Would it not befit us, my brethren,
To begin, in age-old words, The woeful tale Of the warfare waged by Igor,
Igor, son of Svyatoslav?
This lay shall begin After the deeds of this time,
Not after the fancies of Boyan*. * (Legendary bard at Yaroslav's court)
The Lay of the Warfare Waged by Igor* (based on the eponymous 12th century epic) * (Prince of Novgorod-Seversk, 1151-1201/2)
O you, offspring of Yaroslav, And you, grandsons of Vseslav!
Lower your banners, and sheathe Your blunted swords!
Far, far have you fled From your forefathers' fame!
For your brawls have brought the pagans Into the Russian land,
Into Vseslav's realm!
For your feuds have brought violence From the Polovets land!
Let us then, my brethren, Begin this tale
From Vladimir of old, To Igor, of our own days,
Who girded up his wisdom With his might,
And whetted his heart With valour,
And, moved by the spirit of warfare,
Led his valiant host Into the land of the Polovtsi (Turkic nomads) For the cause of the Russian land.
The princes warred no more Against the pagans,
For brother spoke to brother, Saying, "this is mine, And that, too, is mine!"
And the princes began To call small things great,
To forge feuds Among themselves.
And from all sides the pagans Invaded in triumph The Russian land.
Igor awaits his dear brother Vsevolod.
And then said Vsevolod, the furious bull:
"One brother have I, one bright light- You, o Igor!
We two are sons of Svyatoslav!
Saddle, my brother, your fleet-footed steeds: Mine stand ready, saddled beforehand at Kursk!
My men of Kursk are all tried warriors, Born to the blare of bugles,
Rocked beneath helmets, Nurtured at the point of the spear!
The paths are known to them. The gullies are known to them. Their bows are taut, The quivers open, their swords whetted,
They scour the field Like hoary grey wolves,
For themselves seeking honour, And for their prince - glory!"
Then sprang Prince Igor to his golden stirrup and rode forth over the open plain.
Then Igor gazed up At the bright sun
And he saw a shadow from it Overcasting all his host.
And then said Igor To his men-at-arms:
"O brethren and warriors! Better be slain Than taken captive!
Let us mount, my brethren, Our fleet-footed steeds,
And let us behold The blue Don!"
"I will," said he, "Break my spear to splinters At the far end of the Polovets plains
With you, o Russians! I will either lay low my head,
Or drink a helmetful Of Don water!"
The sun then crossed His path with darkness.
Night awakened the birds With its stormy moaning,
The whistling of marmots arose.
The Div has started up, He calls from the tree-top,
Bidding strange lands hearken - The Volga, and the coastlands,
And the banks of the Sula, And Surozh and Korsun, And you, Idol of Tmutorokan!
And the Polovtsi sped By untrodden trails Towards the great Don.
Their wains screamed at midnight Like suddenly startled swans -
Igor leads his host to the Don!
And now the birds in the oaks Gloat over his misfortune to come.
The wolves howl in the gullies Raising a storm,
The eagles call the beasts To glut upon bones,
The foxes bark At the scarlet shields.
Oleg's brave brood Slumbers on the battlefield.
Far, far has it flown! It was not born to be worsted...
...by the falcon, nor by the gerfalcon, Nor by you, o black raven, Pagan Polovets!
Long lingers the night; The glow of sunset has waned.
The mists enshroud the plains
The warbling of the nightingale Has died away.
The chattering of daws Has arisen.
The Russians have barred The boundless plains With their scarlet shields,
For themselves seeking honour, And for their prince - glory.
Full early on the morrow
A blood-red dawn foretells the day.
Black clouds come up from the sea, Striving to overcast the four suns.
Blue lightning quivers within them, Mighty thunder shall be heard,
A rain of arrows shall rain From beyond the great Don.
Spears shall be shattered there,
Swords shall be blunted there, On Polovets helmets,
On the Kayala river, By the great Don!
O Russian land! Far are you now beyond the hills!
From morning till evening, From twilight till dawn
Steel-tipped arrows fly, Swords clang upon helmets,
Steel spears are shattered In that strange field In the heart of the Polovets land.
The black earth Under the hoofs Was sown with bones,
Watered with blood
One day they fought, And another,
And on the third, At midday, The banners of Igor fell!
That's where the two brothers parted, On the banks of the swift Kayala.
Of gory wine they had scarce enough.
There the brave Russians ended their feast.
They made their kinsmen drunken, And were laid low themselves For the Russian land.
Then, my brethren, An evil time set in:
The wilderness had engulfed our host.
Sorrow arose Among the offspring of Dazhbog*. * (East Slavic Sun & fertility God)
Maiden-like, she paced Through Troyan's land;
Waving her swan-like wings Over the blue sea, by the Don,
She drove away The days of plenty.
