Naimechka or The Servant

[Contents]Naimechka or The ServantNaimechka or The ServantPrologue.On a Sunday, very early,When fields were clad with mistA woman’s form was bending’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.Something to her heart she pressed,In accents low the clouds addressed.“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,Pity this ragged luck of mine.Hide me here in grassy meadows,Bury me beneath thy shadows.Why must I ’mid sorrows stray?Pray take them with my life away.In gloomy death would be relief,Where none might know or see my grief.Yet not alone my life was spent,A father and mother my sin lament.Nor yet alone is my course to runFor in my arms is my little son.Shall I, then, give to him christian name,To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame?[40]This, brother mist, I shall not do.I alone my fault must rue.Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten.Thy very name I may not knowAs on through life I lonely go.I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.Yet curse me not,for evils past.My prayers to heavenshall reach at last.The skies aboveto my tears shall bend,Another fortune to thee I’ll send.”Through the fields she sobbing went.The gentle mistits shelter lent.Her tears were fallingthe path along,As she softly sangthe widows song:“Oh, in the field there is a graveWhere the shining grasses wave;There the widow walked apart,Bitter sorrow in her heart.Poison herbs in vain she sought,Whereby evil spells are wrought.Two little sonsin arms she bore[41]Wrapped around indress she wore;Her children to the river carried,In converse with the water tarried;‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,I my sons to thee deliver,Thou’lt swaddle themand wrap them,Thy little waveswill lap them,Thy yellow sandswill cherish them,Thy flowing watersnourish them.’[42]I.All by themselves livedan old couple fondIn a nice little grovejust by a millpond.Like birds of a featherJust always together,From childhood the two of themfed sheep together,Got married, got wealthy,got houses and lands,Got a beautiful gardenjust where the mill stands,An apiary fullofbeehiveslike boulders.Yet no children were theirs,and death at their shoulders.Who will cheer their passing years?Who will soothe their mortal fears?Who will guard their gathered treasure.In loyal service find his pleasure?Who will be their faithful sonWhen low their sands of life do run?Hard it is a child to rear,In roofless house ’mid want and fear.Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,When death creeps on with crafty stealth,And one’s treasures goodAt end of life’s wandering,Are for strangers rudeFor mocking and squandering.[44]Rustic house with pond in front.[43]II.One fine Sunday,in the bright sunlight,All dressed upin blouses white,The old folks saton the bench by the door;No cloud in sky,What could they ask more?All peace and loveit seemed like Eden.Yet angels abovetheir hearts might read in,A hidden sorrow,a gloomy moodLike lurking beastin darksome wood.In such a heavenOh, do you seeWhatever couldthe trouble be?I wonder nowwhat ancient sorrowSuddenly spranginto their morrow.Was it quarrelof yesterdayChoked off, thenrevived today,Or yet some newly sprouted ireArisen to set their heaven on fire?[45]Perchance they’re called to go to God,Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.Then who for them on that far wayHorses and chariot shall array?“Anastasia, wife of mine,Soon will come our fatal day,Who will lay our bones away?”“God only knows.With me always was that thoughtWhich gloom into my heart has brought.Together in years and failing health,For what have we gatheredall this wealth?”“Hold a minute,Hearest thou? Something criesBeyond the gate—’tis like a child.Let’s run! See’st ought?I thought something was there.”Together they sprangAnd to the gate running;Then stopped in silence wondering.Before the stilea swaddled child,Not bound tightly,just wrapped lightly,For it wasin summer mild,[46]And the motherwith fond caressHad covered itwith her own last dress.In wondering prayerstood our fond old pair.The little thingjust seemed to plead.In little armsstretched out you’ld readIts prayer,—in silence all.No crying—just a little breath its call.“See, ’Stasia!What did I tell thee?Here is fortune and fate for us;No longer dwell we in loneliness.Take itand dress it.Look at it!Bless it!Quick, bear it inside,To the village I’ll ride.Its ours to baptize,God-parents we need for our prize.”In this worldthings strangely run.There’s a fellowthat curses his son,Chases him away from home,Into lonely lands to roam,[47]While other poor creatures,With sorrowful features,With sweat of their toilingMust much money earn;The wage of their moilingCandles to burn.Prayers to repeat,The saints to entreat;For children are none.This world is no funThe way things run.Tree and leaves.[48]III.Their joys do now such numbers reachGod fathers and mothers’Mid lots of othersBehold they have gatheredThree pairs of each.At even they christen him,And Mark is the name of him.So Mark grows,And so it goes.For the dear old folk it is no joke,For they don’t know where to go,Where to set him, when to pet him.But the year goes and still Mark grows.Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,Just as he were a good milk-cow.And now a woman young and bright,With eyebrows dark and skin so white,Comes into this blessed place,For servant’s task she asks with grace.“What, what—say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”“We’ll take her, Trophimus.We are old and little wearies us;[49]He’s almost grown within a year,But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”“Truly he’ll need care,And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.My knees are failing, so nowYou poor thing, tell us your wage,It is by the year or how?”“What ever you like to give.”“No, no, it’s needful to know,It’s needful, my daughter,to count one’s wage.This you must learn, count what you earn.This is the proverb—Who counts not his moneyHasn’t got any.But, child, how will this do?You don’t know us,We don’t know you.You’ll stay with us a few days,Get acquainted with our ways;We’ll see you day by day,Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.Is it so, daughter?”“Very good, uncle.”“We invite you into the house.”And so they to agreement came.The young woman seemed always the same,[50]Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lordWho’d buy up villages just at her word.She in the house and out doth workFrom morning light to evening’s mirk.And yet the child is her special care;Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother missesTo give its bath and its white dresses.She plays and sings, makeswagonsand things,And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.Wondering, the old folks gaze,But to God they give the praise.So the servant never rests,But the night her spirit tests.In her chamber then, I ween,Many a tear she sheds unseen.Yet none knows nor sees it allBut the little Mark so small.Nor knows he why in hours of nightHis tossings break her slumbers light.So from her couch she quickly leaps,The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.With sign of cross the child she blesses,Her gentle care her love confesses.[51]Each morning Mark spreads out his handsTo the Servant as she stands;Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.Only to grow is his affair.Gate flanked by two small towers.[52]IV.Meantime many a year has rolled,Many waters to the sea have flowed,Trouble to the home has come,Many a tear down the cheek has run.Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.The cursed trouble roared so loud,And then it went to sleep, I trow.From the dark woods where she frightened layPeace came back in the home to stay.The little Mark is farmer now.With ox-teams great in the fall must goTo far Crimea to barter thereSkins for salt and goods more rare.The Servant and Trophimusin counsel wisePlans for his marriagenow devise.Dared she her thoughts utterFor the Czar’s daughterShe’d send in a trice.But the most she could sayWhile thinking this wayWas, “Ask Mark’s advice.”“My daughter, we’ll ask him,And then we’ll affiance him.”[53]So they gave him sage advice,And they made decision nice.Soon his grave friends about him stand.He sends them to woo, a stately band.Back they come with towels on shoulderEre the day is many hours older.The sacred bread they have exchanged,The bargain now is all arranged.They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,A princess true, you well may guess.Such a queen is in this affianceAs with a general might make alliance.“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,And now let’s have no more delays.When the marriage, where the priest,What about the wedding feast?Who shall take the mother’s place?How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”The tears along his cheeks do fall,Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.Hastily rushing from the room,In chamber near she falls in swoon.The house is silent, the light is dim,The sorrowing Servant thinks of himAnd whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”Cither[54]V.All the week at the wedding cakeYoung women in crowds both mix and bake.The old man is in wondrous glee,With all the young women dances he.At sweeping the yardHe labors hard.All passers-by on foot and horsebackHe hales to the court where is no lackOf good home-brew.All comers he asks to the marriageAnd yet ’tis trueHe runs around soYou’d not guess from his carriageThough his joy is such a wonderful gift,His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.Everywhere is disorder and laughterWithin the house and in the yard.From store-room keg upon keg follows after,Workers’ voices everywhere heard.They bake, they boil,At sweeping toil,Tables and floors they wash them all.And where is the Servantwho cares not for wage?To Kiev she is goneon pilgrimage.[55]Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,Mark almost wept for her to stay,As mother sit, to see him wed.Her call of duty elsewhere lay.“No, Mark, such honor must I not takeTo sit while you your homage makeTo parents dear.My mind is clear.A servant must not thy mother beLest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.But yet again shall I returnUnto your house, if you do not spurnMy strength and toil.”With pure heartshe blessed her MarkAnd weeping, passedbeyond the gate.Then the wedding blossomed out;Work for musicians and the joyous routOf dancing feet;While mead so sweetOf fermented honey with spices dashedOver the benches and tables splashed,Meanwhile the Servant limps alongHastening on the weary road to Kiev.To the city come, she does not rest,[56]Hires to a woman of the town;For wages carries water.You see she money, money needsFor prayers to Holy Barbara.She water carries, never tarries,And mighty store of pennies saves,Then in the Lavra’s awesome cavesShe seeks the blessed wealth she craves.From St. John she buys a magic cap,For Mark she bears it;And when he wears it,For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,To her new daughter back to bring.’Fore all the saintsshe makes prostrations,Then home returnshaving paid her oblations.She has come back.Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,Far beyond the gate they greet her,Then into the house they bring her,Draw her to the table thereQuickly spread with choicest fare.Her news of Kiev they now request,While Kate arranges her couch for rest.[57]“Why do they love me,Why this respect?Dear God above me,Do they suspect?Nay, that’s not so,’Tis just goodness, I know.”And still the Servant her secret kept,Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.Three men with large rakes.[58]VI.Three times have the waters frozenThrice thawed at the touch of springThree times did the ServantFrom Kiev her store of blessings bring.And each time gentle Katherine,As daughter, set her on her way,A fourth time led her by the moundsWhere many dear departed lay.Then prayed to God for her safe return,For whom in absence her heart would yearn.It was the Sunday of the Virgin,Old Trophimus sat in garments white,On the bench, in wide straw hat,All amid the sunshine bright.Before him with a little dogHis frolicsome grandson played,The while his little granddaughterWas in her mother’s garb arrayed.Smiling he welcomed her as matron;For so at “visitors” they played.“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?Did somebody steal it in the wood,Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”For so they talked in lightsome mood.[59]But see,—Who comes?’Tis their Anna at the door!Run old and young! Who’ll come before?But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”“He’s off on journey long enough,”Says the old man in accents gruff.With pain the Servant sadly saith,“Home have I come with failing breath;Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.May I but live my Mark to see,For something grievously weighs on me.”From little bag the children’s giftsShe takes. There’s crosses and amulets.For Irene is of beads a string,And pictures too, and for KarponA nightingale to sweetly sing,Toy horses and a wagon.A fourth time she brings a ringFrom St. Barbara to Katherine.Next the old man’s gift she handles,It’s just three holy waxen candles.For Mark and herselfshe nothing brought;For want of moneyshe nothing bought.[60]For want of strengthmore funds to earn,Half a bun was her wealthon her return.As to how to divide itLet the babes decide it.Children playing.[61]VII.She enters now the house so sweet,And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.Then sets her down to dine in state,But my Anna nor drank nor ate.“Katherine!When is our Sunday?”“After tomorrow’s the day.”“Prayers for the dead soon will we needSuch as St. Nicholas may heed.Then we must an offering pay,For Mark tarries on the way.Perchance somewhere,from our vision hid,Sickness has ta’en himwhich God forbid.”The tears dropped downfrom the sad old eyes,So wearily did shefrom the table rise.“Katherine,My race is run,All my earthly tasks are done.My powers no longer I commandNor on my feet have strength to stand.And yet, my Kate, how can I dieWhile in this dear warm home I lie?”[62]The sickness harder grows amain,For her the sacred host’s appointed,She’s been with holy oils anointed,Yet nought relieves her pain.Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ringMoving like a stricken thing.Katherine, for the suff’rers sakeDoth never rest for her eyelids take.And even the owls upon the roofOf coming evil tell the proof.The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,Whispers the question, with waning power“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?So struggle I with doubt and fear,Did I but know I’d see him for sureThrough all my pain I might endure.”Cossacks dancing in village.[63]VIII.Now Mark comes on with the caravanSinging blithely as he can.To the inns he makes no speed,Quietly lets the oxen feed.Mark brings home for KatherinePrecious cloth of substance rich;For father dear, a girdle sewnOf silk so red.For Servant Annea gold cloth bonnetTo deck her head,And kerchief, toowith white lace on it.For the children are shoeswith figs and grapes.There’s gifts for all,there’s none escapes.For all he bringsred wine, so fine,From great old cityof Constantine.There’s buckets threein each barrel put on.And caviarfrom the river Don.Such gifts he hasin his wagon there,Nor knows the sorrowhis loved ones bear.[64]On comes Mark,knows not of worry;But he’s comeGive God the glory!The gate he opens,Praising God.“Hear’st thou, Katherine?Run to meet him!Already he’s come,Haste to greet him!Quickly bring him in to me.Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,All the strength has come from Thee.”And she “Our Father” softly saidJust as if in dream she read.The old man the team unyokes,Lays away the carven yokes.Kate at her husband strangely looks.“Where’s Anna, Katherine?I’ve been careless!She’s not dead?”“No, not dead,But very sick and calls for thee.”On the threshold Mark appears,Standing there as torn by fears.But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.[65]Go forth, Katherine,though I love you well,I’ve something to ask him,something to tell.”From the placefair Katherine went;While Mark his heado’er the Servant bent.“Mark, look at me,Look at me well!A secret now I have to tell.On this faded formset no longer store,No servant, I, nor Anna more,I am——”Came silence dumb,Nor yet guessed MarkWhat was to come.Yet once again her eyelids raisedInto his eyes she deeply gazed’Mid gathering tears.“I from thee forgiveness pray;I’ve penance offered day by dayAll my life to serve another.Forgive me, son, of me,For I—am thy mother.”[66]She ceased to speak.A sudden faintnessMark did take:It seemed the earthitself did shake.He roused—and to his mother crept,But the motherforever slept.Person kneeling in near bullock cart.[67]

