Lament of Yaroslavna (ancient Russian text in the reconstruction of Dmitry Likhachev). Yaroslavna's Cry Yaroslavna cries early in Putivl

Reconstruction and translation by D. Likhachev

Old Church Slavonic text

A voice is heard on the Danube of Yaroslavl,
zegzice is unknown, it’s too early to say:
“I’ll fly,” he said, “on the route along the Dunaevi,
I’ll wash my hibiscus sleeve in Kayala Retz,
In the morning the prince will see his bloody wounds
on his body."

Opera "Prince Igor". Yaroslavna's lament (listen)

Yaroslavna cries early
in Putivl (on the visor), Arkuchi:
“Oh, the wind, the sail!
Why, sir, are you forcing yourself?
Why are Khinov’s arrows moot?
(in his easy way)
in my opinion, howl?
You never know how the mountain blows under the clouds,
cherishing ships on the blue sea?
Why, sir, is my joy
scattering along the feather grass?

Yaroslavna is too early to cry
I’m putting the city on the fence, Arkuchi:
“About the Dnieper Slovutitsyu!
You have broken through stone mountains
through the Polovtsian land.
You cherished Svyatoslavl's nosads
to Kobyakov's call.
Cherish, sir, my kindness towards me,
I wish I hadn’t sent tears to him
It's early at sea."

Yaroslavna cries early
in Putivl on the visor, arkuchi:
“Bright and bright sun!
You are warm and red to everyone:
to which, sir, shine your ardent rays
Are you okay?
In the abyssal field I long for their rays to be harnessed,
Shall they wear it tightly?”

Translation

Yaroslavna's Lament - listen to audio

Yaroslavna cries early
“Oh wind, sail!
Why, sir, are you blowing towards me?
Why are you rushing Khin's arrows?
on their light wings
on my dear warriors?
Wouldn't it be enough for you to breathe under the clouds?
cherishing ships on the blue sea?
Why, sir, did you scatter my joy through the feather grass?”

Yaroslavna cries early
in Putivl-city on a visor, saying:
“Oh Dnepr Slovutich!
You broke through stone mountains through the Polovtsian land.
You cherished Svyatoslav’s plantings on yourself
to Kobyakov's camp.
Come, sir, to my dear one,
so that I don’t send tears to him
it’s early at sea!”

Yaroslavna cries early
in Putivl on a visor, saying:
“Bright and thrice bright sun!
You are warm and wonderful to everyone:
why, lord, did you spread your hot rays
on the warriors of my fret?
In a waterless field thirst twisted their bows,
Have they filled their quivers with grief?”

Yaroslavna's Lament (Old Russian text reconstructed by Dmitry Likhachev)

On the Yaroslavl Danube a voice is heard, it is too early to shout along the unknown route: “I’ll fly,” he said, “by route along the Dunaevi,

I'll wet you Bebryan sleeve in Kayala Retz, in the morning the prince will have his bloody wounds

brutally on his body.”

Yaroslavna cries early in Putivl on her visor, shouting: “Oh, the wind, the sail! What, sir, are you forcing? Why are Khinov’s arrows mucheshi

on his easy way

in my opinion, howl?

You never know how grief blows into the clouds,

cherishing ships on the blue sea?

Why, sir, is my joy

scattering along the feather grass?

Yaroslavna is too early to cry

I’m putting the city on the fence, Arkuchi:

“About the Dnieper Slovutitsyu! You have broken through stone mountains

through the Polovtsian land.

You cherished Svyatoslavl nosads on yourself

to Kobyakov's call.

Cherish, sir, my kindness towards me, and I would not send tears to him

It's early at sea."

Yaroslavna cries early

in Putivl on the visor, arcuchi:

“Bright and bright sun! Thou art warm and red to all: to whom, sir, dost shine thy hot ray

Are you okay?

In a waterless field I long for harnessed rays,

Shall they wear it tightly?”

I’ll sprinkle the sea of ​​midnight, the smorzki are coming in the darkness. God shows Prince Igor the way

from the land of Polovtsian

to the Russian land,

to take away the gold from the table.

*****

Valery Temnukhin

Yaroslavna's lament

To the outskirts, full of bitterness,

It’s not the cuckoo’s sobs that fly -

Yaroslavna, Igor's wife.