Then Kiev, my brethren, Moaned in sorrow, And Chernigov moaned beneath these disasters.
Woe overflowed The land of Russia,
Deep sorrow flooded The Russian land.
On the Danube Yaroslavna's voice is heard.
Like a lone cuckoo She cries aloud In the early morn:
"I shall fly," says she, "Down the Danube Like a lone cuckoo.
I shall moisten my beaver sleeve In the Kayala river;
I shall stanch My prince's gory wounds On his mighty body."
Yaroslavna weeps in the early morn On the walls of Putivl, wailing:
"Wind, o wind! Why blow, my lord, Such a stormy blast?
Why do you bring On your wings so light
Pagans' arrows down On my lover's host?
Were you not sated with blowing High up under the clouds,
And with rocking ships Upon the blue sea?
Why have you scattered My joy, o my lord, Over the feather-grass?"
Yaroslavna weeps in the early morn On the walls of Putivl, wailing:
"O Dnieper, o Slovutich!
You have bored your way Through mountains of rock In the Polovets land.
You have rocked the galleys Of Svyatoslav Down to Kobiak's camp.
Waft my dear lover Back to me, my lord,
That I send not my tears to him Down to the sea, at dawning!"
Yaroslavna weeps in the early morn On the walls of Putivl, wailing:
"O bright sun, Thrice-bright sun!
You are warm and fair To one and all!
Why have you cast, my lord, Your burning rays On my lover's warriors?
In the waterless waste Thirst withered up their bows,
Weariness sealed Their quivers tight!"
There Prince Igor exchanged His golden saddle For that of a captive.
And the great Svyatoslav
Let fall from his lips A word of gold Mingled with tears.
Said he,
O great Prince Vsevolod! Is it not in your thoughts To come flying from far off
To guard your father's golden throne?
For you are able To splash away the Volga With your oars,
To scoop up the Don With your warriors' helmets.
For you can send flying Over dry land
Your living lances, The valiant sons of Gleb!
O you furious Rurik, And you, o David!
O lords, step into Your golden stirrups, Avenge the wrong of these days,
Stand up for the Russian land, Avenge the wounds of Igor, Svyatoslav's bold son!
O Osmomysl-Yaroslav of Galich*! * (Halych)
You are seated high On your throne of gold,
Pressing back the Hungarian hills With your iron hosts,
Shoot, o lord, at Konchak, The pagan slave, Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor, Svyatoslav's bold son!
And you, furious Roman, You too, o Mstislav!
Bold thoughts Turn your minds To deeds of valour.
The Don calls you, o prince, It calls the princes to victory!
And the offspring of Oleg, Those fearless princes, Flew to the fray!
O Ingvar and Vsevolod, And you, three sons of Mstislav,
Bar the gates to the plains With your keen arrows, Stand up for the Russian land,
Avenge the wounds of Igor, Svyatoslav's bold son!
The glow of sunset has waned. Igor sleeps,
Igor wakes, In his thoughts, Igor measures the plains
From the great Don To the lesser Donets.
The swell rolls high On the sea at midnight. Pillars of mist arise.
To Prince Igor
God showeth the way From the Polovets land, To the Russian land,
To his father's golden throne.
Prince Igor raced down To the reeds like an ermine,
Like a white drake He cast himself on the waters.
He leapt onto his fleet-footed steed, He sprang down like a grey wolf,
The sun lights up the heavens -
Prince Igor is in the Russian land!
The maidens sing on the Danube, Their voices fly far Across the sea to Kiev.
Igor rides up Borichev To the Holy Mother of Pirogoshch.
The hamlets rejoice, The towns are merry
Glory to the princes And to their men-at-arms!
Amen!
screenwriters Yuriy Novikov, Boris Kryzhanovskiy
director Nina Vasilenko art director Eduard Kirich
consultants D. Lihachyov, S. Kiliyevich
composer Vladimir Guba narrator Konstantin Stepankov
animators Konstantin Chikin, Adolf Pedan, Aleksandr Viken, M. Bondar, Nina Churilova, E. Peretyatko, Ram Pruzhansky,
Ye. Pruzhanskiy, S. Berezovskaya, V. Yemelyanova, V. Bayev
artists N. York, Galina Babenko, G. Varkach, B. Sablikov, A. Nazarenko, S. Teslenko, V. Dyman, O. Kasyanenko
assistants T. Shchvets, A. Tishchenko, T. Cherni, O. Deryazhnaya
camera S. Nikiforov sound I. Moyzhes
script editor Svetlana Kutsenko production director Ivan Mazepa
Artistic Association for Fictive Animation of the Kiev Studio of Popular Science Films, 1972
The End Translation by Irina Petrova (1981), subs by Chapaev, Eus & Niffiwan (2018-2022)