Naimechka or The ServantNaimechka or The ServantPrologue.On a Sunday, very early,When fields were clad with mistA woman’s form was bending’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.Something to her heart she pressed,In accents low the clouds addressed.“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,Pity this ragged luck of mine.Hide me here in grassy meadows,Bury me beneath thy shadows.Why must I ’mid sorrows stray?Pray take them with my life away.In gloomy death would be relief,Where none might know or see my grief.Yet not alone my life was spent,A father and mother my sin lament.Nor yet alone is my course to runFor in my arms is my little son.Shall I, then, give to him christian name,To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame?[40]This, brother mist, I shall not do.I alone my fault must rue.Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten.Thy very name I may not knowAs on through life I lonely go.I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.Yet curse me not,for evils past.My prayers to heavenshall reach at last.The skies aboveto my tears shall bend,Another fortune to thee I’ll send.”Through the fields she sobbing went.The gentle mistits shelter lent.Her tears were fallingthe path along,As she softly sangthe widows song:“Oh, in the field there is a graveWhere the shining grasses wave;There the widow walked apart,Bitter sorrow in her heart.Poison herbs in vain she sought,Whereby evil spells are wrought.Two little sonsin arms she bore[41]Wrapped around indress she wore;Her children to the river carried,In converse with the water tarried;‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,I my sons to thee deliver,Thou’lt swaddle themand wrap them,Thy little waveswill lap them,Thy yellow sandswill cherish them,Thy flowing watersnourish them.’