On the first day of the sad campaign,

In the hardships of separation and anxiety,

Peering into the dark sky

And the silent distance of earthly roads,

Early in the morning a lonely bird

Hands spread out like wings,

Laments to the crimson dawns,

He laments with pain on his lips:

“With the free wind along the river valleys,

Into the unkind silence of the fields

I’ll fly in irresistible melancholy

A bitter cry of my fidelity.

The moans of an inconspicuous cuckoo

I'll make my way there from afar,

Where in the bloody haze of the predawn

The menacing river sparkled.

And then, above her, dark Kayala,

I will flash by, guarded by fate;

I will not touch the sleepless wave with my wing -

White silk with gold thread;

White silk on my clothes,

On her winged sleeves.

Recklessly faithful to hope,

I will hurry, overcoming fear.

And when I see the battlefield,

The torn expanse of lush grass,

Call out to the dear prince.

There, boldly rushing into the stream of adversity,

I will break the seal of lonely thoughts;

Sweet wounded body

I will begin to heal as best I can:

White silk moistened with water,

I’ll wipe the blood off my husband’s wounds,

And the fatal breath of death,

Like a ghost, it will disappear in the wind..."

The battle broke out early in the morning -

On the Don the swords are drawn.

And in Putivl Yaroslavna is crying,

Laments from the fortress wall:

“Wind, wind! What are you unwillingly

Are you swooping in, blocking the path?

Sweeping away grief towards distant thunderstorms,

Gently rocking the boats into the sea,

Is it not enough to blow freely in the blue?

As if on wings, you fly under the skies,

You fight against my husband:

You drive faster and faster over the fields

Clouds of arrows on his warriors!

What are you, lord, as if in bad weather

Are you swirling whirlwinds?

And the battle is getting tougher!

...And my dream of quiet happiness

Scattered in the feather grass by you..."

On the second day of the battle, early in the morning,

Above Putivl, from the fortress wall,

“Dnepr Slavutich! Full of strength

Your living waters foam,

Cutting through even the rock of the mountains,

In the land where by the will of nature

There is an expanse of wild grass,

And the land is under Polovtsian rule.

You are always fearless and powerful,

On a long journey with a brave squad

Carried away from high cliffs

Kyiv, princes of the great city,

And, the boats rocking on the wave,

Svyatoslav, husband's brother,

Led to the heights of glory in war.

Carried forward over the abyss of darkness,

Through the darkness of obstacles and adversity

To the camps of the formidable Kobyak,

Khan of the Polovtsians. And so

Instantly a wave of princely blades

The army of the steppes scattered.

So return with victory, my lord,

Husband on a sparkling wave,

To be loved as before,

I rejoice in the future;

So as not to get up early in the morning,

She did not shed streams of bitter tears;

So that you are under the canopy of fog

He took all the sorrows overseas!”

The third day the unequal battle rumbles

On the distant steppe side,

Heard early in the morning on the wall:

“My light, Clear Sun! You three times

At dawn it rose above the ground;

Stretching a ray of hope into the darkness

It promised glory and peace.

Midday sun, sunset sun,

Early morning sun!

Sailing in vast distances

Look tenderly at the earth;

Bring warmth and light to anyone,

Warming souls with beauty!

So why do you sparkle differently -

Apparently, replaced by fate!

What, lord, with burning rays

You overtake the brave regiments;

The heavy heat wavers over the fields,

Like the waves of a ghostly river?

A thirst stronger than the enemy's saber,

So he follows everywhere

In those fields where there is not a drop of water,

Where is the beloved with the warriors -

There

The desolate steppe was inflamed with anger...

Russians clutching their bows,

You

The tight bowstring was relaxed -

The arrows have neither strength nor height;

To Russians you are tired more and more often

The leather quiver is half empty,

Arrows bending in it, creaking,

Covering you with disastrous melancholy..."

*****

No, people should not argue with heaven,

If we can’t cope with each other!

It came in terrible waves

Sea of ​​death on a stormy night:

Crushing the sails, wounding the living,

The horror of the night has swirled like a tornado!

Lightning in the sky burst into flames -

Like God who sees everything with his fingers

Shows Igor the way

From the abyss of troubles - to the steppe valley,

And in the expanse of the Russian side;

To the golden throne

Oh, to groan for the Russian land, remembering the former time and the former princes! That old Vladimir could not be nailed to the Kyiv mountains. His banners are now Rurik's, and others are Davydov's, but apart they blow, the spears sing in disagreement.

