
The giant falls like a crumbling tower, and shakes all the castle with his terrible cry; the walls recede, the battlements fall; he is prostrate on the ground, and has dug a grave in the damp earth.
Grasping his throat with his mighty hand, Gromvál thrusts his sword into his jaws; the giant’s teeth gnash against the steel; he roars and groans, and writhes in convulsions.
Black foam and crimson blood lash and gush from his mouth; furious with suffering, battling with death, he digs the earth with his feet, trembles, lies in the agony of death.
Mingling in a boiling stream the giant’s blood wells up; a gentle vapour, rising from it in a cloud, forms the outline of fair Rognyéda.
The roses in her cheeks, the charm in her eyes, the crimson lips beckon for a kiss; her hair, falling like velvet over her shoulders, veils her swan’s breast.
Gromvál marvels at this miracle: does he see a vision or a real being? Approaching her with hope and hesitation, he presses not a dream, but Rognyéda to his breast.
Filled with passionate rapture, Gromvál addresses his love with tender words: “Long, oh, long have I sought you, Rognyéda, and have, like a shadow, wandered over the wide world!”
Drawing a deep breath, she says: “The evil magician, the cunning Zlomár, impelled by his despicable passion, brought me to this enchanted castle.
“Here he touched me with his magic wand, and deprived me of memory and feelings. Falling immediately into a mysterious trance, I have ever since been shrouded in deepest darkness.”
Taking Rognyéda by her hand, Gromvál softly descends to the foot of the mountain. He seats her behind him on his steed, and like an arrow flies back on the road.
Deep darkness covers the castle; thunders roar furiously in the night; stormy whirlwinds, tearing themselves away from their chains, howl, and the flinty ribs of the rock tremble.
With a terrible roar the earth bursts open, and the towers fall into the bottomless abyss; the Zilants, dungeon, giants are overthrown: Gromvál has vanquished the magic of Zlomár.