Prologue.On a Sunday, very early,When fields were clad with mistA woman’s form was bending’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.Something to her heart she pressed,In accents low the clouds addressed.“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,Pity this ragged luck of mine.Hide me here in grassy meadows,Bury me beneath thy shadows.Why must I ’mid sorrows stray?Pray take them with my life away.In gloomy death would be relief,Where none might know or see my grief.Yet not alone my life was spent,A father and mother my sin lament.Nor yet alone is my course to runFor in my arms is my little son.Shall I, then, give to him christian name,To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame?[40]This, brother mist, I shall not do.I alone my fault must rue.Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten.Thy very name I may not knowAs on through life I lonely go.I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.Yet curse me not,for evils past.My prayers to heavenshall reach at last.The skies aboveto my tears shall bend,Another fortune to thee I’ll send.”Through the fields she sobbing went.The gentle mistits shelter lent.Her tears were fallingthe path along,As she softly sangthe widows song:“Oh, in the field there is a graveWhere the shining grasses wave;There the widow walked apart,Bitter sorrow in her heart.Poison herbs in vain she sought,Whereby evil spells are wrought.Two little sonsin arms she bore[41]Wrapped around indress she wore;Her children to the river carried,In converse with the water tarried;‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,I my sons to thee deliver,Thou’lt swaddle themand wrap them,Thy little waveswill lap them,Thy yellow sandswill cherish them,Thy flowing watersnourish them.’

On a Sunday, very early,When fields were clad with mistA woman’s form was bending’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.Something to her heart she pressed,In accents low the clouds addressed.

On a Sunday, very early,

When fields were clad with mist

A woman’s form was bending

’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.

Something to her heart she pressed,

In accents low the clouds addressed.

“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,Pity this ragged luck of mine.Hide me here in grassy meadows,Bury me beneath thy shadows.Why must I ’mid sorrows stray?Pray take them with my life away.In gloomy death would be relief,Where none might know or see my grief.Yet not alone my life was spent,A father and mother my sin lament.Nor yet alone is my course to runFor in my arms is my little son.Shall I, then, give to him christian name,To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame?[40]This, brother mist, I shall not do.I alone my fault must rue.Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten.Thy very name I may not knowAs on through life I lonely go.I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.Yet curse me not,for evils past.My prayers to heavenshall reach at last.The skies aboveto my tears shall bend,Another fortune to thee I’ll send.”Through the fields she sobbing went.The gentle mistits shelter lent.Her tears were fallingthe path along,As she softly sangthe widows song:

“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,

Pity this ragged luck of mine.

Hide me here in grassy meadows,

Bury me beneath thy shadows.

Why must I ’mid sorrows stray?

Pray take them with my life away.

In gloomy death would be relief,

Where none might know or see my grief.

Yet not alone my life was spent,

A father and mother my sin lament.

Nor yet alone is my course to run

For in my arms is my little son.

Shall I, then, give to him christian name,

To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame?[40]

This, brother mist, I shall not do.

I alone my fault must rue.

Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,

Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten.

Thy very name I may not know

As on through life I lonely go.

I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,

With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.

Yet curse me not,

for evils past.

My prayers to heaven

shall reach at last.

The skies above

to my tears shall bend,

Another fortune to thee I’ll send.”

Through the fields she sobbing went.

The gentle mist

its shelter lent.

Her tears were falling

the path along,

As she softly sang

the widows song:

“Oh, in the field there is a graveWhere the shining grasses wave;There the widow walked apart,Bitter sorrow in her heart.Poison herbs in vain she sought,Whereby evil spells are wrought.Two little sonsin arms she bore[41]Wrapped around indress she wore;Her children to the river carried,In converse with the water tarried;‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,I my sons to thee deliver,Thou’lt swaddle themand wrap them,Thy little waveswill lap them,Thy yellow sandswill cherish them,Thy flowing watersnourish them.’

“Oh, in the field there is a grave

Where the shining grasses wave;

There the widow walked apart,

Bitter sorrow in her heart.

Poison herbs in vain she sought,

Whereby evil spells are wrought.

Two little sons

in arms she bore[41]

Wrapped around in

dress she wore;

Her children to the river carried,

In converse with the water tarried;

‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,

I my sons to thee deliver,

Thou’lt swaddle them

and wrap them,

Thy little waves

will lap them,

Thy yellow sands

will cherish them,

Thy flowing waters

nourish them.’