Yaroslavna cries on the wall in Putivl in the morning, wailing: “Oh wind, sail! Why, sir, are you blowing so hard! Why do you rush the enemy's arrows on your light wings at the warriors of my fret? Or is it not enough for you to fly high under the clouds, cherishing ships on the blue sea! Why, sir, did you dispel my joy through the feather grass?”

Early in the morning Yaroslavna cries on the wall of Putivl-city, wailing: “Oh Dnieper Slovutich! You broke through stone mountains through the Polovtsian land. You cherished Svyatoslav's boats until Kobyakov's regiment. Please, sir, keep my good will towards me, so that I don’t send tears to him at sea early!”

Yaroslavna cries early on the wall in Putivl, wailing: “Bright and bright sun! You are all red and warm. Why, sir, did you spread your hot rays towards the warriors? In the steppe, waterless thirst bent their bows, and sadness closed their quivers?

The sea foamed at midnight; tornadoes come in fogs. God shows Prince Igor the way from the Polovtsian land to the Russian land, to his father’s golden table. The dawns went out in the evening. Igor sleeps, Igor does not sleep, Igor in his thoughts measures the steppe from the great Don to the small Donets. At midnight Ovlur whistled for his horse across the river; He tells the prince not to doze off. Clicked; the earth clattered, the grass rustled, the Polovtsian hedgehogs began to move. And Prince Igor galloped like an ermine to the reeds and fell like a white nog on the water. He rushed at the greyhound horse and jumped off it like a gray wolf. And he ran to the Donets meadow and flew like a falcon under the fogs, killing geese and swans for lunch, and afternoon tea, and dinner. When Igor flew like a falcon, then Ovlur ran like a wolf, shaking the chilly dew; they tore their greyhound horses to pieces.

Donets said: “Prince Igor! There is a lot of glory for you, and dislike for Konchak, and joy for the Russian land!” Igor said: “Oh Donets! It is not a little glory for you that you cherished the prince on the waves, spread green grass for him on your silver shores, clothed him with warm mists under the shade of a green tree, guarded him with goldeneye on the water, seagulls on the waves, ducks on the winds.” The Stugna River is not like that, he said; Having a small stream, it swallowed up other people's streams and streams, drowning the young man Prince Rostislav in a pool near the dark shore. Rostislav's mother cries for the young prince Rostislav. The flowers became sad with pity, and the trees bowed to the ground in grief.

It wasn’t the magpies that started chirping—Gzak and Konchak were following Igorev’s trail. Then the crows did not crow, the jackdaws fell silent, the magpies did not chirp, only snake snakes crawled. Woodpeckers knock the way to the river, nightingales announce the dawn with cheerful songs. Gzak says to Konchak: “If the falcon flies to the nest, we will shoot the falcon with our gilded arrows.” Konchak said to Gza: “If the falcon flies to the nest, we will entangle the falcon with a red maiden.” And Gzak said to Konchak: “If we entangle him with a red maiden, we will have neither a falcon nor a red maiden, and the birds will begin to beat us in the Polovtsian steppe.”

Boyan, the songwriter of old times, said to Yaroslav and Oleg: “It’s hard for a head without shoulders, trouble is for a body without a head.” So is the Russian land without Igor. The sun is shining in the sky - Prince Igor is in the Russian land. Girls sing on the Danube, voices curl across the sea to Kyiv. Igor travels along Borichev to the Holy Mother of God Pirogoshchaya. Countries are happy, cities are cheerful.

We will sing the glory of the old princes, and then we will dignify the young ones. Glory to Igor Svyatoslavich, buoy-tur Vsevolod, Vladimir Igorevich! May the princes and the squad be healthy, fighting for Christians against the filthy regiments. Glory to the princes and squad! Amen.

"The escape of Prince Igor from captivity from the Polovtsians." Chorikov B.

“The Battle of Prince Igor with the Polovtsians” Arkhipov I.

“The Battle of the Russians with the Polovtsians” Pergamenshchik E.

“Return from the campaign of Prince Igor Seversky” Khodov V.

"Igor" Roerich N.