[42]I.All by themselves livedan old couple fondIn a nice little grovejust by a millpond.Like birds of a featherJust always together,From childhood the two of themfed sheep together,Got married, got wealthy,got houses and lands,Got a beautiful gardenjust where the mill stands,An apiary fullofbeehiveslike boulders.Yet no children were theirs,and death at their shoulders.Who will cheer their passing years?Who will soothe their mortal fears?Who will guard their gathered treasure.In loyal service find his pleasure?Who will be their faithful sonWhen low their sands of life do run?Hard it is a child to rear,In roofless house ’mid want and fear.Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,When death creeps on with crafty stealth,And one’s treasures goodAt end of life’s wandering,Are for strangers rudeFor mocking and squandering.[44]Rustic house with pond in front.[43]II.One fine Sunday,in the bright sunlight,All dressed upin blouses white,The old folks saton the bench by the door;No cloud in sky,What could they ask more?All peace and loveit seemed like Eden.Yet angels abovetheir hearts might read in,A hidden sorrow,a gloomy moodLike lurking beastin darksome wood.In such a heavenOh, do you seeWhatever couldthe trouble be?I wonder nowwhat ancient sorrowSuddenly spranginto their morrow.Was it quarrelof yesterdayChoked off, thenrevived today,Or yet some newly sprouted ireArisen to set their heaven on fire?[45]Perchance they’re called to go to God,Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.Then who for them on that far wayHorses and chariot shall array?“Anastasia, wife of mine,Soon will come our fatal day,Who will lay our bones away?”“God only knows.With me always was that thoughtWhich gloom into my heart has brought.Together in years and failing health,For what have we gatheredall this wealth?”“Hold a minute,Hearest thou? Something criesBeyond the gate—’tis like a child.Let’s run! See’st ought?I thought something was there.”Together they sprangAnd to the gate running;Then stopped in silence wondering.Before the stilea swaddled child,Not bound tightly,just wrapped lightly,For it wasin summer mild,[46]And the motherwith fond caressHad covered itwith her own last dress.In wondering prayerstood our fond old pair.The little thingjust seemed to plead.In little armsstretched out you’ld readIts prayer,—in silence all.No crying—just a little breath its call.“See, ’Stasia!What did I tell thee?Here is fortune and fate for us;No longer dwell we in loneliness.Take itand dress it.Look at it!Bless it!Quick, bear it inside,To the village I’ll ride.Its ours to baptize,God-parents we need for our prize.”In this worldthings strangely run.There’s a fellowthat curses his son,Chases him away from home,Into lonely lands to roam,[47]While other poor creatures,With sorrowful features,With sweat of their toilingMust much money earn;The wage of their moilingCandles to burn.Prayers to repeat,The saints to entreat;For children are none.This world is no funThe way things run.Tree and leaves.[48]III.Their joys do now such numbers reachGod fathers and mothers’Mid lots of othersBehold they have gatheredThree pairs of each.At even they christen him,And Mark is the name of him.So Mark grows,And so it goes.For the dear old folk it is no joke,For they don’t know where to go,Where to set him, when to pet him.But the year goes and still Mark grows.Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,Just as he were a good milk-cow.And now a woman young and bright,With eyebrows dark and skin so white,Comes into this blessed place,For servant’s task she asks with grace.“What, what—say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”“We’ll take her, Trophimus.We are old and little wearies us;[49]He’s almost grown within a year,But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”“Truly he’ll need care,And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.My knees are failing, so nowYou poor thing, tell us your wage,It is by the year or how?”“What ever you like to give.”“No, no, it’s needful to know,It’s needful, my daughter,to count one’s wage.This you must learn, count what you earn.This is the proverb—Who counts not his moneyHasn’t got any.But, child, how will this do?You don’t know us,We don’t know you.You’ll stay with us a few days,Get acquainted with our ways;We’ll see you day by day,Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.Is it so, daughter?”“Very good, uncle.”“We invite you into the house.”And so they to agreement came.The young woman seemed always the same,[50]Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lordWho’d buy up villages just at her word.She in the house and out doth workFrom morning light to evening’s mirk.And yet the child is her special care;Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother missesTo give its bath and its white dresses.She plays and sings, makeswagonsand things,And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.Wondering, the old folks gaze,But to God they give the praise.So the servant never rests,But the night her spirit tests.In her chamber then, I ween,Many a tear she sheds unseen.Yet none knows nor sees it allBut the little Mark so small.Nor knows he why in hours of nightHis tossings break her slumbers light.So from her couch she quickly leaps,The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.With sign of cross the child she blesses,Her gentle care her love confesses.[51]Each morning Mark spreads out his handsTo the Servant as she stands;Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.Only to grow is his affair.Gate flanked by two small towers.[52]IV.Meantime many a year has rolled,Many waters to the sea have flowed,Trouble to the home has come,Many a tear down the cheek has run.Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.The cursed trouble roared so loud,And then it went to sleep, I trow.From the dark woods where she frightened layPeace came back in the home to stay.The little Mark is farmer now.With ox-teams great in the fall must goTo far Crimea to barter thereSkins for salt and goods more rare.The Servant and Trophimusin counsel wisePlans for his marriagenow devise.Dared she her thoughts utterFor the Czar’s daughterShe’d send in a trice.But the most she could sayWhile thinking this wayWas, “Ask Mark’s advice.”“My daughter, we’ll ask him,And then we’ll affiance him.”[53]So they gave him sage advice,And they made decision nice.Soon his grave friends about him stand.He sends them to woo, a stately band.Back they come with towels on shoulderEre the day is many hours older.The sacred bread they have exchanged,The bargain now is all arranged.They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,A princess true, you well may guess.Such a queen is in this affianceAs with a general might make alliance.“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,And now let’s have no more delays.When the marriage, where the priest,What about the wedding feast?Who shall take the mother’s place?How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”The tears along his cheeks do fall,Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.Hastily rushing from the room,In chamber near she falls in swoon.The house is silent, the light is dim,The sorrowing Servant thinks of himAnd whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”Cither[54]V.All the week at the wedding cakeYoung women in crowds both mix and bake.The old man is in wondrous glee,With all the young women dances he.At sweeping the yardHe labors hard.All passers-by on foot and horsebackHe hales to the court where is no lackOf good home-brew.All comers he asks to the marriageAnd yet ’tis trueHe runs around soYou’d not guess from his carriageThough his joy is such a wonderful gift,His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.Everywhere is disorder and laughterWithin the house and in the yard.From store-room keg upon keg follows after,Workers’ voices everywhere heard.They bake, they boil,At sweeping toil,Tables and floors they wash them all.And where is the Servantwho cares not for wage?To Kiev she is goneon pilgrimage.[55]Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,Mark almost wept for her to stay,As mother sit, to see him wed.Her call of duty elsewhere lay.“No, Mark, such honor must I not takeTo sit while you your homage makeTo parents dear.My mind is clear.A servant must not thy mother beLest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.But yet again shall I returnUnto your house, if you do not spurnMy strength and toil.”With pure heartshe blessed her MarkAnd weeping, passedbeyond the gate.Then the wedding blossomed out;Work for musicians and the joyous routOf dancing feet;While mead so sweetOf fermented honey with spices dashedOver the benches and tables splashed,Meanwhile the Servant limps alongHastening on the weary road to Kiev.To the city come, she does not rest,[56]Hires to a woman of the town;For wages carries water.You see she money, money needsFor prayers to Holy Barbara.She water carries, never tarries,And mighty store of pennies saves,Then in the Lavra’s awesome cavesShe seeks the blessed wealth she craves.From St. John she buys a magic cap,For Mark she bears it;And when he wears it,For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,To her new daughter back to bring.’Fore all the saintsshe makes prostrations,Then home returnshaving paid her oblations.She has come back.Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,Far beyond the gate they greet her,Then into the house they bring her,Draw her to the table thereQuickly spread with choicest fare.Her news of Kiev they now request,While Kate arranges her couch for rest.[57]“Why do they love me,Why this respect?Dear God above me,Do they suspect?Nay, that’s not so,’Tis just goodness, I know.”And still the Servant her secret kept,Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.Three men with large rakes.[58]VI.Three times have the waters frozenThrice thawed at the touch of springThree times did the ServantFrom Kiev her store of blessings bring.And each time gentle Katherine,As daughter, set her on her way,A fourth time led her by the moundsWhere many dear departed lay.Then prayed to God for her safe return,For whom in absence her heart would yearn.It was the Sunday of the Virgin,Old Trophimus sat in garments white,On the bench, in wide straw hat,All amid the sunshine bright.Before him with a little dogHis frolicsome grandson played,The while his little granddaughterWas in her mother’s garb arrayed.Smiling he welcomed her as matron;For so at “visitors” they played.“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?Did somebody steal it in the wood,Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”For so they talked in lightsome mood.[59]But see,—Who comes?’Tis their Anna at the door!Run old and young! Who’ll come before?But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”“He’s off on journey long enough,”Says the old man in accents gruff.With pain the Servant sadly saith,“Home have I come with failing breath;Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.May I but live my Mark to see,For something grievously weighs on me.”From little bag the children’s giftsShe takes. There’s crosses and amulets.For Irene is of beads a string,And pictures too, and for KarponA nightingale to sweetly sing,Toy horses and a wagon.A fourth time she brings a ringFrom St. Barbara to Katherine.Next the old man’s gift she handles,It’s just three holy waxen candles.For Mark and herselfshe nothing brought;For want of moneyshe nothing bought.[60]For want of strengthmore funds to earn,Half a bun was her wealthon her return.As to how to divide itLet the babes decide it.Children playing.[61]VII.She enters now the house so sweet,And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.Then sets her down to dine in state,But my Anna nor drank nor ate.“Katherine!When is our Sunday?”“After tomorrow’s the day.”“Prayers for the dead soon will we needSuch as St. Nicholas may heed.Then we must an offering pay,For Mark tarries on the way.Perchance somewhere,from our vision hid,Sickness has ta’en himwhich God forbid.”The tears dropped downfrom the sad old eyes,So wearily did shefrom the table rise.“Katherine,My race is run,All my earthly tasks are done.My powers no longer I commandNor on my feet have strength to stand.And yet, my Kate, how can I dieWhile in this dear warm home I lie?”[62]The sickness harder grows amain,For her the sacred host’s appointed,She’s been with holy oils anointed,Yet nought relieves her pain.Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ringMoving like a stricken thing.Katherine, for the suff’rers sakeDoth never rest for her eyelids take.And even the owls upon the roofOf coming evil tell the proof.The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,Whispers the question, with waning power“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?So struggle I with doubt and fear,Did I but know I’d see him for sureThrough all my pain I might endure.”Cossacks dancing in village.[63]VIII.Now Mark comes on with the caravanSinging blithely as he can.To the inns he makes no speed,Quietly lets the oxen feed.Mark brings home for KatherinePrecious cloth of substance rich;For father dear, a girdle sewnOf silk so red.For Servant Annea gold cloth bonnetTo deck her head,And kerchief, toowith white lace on it.For the children are shoeswith figs and grapes.There’s gifts for all,there’s none escapes.For all he bringsred wine, so fine,From great old cityof Constantine.There’s buckets threein each barrel put on.And caviarfrom the river Don.Such gifts he hasin his wagon there,Nor knows the sorrowhis loved ones bear.[64]On comes Mark,knows not of worry;But he’s comeGive God the glory!The gate he opens,Praising God.“Hear’st thou, Katherine?Run to meet him!Already he’s come,Haste to greet him!Quickly bring him in to me.Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,All the strength has come from Thee.”And she “Our Father” softly saidJust as if in dream she read.The old man the team unyokes,Lays away the carven yokes.Kate at her husband strangely looks.“Where’s Anna, Katherine?I’ve been careless!She’s not dead?”“No, not dead,But very sick and calls for thee.”On the threshold Mark appears,Standing there as torn by fears.But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.[65]Go forth, Katherine,though I love you well,I’ve something to ask him,something to tell.”From the placefair Katherine went;While Mark his heado’er the Servant bent.“Mark, look at me,Look at me well!A secret now I have to tell.On this faded formset no longer store,No servant, I, nor Anna more,I am——”Came silence dumb,Nor yet guessed MarkWhat was to come.Yet once again her eyelids raisedInto his eyes she deeply gazed’Mid gathering tears.“I from thee forgiveness pray;I’ve penance offered day by dayAll my life to serve another.Forgive me, son, of me,For I—am thy mother.”[66]She ceased to speak.A sudden faintnessMark did take:It seemed the earthitself did shake.He roused—and to his mother crept,But the motherforever slept.Person kneeling in near bullock cart.[67]

[42]

I.All by themselves livedan old couple fondIn a nice little grovejust by a millpond.Like birds of a featherJust always together,From childhood the two of themfed sheep together,Got married, got wealthy,got houses and lands,Got a beautiful gardenjust where the mill stands,An apiary fullofbeehiveslike boulders.Yet no children were theirs,and death at their shoulders.Who will cheer their passing years?Who will soothe their mortal fears?Who will guard their gathered treasure.In loyal service find his pleasure?Who will be their faithful sonWhen low their sands of life do run?Hard it is a child to rear,In roofless house ’mid want and fear.Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,When death creeps on with crafty stealth,And one’s treasures goodAt end of life’s wandering,Are for strangers rudeFor mocking and squandering.

All by themselves livedan old couple fondIn a nice little grovejust by a millpond.Like birds of a featherJust always together,From childhood the two of themfed sheep together,Got married, got wealthy,got houses and lands,Got a beautiful gardenjust where the mill stands,An apiary fullofbeehiveslike boulders.Yet no children were theirs,and death at their shoulders.Who will cheer their passing years?Who will soothe their mortal fears?Who will guard their gathered treasure.In loyal service find his pleasure?Who will be their faithful sonWhen low their sands of life do run?

All by themselves lived

an old couple fond

In a nice little grove

just by a millpond.

Like birds of a feather

Just always together,

From childhood the two of them

fed sheep together,

Got married, got wealthy,

got houses and lands,

Got a beautiful garden

just where the mill stands,

An apiary full

ofbeehiveslike boulders.

Yet no children were theirs,

and death at their shoulders.

Who will cheer their passing years?

Who will soothe their mortal fears?

Who will guard their gathered treasure.

In loyal service find his pleasure?

Who will be their faithful son

When low their sands of life do run?

Hard it is a child to rear,In roofless house ’mid want and fear.Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,When death creeps on with crafty stealth,And one’s treasures goodAt end of life’s wandering,Are for strangers rudeFor mocking and squandering.

Hard it is a child to rear,

In roofless house ’mid want and fear.

Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,

When death creeps on with crafty stealth,

And one’s treasures good

At end of life’s wandering,

Are for strangers rude

For mocking and squandering.

[44]

Rustic house with pond in front.

[43]

II.One fine Sunday,in the bright sunlight,All dressed upin blouses white,The old folks saton the bench by the door;No cloud in sky,What could they ask more?All peace and loveit seemed like Eden.Yet angels abovetheir hearts might read in,A hidden sorrow,a gloomy moodLike lurking beastin darksome wood.In such a heavenOh, do you seeWhatever couldthe trouble be?I wonder nowwhat ancient sorrowSuddenly spranginto their morrow.Was it quarrelof yesterdayChoked off, thenrevived today,Or yet some newly sprouted ireArisen to set their heaven on fire?[45]Perchance they’re called to go to God,Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.Then who for them on that far wayHorses and chariot shall array?“Anastasia, wife of mine,Soon will come our fatal day,Who will lay our bones away?”“God only knows.With me always was that thoughtWhich gloom into my heart has brought.Together in years and failing health,For what have we gatheredall this wealth?”“Hold a minute,Hearest thou? Something criesBeyond the gate—’tis like a child.Let’s run! See’st ought?I thought something was there.”Together they sprangAnd to the gate running;Then stopped in silence wondering.Before the stilea swaddled child,Not bound tightly,just wrapped lightly,For it wasin summer mild,[46]And the motherwith fond caressHad covered itwith her own last dress.In wondering prayerstood our fond old pair.The little thingjust seemed to plead.In little armsstretched out you’ld readIts prayer,—in silence all.No crying—just a little breath its call.“See, ’Stasia!What did I tell thee?Here is fortune and fate for us;No longer dwell we in loneliness.Take itand dress it.Look at it!Bless it!Quick, bear it inside,To the village I’ll ride.Its ours to baptize,God-parents we need for our prize.”In this worldthings strangely run.There’s a fellowthat curses his son,Chases him away from home,Into lonely lands to roam,[47]While other poor creatures,With sorrowful features,With sweat of their toilingMust much money earn;The wage of their moilingCandles to burn.Prayers to repeat,The saints to entreat;For children are none.This world is no funThe way things run.

One fine Sunday,in the bright sunlight,All dressed upin blouses white,The old folks saton the bench by the door;No cloud in sky,What could they ask more?All peace and loveit seemed like Eden.Yet angels abovetheir hearts might read in,A hidden sorrow,a gloomy moodLike lurking beastin darksome wood.In such a heavenOh, do you seeWhatever couldthe trouble be?I wonder nowwhat ancient sorrowSuddenly spranginto their morrow.Was it quarrelof yesterdayChoked off, thenrevived today,Or yet some newly sprouted ireArisen to set their heaven on fire?

One fine Sunday,

in the bright sunlight,

All dressed up

in blouses white,

The old folks sat

on the bench by the door;

No cloud in sky,

What could they ask more?

All peace and love

it seemed like Eden.

Yet angels above

their hearts might read in,

A hidden sorrow,

a gloomy mood

Like lurking beast

in darksome wood.

In such a heaven

Oh, do you see

Whatever could

the trouble be?

I wonder now

what ancient sorrow

Suddenly sprang

into their morrow.

Was it quarrel

of yesterday

Choked off, then

revived today,

Or yet some newly sprouted ire

Arisen to set their heaven on fire?

[45]

Perchance they’re called to go to God,Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.Then who for them on that far wayHorses and chariot shall array?

Perchance they’re called to go to God,

Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.

Then who for them on that far way

Horses and chariot shall array?

“Anastasia, wife of mine,Soon will come our fatal day,Who will lay our bones away?”

“Anastasia, wife of mine,

Soon will come our fatal day,

Who will lay our bones away?”

“God only knows.With me always was that thoughtWhich gloom into my heart has brought.Together in years and failing health,For what have we gatheredall this wealth?”

“God only knows.

With me always was that thought

Which gloom into my heart has brought.

Together in years and failing health,

For what have we gathered

all this wealth?”

“Hold a minute,Hearest thou? Something criesBeyond the gate—’tis like a child.Let’s run! See’st ought?I thought something was there.”Together they sprangAnd to the gate running;Then stopped in silence wondering.

“Hold a minute,

Hearest thou? Something cries

Beyond the gate—’tis like a child.

Let’s run! See’st ought?

I thought something was there.”

Together they sprang

And to the gate running;

Then stopped in silence wondering.

Before the stilea swaddled child,Not bound tightly,just wrapped lightly,For it wasin summer mild,[46]And the motherwith fond caressHad covered itwith her own last dress.In wondering prayerstood our fond old pair.The little thingjust seemed to plead.In little armsstretched out you’ld readIts prayer,—in silence all.No crying—just a little breath its call.“See, ’Stasia!What did I tell thee?Here is fortune and fate for us;No longer dwell we in loneliness.Take itand dress it.Look at it!Bless it!Quick, bear it inside,To the village I’ll ride.Its ours to baptize,God-parents we need for our prize.”In this worldthings strangely run.There’s a fellowthat curses his son,Chases him away from home,Into lonely lands to roam,[47]While other poor creatures,With sorrowful features,With sweat of their toilingMust much money earn;The wage of their moilingCandles to burn.Prayers to repeat,The saints to entreat;For children are none.This world is no funThe way things run.

Before the stile

a swaddled child,

Not bound tightly,

just wrapped lightly,

For it was

in summer mild,[46]

And the mother

with fond caress

Had covered it

with her own last dress.