“Igor Seversky” Gerasimov M.

How Yaroslavna got her husband back

Not everyone will immediately remember the plot of “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign.”
In a nutshell. The chronicle describes how Igor, not heeding the signs of the death of his army, went deep into the Polovtsian steppe, lost his army and was captured.
Yaroslavna, his wife, sensing something was wrong, early in the morning stood on the serf wall facing the sun and sang, calling on the forces of the wind, the Danube and the Sun to help her bring her husband home. It worked out. I praise feminine energy too. Girls, when we learn to believe in ourselves, then better days will come on earth.

And the root text of Yaroslavna’s Lamentation will be translated more than once, awakening the imagination of poets
Over the wide bank of the Danube,
Over the great Galician land
Crying, flying from Putivl,
Yaroslavna's young voice:

"I, poor thing, will turn into a cuckoo,
I'll fly along the Danube River
And a sleeve with a beaver edge,
I bend down and soak in Kayal.
The fogs will fly away,
Prince Igor will open his eyes slightly,
And in the morning I will wipe away the bloody wounds,
Leaning over the mighty body."

Only the dawn will break in the morning,
Yaroslavna, full of sadness,
Like a cuckoo calling to the Yura:

“What are you, Wind, telling viciously,
Why are the fogs swirling by the river,
You raise the Polovtsian arrows,
Are you throwing them into Russian regiments?
What don't you like in the open air?
Fly high under the cloud,
Ships to cherish in the blue sea,
Are the waves swaying behind the stern?
You, sowing enemy arrows,
Only death blows from above.
Oh, why, why my fun
Are you scattered in the feather grass forever?"

At dawn in Putivl, wailing,
Like a cuckoo in early spring,
The young Yaroslavna calls,
On the wall is a sobbing city:

"My glorious Dnieper! Stone mountains
In the Polovtsian lands you struck,
Svyatoslav to distant expanses
I wore Kobyakovs to the regiments.
Cherish the prince, sir,
Save it on the far side
So that I can forget my tears from now on,
May he return to me alive!”

Far away in Putivl, on the visor,
Only the dawn will break in the morning,
Yaroslavna, full of sadness,
Like a cuckoo calling to the Yura:

"The sun is three times bright! With you
Everyone is welcome and warm.
Why are you a brave army of the prince?
Did you burn with hot rays?
And why are you waterless in the desert?
Under the attack of the formidable Polovtsians
Thirst has drawn down the marching bow,

These are poems by Taras Shevchenko
and this is Vadim Konstantinov
although there is probably no exact translation yet
She didn’t cry, and there is a version that she didn’t fly like a cuckoo, but like lightning, there’s a difference of 1 letter
.Over the Danube in the early morning Yaroslavna’s voice is heard,
-cries like a wild cuckoo, breathes like a gentle turtledove..."
I'll fly like a fast cuckoo to the Kayal River
and in it I will soak the beaver sleeve near the willow tree, near the stones...
.and in the morning I will give them wounds to the prince... His terrible wounds...
they will grow on my body from my breath!..."
Yaroslavna weeps bitterly in the town of Putivl, lamenting:
“Wind, well, are you blowing evilly, weakening the forces of the warriors?...
and why do you fly the enemy’s arrows on light wings,
are you in them?...was it not enough that you walked among the abyss of gray-haired mountains under the clouds?...
Haven't you played with the sails of ships at sea?...
Well, did I throw my fun among the tall feather grasses?..
"Yaroslavna weeps bitterly in the city of Putivl, lamenting:
“Dnieper Slavutich! How mighty are you, breaking through the depths of stone!...
My lord, I know, you remember, Svyatoslav’s boats...
as if cherishing, he drove them further, to Kobyakova land...
Turn me back, I’ll be fine again, so that I don’t send tears to the sea like swift messengers, in the hour of uncryed growth!”...
Yaroslavna weeps bitterly in the city of Putivl, wailing: “Oh, bright one, you, the Sun, you are my holy sadness
!everyone is warm and peaceful with you...but tell me, why are the rays that you send to the warriors so immensely hot?
and why in a waterless field, you dry onions with thirst,
and you close the quivers with your fiery gaze!?...
"06.1984.