In wondering prayer

stood our fond old pair.

The little thing

just seemed to plead.

In little arms

stretched out you’ld read

Its prayer,—

in silence all.

No crying—just a little breath its call.

“See, ’Stasia!

What did I tell thee?

Here is fortune and fate for us;

No longer dwell we in loneliness.

Take it

and dress it.

Look at it!

Bless it!

Quick, bear it inside,

To the village I’ll ride.

Its ours to baptize,

God-parents we need for our prize.”

In this world

things strangely run.

There’s a fellow

that curses his son,

Chases him away from home,

Into lonely lands to roam,[47]

While other poor creatures,

With sorrowful features,

With sweat of their toiling

Must much money earn;

The wage of their moiling

Candles to burn.

Prayers to repeat,

The saints to entreat;

For children are none.

This world is no fun

The way things run.

Tree and leaves.

[48]

III.Their joys do now such numbers reachGod fathers and mothers’Mid lots of othersBehold they have gatheredThree pairs of each.At even they christen him,And Mark is the name of him.So Mark grows,And so it goes.For the dear old folk it is no joke,For they don’t know where to go,Where to set him, when to pet him.But the year goes and still Mark grows.Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,Just as he were a good milk-cow.And now a woman young and bright,With eyebrows dark and skin so white,Comes into this blessed place,For servant’s task she asks with grace.“What, what—say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”“We’ll take her, Trophimus.We are old and little wearies us;[49]He’s almost grown within a year,But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”“Truly he’ll need care,And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.My knees are failing, so nowYou poor thing, tell us your wage,It is by the year or how?”“What ever you like to give.”“No, no, it’s needful to know,It’s needful, my daughter,to count one’s wage.This you must learn, count what you earn.This is the proverb—Who counts not his moneyHasn’t got any.But, child, how will this do?You don’t know us,We don’t know you.You’ll stay with us a few days,Get acquainted with our ways;We’ll see you day by day,Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.Is it so, daughter?”“Very good, uncle.”“We invite you into the house.”And so they to agreement came.The young woman seemed always the same,[50]Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lordWho’d buy up villages just at her word.She in the house and out doth workFrom morning light to evening’s mirk.And yet the child is her special care;Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother missesTo give its bath and its white dresses.She plays and sings, makeswagonsand things,And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.Wondering, the old folks gaze,But to God they give the praise.So the servant never rests,But the night her spirit tests.In her chamber then, I ween,Many a tear she sheds unseen.Yet none knows nor sees it allBut the little Mark so small.Nor knows he why in hours of nightHis tossings break her slumbers light.So from her couch she quickly leaps,The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.With sign of cross the child she blesses,Her gentle care her love confesses.[51]Each morning Mark spreads out his handsTo the Servant as she stands;Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.Only to grow is his affair.

III.Their joys do now such numbers reachGod fathers and mothers’Mid lots of othersBehold they have gatheredThree pairs of each.At even they christen him,And Mark is the name of him.

Their joys do now such numbers reach

God fathers and mothers

’Mid lots of others

Behold they have gathered

Three pairs of each.

At even they christen him,

And Mark is the name of him.

So Mark grows,And so it goes.

So Mark grows,

And so it goes.

For the dear old folk it is no joke,For they don’t know where to go,Where to set him, when to pet him.But the year goes and still Mark grows.Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,Just as he were a good milk-cow.

For the dear old folk it is no joke,

For they don’t know where to go,

Where to set him, when to pet him.

But the year goes and still Mark grows.

Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,

Just as he were a good milk-cow.

And now a woman young and bright,With eyebrows dark and skin so white,Comes into this blessed place,For servant’s task she asks with grace.

And now a woman young and bright,

With eyebrows dark and skin so white,

Comes into this blessed place,

For servant’s task she asks with grace.

“What, what—say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”

“What, what—

say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”

“We’ll take her, Trophimus.We are old and little wearies us;[49]He’s almost grown within a year,But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”

“We’ll take her, Trophimus.

We are old and little wearies us;[49]

He’s almost grown within a year,

But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”

“Truly he’ll need care,And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.My knees are failing, so nowYou poor thing, tell us your wage,It is by the year or how?”

“Truly he’ll need care,

And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.

My knees are failing, so now

You poor thing, tell us your wage,

It is by the year or how?”

“What ever you like to give.”

“No, no, it’s needful to know,It’s needful, my daughter,to count one’s wage.This you must learn, count what you earn.This is the proverb—Who counts not his moneyHasn’t got any.But, child, how will this do?You don’t know us,We don’t know you.You’ll stay with us a few days,Get acquainted with our ways;We’ll see you day by day,Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.Is it so, daughter?”

“No, no, it’s needful to know,

It’s needful, my daughter,

to count one’s wage.

This you must learn, count what you earn.

This is the proverb—

Who counts not his money

Hasn’t got any.

But, child, how will this do?

You don’t know us,

We don’t know you.

You’ll stay with us a few days,

Get acquainted with our ways;

We’ll see you day by day,

Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.

Is it so, daughter?”

“Very good, uncle.”

“We invite you into the house.”

And so they to agreement came.The young woman seemed always the same,[50]Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lordWho’d buy up villages just at her word.She in the house and out doth workFrom morning light to evening’s mirk.

And so they to agreement came.

The young woman seemed always the same,[50]

Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lord

Who’d buy up villages just at her word.

She in the house and out doth work

From morning light to evening’s mirk.

And yet the child is her special care;Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother missesTo give its bath and its white dresses.She plays and sings, makeswagonsand things,And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.

And yet the child is her special care;

Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.

Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother misses

To give its bath and its white dresses.

She plays and sings, makeswagonsand things,

And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.

Wondering, the old folks gaze,But to God they give the praise.

Wondering, the old folks gaze,

But to God they give the praise.

So the servant never rests,But the night her spirit tests.In her chamber then, I ween,Many a tear she sheds unseen.Yet none knows nor sees it allBut the little Mark so small.

So the servant never rests,

But the night her spirit tests.

In her chamber then, I ween,

Many a tear she sheds unseen.

Yet none knows nor sees it all

But the little Mark so small.

Nor knows he why in hours of nightHis tossings break her slumbers light.So from her couch she quickly leaps,The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.With sign of cross the child she blesses,Her gentle care her love confesses.

Nor knows he why in hours of night

His tossings break her slumbers light.

So from her couch she quickly leaps,

The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.

With sign of cross the child she blesses,

Her gentle care her love confesses.

[51]

Each morning Mark spreads out his handsTo the Servant as she stands;Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.Only to grow is his affair.

Each morning Mark spreads out his hands

To the Servant as she stands;

Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.

Only to grow is his affair.

Gate flanked by two small towers.

[52]

IV.Meantime many a year has rolled,Many waters to the sea have flowed,Trouble to the home has come,Many a tear down the cheek has run.Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.The cursed trouble roared so loud,And then it went to sleep, I trow.From the dark woods where she frightened layPeace came back in the home to stay.The little Mark is farmer now.With ox-teams great in the fall must goTo far Crimea to barter thereSkins for salt and goods more rare.The Servant and Trophimusin counsel wisePlans for his marriagenow devise.Dared she her thoughts utterFor the Czar’s daughterShe’d send in a trice.But the most she could sayWhile thinking this wayWas, “Ask Mark’s advice.”“My daughter, we’ll ask him,And then we’ll affiance him.”[53]So they gave him sage advice,And they made decision nice.Soon his grave friends about him stand.He sends them to woo, a stately band.Back they come with towels on shoulderEre the day is many hours older.The sacred bread they have exchanged,The bargain now is all arranged.They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,A princess true, you well may guess.Such a queen is in this affianceAs with a general might make alliance.“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,And now let’s have no more delays.When the marriage, where the priest,What about the wedding feast?Who shall take the mother’s place?How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”The tears along his cheeks do fall,Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.Hastily rushing from the room,In chamber near she falls in swoon.The house is silent, the light is dim,The sorrowing Servant thinks of himAnd whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”

Meantime many a year has rolled,

Many waters to the sea have flowed,

Trouble to the home has come,

Many a tear down the cheek has run.

Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.

Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.

The cursed trouble roared so loud,

And then it went to sleep, I trow.

From the dark woods where she frightened lay

Peace came back in the home to stay.

The little Mark is farmer now.With ox-teams great in the fall must goTo far Crimea to barter thereSkins for salt and goods more rare.

The little Mark is farmer now.

With ox-teams great in the fall must go

To far Crimea to barter there

Skins for salt and goods more rare.

The Servant and Trophimusin counsel wisePlans for his marriagenow devise.

The Servant and Trophimus

in counsel wise

Plans for his marriage

now devise.

Dared she her thoughts utterFor the Czar’s daughterShe’d send in a trice.But the most she could sayWhile thinking this wayWas, “Ask Mark’s advice.”

Dared she her thoughts utter

For the Czar’s daughter

She’d send in a trice.

But the most she could say

While thinking this way

Was, “Ask Mark’s advice.”

“My daughter, we’ll ask him,And then we’ll affiance him.”[53]So they gave him sage advice,And they made decision nice.

“My daughter, we’ll ask him,

And then we’ll affiance him.”[53]

So they gave him sage advice,

And they made decision nice.

Soon his grave friends about him stand.He sends them to woo, a stately band.Back they come with towels on shoulderEre the day is many hours older.The sacred bread they have exchanged,The bargain now is all arranged.They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,A princess true, you well may guess.Such a queen is in this affianceAs with a general might make alliance.“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,And now let’s have no more delays.When the marriage, where the priest,What about the wedding feast?Who shall take the mother’s place?How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”The tears along his cheeks do fall,Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.

Soon his grave friends about him stand.

He sends them to woo, a stately band.

Back they come with towels on shoulder

Ere the day is many hours older.

The sacred bread they have exchanged,

The bargain now is all arranged.

They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,

A princess true, you well may guess.

Such a queen is in this affiance

As with a general might make alliance.

“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,

And now let’s have no more delays.

When the marriage, where the priest,

What about the wedding feast?

Who shall take the mother’s place?

How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”

The tears along his cheeks do fall,

Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.

Hastily rushing from the room,In chamber near she falls in swoon.The house is silent, the light is dim,The sorrowing Servant thinks of himAnd whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”

Hastily rushing from the room,

In chamber near she falls in swoon.

The house is silent, the light is dim,

The sorrowing Servant thinks of him

And whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”

Cither

[54]

V.All the week at the wedding cakeYoung women in crowds both mix and bake.The old man is in wondrous glee,With all the young women dances he.At sweeping the yardHe labors hard.All passers-by on foot and horsebackHe hales to the court where is no lackOf good home-brew.All comers he asks to the marriageAnd yet ’tis trueHe runs around soYou’d not guess from his carriageThough his joy is such a wonderful gift,His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.Everywhere is disorder and laughterWithin the house and in the yard.From store-room keg upon keg follows after,Workers’ voices everywhere heard.They bake, they boil,At sweeping toil,Tables and floors they wash them all.And where is the Servantwho cares not for wage?To Kiev she is goneon pilgrimage.[55]Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,Mark almost wept for her to stay,As mother sit, to see him wed.Her call of duty elsewhere lay.“No, Mark, such honor must I not takeTo sit while you your homage makeTo parents dear.My mind is clear.A servant must not thy mother beLest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.But yet again shall I returnUnto your house, if you do not spurnMy strength and toil.”With pure heartshe blessed her MarkAnd weeping, passedbeyond the gate.Then the wedding blossomed out;Work for musicians and the joyous routOf dancing feet;While mead so sweetOf fermented honey with spices dashedOver the benches and tables splashed,Meanwhile the Servant limps alongHastening on the weary road to Kiev.To the city come, she does not rest,[56]Hires to a woman of the town;For wages carries water.You see she money, money needsFor prayers to Holy Barbara.She water carries, never tarries,And mighty store of pennies saves,Then in the Lavra’s awesome cavesShe seeks the blessed wealth she craves.From St. John she buys a magic cap,For Mark she bears it;And when he wears it,For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,To her new daughter back to bring.’Fore all the saintsshe makes prostrations,Then home returnshaving paid her oblations.She has come back.Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,Far beyond the gate they greet her,Then into the house they bring her,Draw her to the table thereQuickly spread with choicest fare.Her news of Kiev they now request,While Kate arranges her couch for rest.[57]“Why do they love me,Why this respect?Dear God above me,Do they suspect?Nay, that’s not so,’Tis just goodness, I know.”And still the Servant her secret kept,Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.

All the week at the wedding cake

Young women in crowds both mix and bake.

The old man is in wondrous glee,

With all the young women dances he.

At sweeping the yard

He labors hard.

All passers-by on foot and horseback

He hales to the court where is no lack

Of good home-brew.

All comers he asks to the marriage

And yet ’tis true

He runs around so

You’d not guess from his carriage

Though his joy is such a wonderful gift,

His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.

Everywhere is disorder and laughterWithin the house and in the yard.From store-room keg upon keg follows after,Workers’ voices everywhere heard.They bake, they boil,At sweeping toil,Tables and floors they wash them all.

Everywhere is disorder and laughter

Within the house and in the yard.

From store-room keg upon keg follows after,

Workers’ voices everywhere heard.

They bake, they boil,

At sweeping toil,

Tables and floors they wash them all.

And where is the Servantwho cares not for wage?To Kiev she is goneon pilgrimage.

And where is the Servant

who cares not for wage?

To Kiev she is gone

on pilgrimage.

[55]

Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,Mark almost wept for her to stay,As mother sit, to see him wed.Her call of duty elsewhere lay.

Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,

Mark almost wept for her to stay,

As mother sit, to see him wed.

Her call of duty elsewhere lay.

“No, Mark, such honor must I not takeTo sit while you your homage makeTo parents dear.My mind is clear.A servant must not thy mother beLest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.But yet again shall I returnUnto your house, if you do not spurnMy strength and toil.”

“No, Mark, such honor must I not take

To sit while you your homage make

To parents dear.

My mind is clear.

A servant must not thy mother be

Lest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.

Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,

To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.

But yet again shall I return

Unto your house, if you do not spurn

My strength and toil.”

With pure heartshe blessed her MarkAnd weeping, passedbeyond the gate.

With pure heart

she blessed her Mark

And weeping, passed

beyond the gate.

Then the wedding blossomed out;Work for musicians and the joyous routOf dancing feet;While mead so sweetOf fermented honey with spices dashedOver the benches and tables splashed,Meanwhile the Servant limps alongHastening on the weary road to Kiev.To the city come, she does not rest,[56]Hires to a woman of the town;For wages carries water.You see she money, money needsFor prayers to Holy Barbara.She water carries, never tarries,And mighty store of pennies saves,Then in the Lavra’s awesome cavesShe seeks the blessed wealth she craves.

Then the wedding blossomed out;

Work for musicians and the joyous rout

Of dancing feet;

While mead so sweet

Of fermented honey with spices dashed

Over the benches and tables splashed,

Meanwhile the Servant limps along

Hastening on the weary road to Kiev.

To the city come, she does not rest,[56]

Hires to a woman of the town;

For wages carries water.

You see she money, money needs

For prayers to Holy Barbara.

She water carries, never tarries,

And mighty store of pennies saves,

Then in the Lavra’s awesome caves

She seeks the blessed wealth she craves.

From St. John she buys a magic cap,For Mark she bears it;And when he wears it,For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,To her new daughter back to bring.

From St. John she buys a magic cap,

For Mark she bears it;

And when he wears it,

For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.

And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,

To her new daughter back to bring.

’Fore all the saintsshe makes prostrations,Then home returnshaving paid her oblations.

’Fore all the saints

she makes prostrations,

Then home returns

having paid her oblations.

She has come back.Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,Far beyond the gate they greet her,Then into the house they bring her,Draw her to the table thereQuickly spread with choicest fare.Her news of Kiev they now request,While Kate arranges her couch for rest.

She has come back.

Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,

Far beyond the gate they greet her,

Then into the house they bring her,

Draw her to the table there

Quickly spread with choicest fare.