Old Russian text:

A voice is heard on the Danube of Yaroslavl,
zegzice is unknown, it’s too early to say:
“I’ll fly - speech - along the Dunaevi,
I’ll wash the bebryan sleeve in Kayala River,
In the morning the prince will see his bloody wounds

on his body."
Yaroslavna cries early
in Putivl on the visor, arcuchi:
"Oh, the wind, sail!
What, sir, are you forcing?
Why are Khinov’s arrows mucheshi

on his easy way

in my opinion, howl?

You never know how grief blows into the clouds,

cherishing ships on the blue sea?

Why, sir, is my joy

scattering along the feather grass?
Yaroslavna is too early to cry

I’m putting the city on the fence, Arkuchi:

"About the Dnieper Slovutitsyu!
You have broken through stone mountains

through the Polovtsian land.

You cherished Svyatoslavl nosads on yourself

to Kobyakov's call.

Cherish, sir, my kindness towards me,
I wish I hadn’t sent tears to him

It's early at sea."
Yaroslavna cries early

in Putivl on the visor, arcuchi:

"Bright and bright sun!
You are warm and red to everyone:
to which, sir, shine your ardent rays

Are you okay?

In a waterless field I long for harnessed rays,

Shall they wear it tightly?"

In modern Russian (mine)

“I’ll fly,” he crows, “I’ll fly along the Danube in the distance,
there is a silk sleeve in Kayal,
In the morning I will give blood to the prince, I will wash away the evil wounds
on his sore body after the battle."

Yaroslavna speaks in Putivl
on the visor in the early gray haze:
"0 sail, light-winged wind!
Why are you blowing with all your might?
Why are you rushing Khin's arrows?
on the brave ratai of my Lada?
Isn’t it enough for you to blow clouds in the mountains,
Cherish ships in the blue sea?
Why, mighty one, do you need
destroy my joy in the feather grass?

In the city of Putivl the distance is dawning,
Yaroslavna cries on her visor:
"0 Slavutich-Dnieper, a river like the sea!
You made your way to the Polovtsians through the mountains,
carried, cherishing, the plantings of Svyatoslav
trample Kobyak's horde to glory.
Lie my Lada to me, wash away the grief,
I won’t send him tears to the sea at dawn.”

Yaroslavna is crying and twisting
on the wall of Putivl early in the morning:
"The sun is bright, shining brightly!
You gave red warmth to everyone.
Now what only the Polovtsians caressed,
and did Lada’s military fire rays of heat?
Their bows were bent by thirst in the waterless field,
The heat has tightened their quivers to grief?

In Little Russian T. Shevchenko:

It’s early in Putivli-grad
Yaroslavna is sleeping, crying,
How does that Zozulenka cook,
I add in words, I’m sorry.
“I’ll fly,” it seems, “in a zigzag pattern,
That widow seagull,
Then I’ll fly over the Don,
I will wet the beaver sleeve
In ritsi Kayali. I on the body,
On the princely white, darkened,
Oh my blood is dry, I'll wipe it off
Deep, serious wounds..."

I quit, cry Yaroslavna
In Putivl it’s early on the rampart:
“My united wind has blown,
Lightweight, sir!
Nascho na duzhomu krill
For all my love,
To the prince, okay my dear,
Do you khans throw arrows?
There is a lot of sky and earth,
I sea of ​​blue. At sea
Go and plant the ships.
And you, prelutius... Woe! Woe!
Stealing my fun
In the steppe on Tirsi rozіbgav.”

Sumuye, quit, cry early
In Putivli-grad Yaroslavna.
And it seems: “Strong and old,
Wide Dnieper, not small!
Having broken through these high rocks,
The Polovtsians flow into the land,
Carrying on kayaks
To Polovchans, to Kobyak
This squad Svyatoslavl!..
O my glorious Slovutitsa!
Bring my goodness,
May I send a cheerful post,
The sea did not shed tears,—
You can’t fill the sea with tears.”

I cry, cry Yaroslavna
In Putivl on the rampart on the gate,
Holy sunshine has come.
And it says: “The Most Holy Sun
Brought joy to the earth
And people, and land, my
The tug-nudga did not bloom.
Holy, fiery sir!
Having burned the meadows, steppes,
Having burned both the prince and the squad,
Slept on my own!
Otherwise, don’t be dark and don’t shine.
Having lost my hand... I will die!”

June 4, SP6