Her news of Kiev they now request,

While Kate arranges her couch for rest.

[57]

“Why do they love me,Why this respect?Dear God above me,Do they suspect?Nay, that’s not so,’Tis just goodness, I know.”

“Why do they love me,

Why this respect?

Dear God above me,

Do they suspect?

Nay, that’s not so,

’Tis just goodness, I know.”

And still the Servant her secret kept,Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.

And still the Servant her secret kept,

Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.

Three men with large rakes.

[58]

VI.Three times have the waters frozenThrice thawed at the touch of springThree times did the ServantFrom Kiev her store of blessings bring.And each time gentle Katherine,As daughter, set her on her way,A fourth time led her by the moundsWhere many dear departed lay.Then prayed to God for her safe return,For whom in absence her heart would yearn.It was the Sunday of the Virgin,Old Trophimus sat in garments white,On the bench, in wide straw hat,All amid the sunshine bright.Before him with a little dogHis frolicsome grandson played,The while his little granddaughterWas in her mother’s garb arrayed.Smiling he welcomed her as matron;For so at “visitors” they played.“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?Did somebody steal it in the wood,Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”For so they talked in lightsome mood.[59]But see,—Who comes?’Tis their Anna at the door!Run old and young! Who’ll come before?But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”“He’s off on journey long enough,”Says the old man in accents gruff.With pain the Servant sadly saith,“Home have I come with failing breath;Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.May I but live my Mark to see,For something grievously weighs on me.”From little bag the children’s giftsShe takes. There’s crosses and amulets.For Irene is of beads a string,And pictures too, and for KarponA nightingale to sweetly sing,Toy horses and a wagon.A fourth time she brings a ringFrom St. Barbara to Katherine.Next the old man’s gift she handles,It’s just three holy waxen candles.For Mark and herselfshe nothing brought;For want of moneyshe nothing bought.[60]For want of strengthmore funds to earn,Half a bun was her wealthon her return.As to how to divide itLet the babes decide it.

Three times have the waters frozen

Thrice thawed at the touch of spring

Three times did the Servant

From Kiev her store of blessings bring.

And each time gentle Katherine,

As daughter, set her on her way,

A fourth time led her by the mounds

Where many dear departed lay.

Then prayed to God for her safe return,

For whom in absence her heart would yearn.

It was the Sunday of the Virgin,Old Trophimus sat in garments white,On the bench, in wide straw hat,All amid the sunshine bright.Before him with a little dogHis frolicsome grandson played,The while his little granddaughterWas in her mother’s garb arrayed.Smiling he welcomed her as matron;For so at “visitors” they played.

It was the Sunday of the Virgin,

Old Trophimus sat in garments white,

On the bench, in wide straw hat,

All amid the sunshine bright.

Before him with a little dog

His frolicsome grandson played,

The while his little granddaughter

Was in her mother’s garb arrayed.

Smiling he welcomed her as matron;

For so at “visitors” they played.

“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?Did somebody steal it in the wood,Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”For so they talked in lightsome mood.

“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?

Did somebody steal it in the wood,

Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”

For so they talked in lightsome mood.

[59]

But see,—Who comes?’Tis their Anna at the door!Run old and young! Who’ll come before?But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.

But see,—Who comes?

’Tis their Anna at the door!

Run old and young! Who’ll come before?

But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.

“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”

“He’s off on journey long enough,”Says the old man in accents gruff.

“He’s off on journey long enough,”

Says the old man in accents gruff.

With pain the Servant sadly saith,“Home have I come with failing breath;Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.May I but live my Mark to see,For something grievously weighs on me.”

With pain the Servant sadly saith,

“Home have I come with failing breath;

Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.

May I but live my Mark to see,

For something grievously weighs on me.”

From little bag the children’s giftsShe takes. There’s crosses and amulets.For Irene is of beads a string,And pictures too, and for KarponA nightingale to sweetly sing,Toy horses and a wagon.A fourth time she brings a ringFrom St. Barbara to Katherine.Next the old man’s gift she handles,It’s just three holy waxen candles.

From little bag the children’s gifts

She takes. There’s crosses and amulets.

For Irene is of beads a string,

And pictures too, and for Karpon

A nightingale to sweetly sing,

Toy horses and a wagon.

A fourth time she brings a ring

From St. Barbara to Katherine.

Next the old man’s gift she handles,

It’s just three holy waxen candles.

For Mark and herselfshe nothing brought;For want of moneyshe nothing bought.

For Mark and herself

she nothing brought;

For want of money

she nothing bought.

[60]

For want of strengthmore funds to earn,Half a bun was her wealthon her return.As to how to divide itLet the babes decide it.

For want of strength

more funds to earn,

Half a bun was her wealth

on her return.

As to how to divide it

Let the babes decide it.

Children playing.

[61]

VII.She enters now the house so sweet,And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.Then sets her down to dine in state,But my Anna nor drank nor ate.“Katherine!When is our Sunday?”“After tomorrow’s the day.”“Prayers for the dead soon will we needSuch as St. Nicholas may heed.Then we must an offering pay,For Mark tarries on the way.Perchance somewhere,from our vision hid,Sickness has ta’en himwhich God forbid.”The tears dropped downfrom the sad old eyes,So wearily did shefrom the table rise.“Katherine,My race is run,All my earthly tasks are done.My powers no longer I commandNor on my feet have strength to stand.And yet, my Kate, how can I dieWhile in this dear warm home I lie?”[62]The sickness harder grows amain,For her the sacred host’s appointed,She’s been with holy oils anointed,Yet nought relieves her pain.Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ringMoving like a stricken thing.Katherine, for the suff’rers sakeDoth never rest for her eyelids take.And even the owls upon the roofOf coming evil tell the proof.The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,Whispers the question, with waning power“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?So struggle I with doubt and fear,Did I but know I’d see him for sureThrough all my pain I might endure.”

VII.She enters now the house so sweet,And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.Then sets her down to dine in state,But my Anna nor drank nor ate.

She enters now the house so sweet,

And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.

Then sets her down to dine in state,

But my Anna nor drank nor ate.

“Katherine!When is our Sunday?”

“Katherine!

When is our Sunday?”

“After tomorrow’s the day.”“Prayers for the dead soon will we needSuch as St. Nicholas may heed.Then we must an offering pay,For Mark tarries on the way.Perchance somewhere,from our vision hid,Sickness has ta’en himwhich God forbid.”The tears dropped downfrom the sad old eyes,So wearily did shefrom the table rise.

“After tomorrow’s the day.”

“Prayers for the dead soon will we need

Such as St. Nicholas may heed.

Then we must an offering pay,

For Mark tarries on the way.

Perchance somewhere,

from our vision hid,

Sickness has ta’en him

which God forbid.”

The tears dropped down

from the sad old eyes,

So wearily did she

from the table rise.

“Katherine,My race is run,All my earthly tasks are done.My powers no longer I commandNor on my feet have strength to stand.And yet, my Kate, how can I dieWhile in this dear warm home I lie?”

“Katherine,

My race is run,

All my earthly tasks are done.

My powers no longer I command

Nor on my feet have strength to stand.

And yet, my Kate, how can I die

While in this dear warm home I lie?”

[62]

The sickness harder grows amain,For her the sacred host’s appointed,She’s been with holy oils anointed,Yet nought relieves her pain.Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ringMoving like a stricken thing.Katherine, for the suff’rers sakeDoth never rest for her eyelids take.And even the owls upon the roofOf coming evil tell the proof.

The sickness harder grows amain,

For her the sacred host’s appointed,

She’s been with holy oils anointed,

Yet nought relieves her pain.

Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ring

Moving like a stricken thing.

Katherine, for the suff’rers sake

Doth never rest for her eyelids take.

And even the owls upon the roof

Of coming evil tell the proof.

The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,Whispers the question, with waning power“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?So struggle I with doubt and fear,Did I but know I’d see him for sureThrough all my pain I might endure.”

The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,

Whispers the question, with waning power

“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?

So struggle I with doubt and fear,

Did I but know I’d see him for sure

Through all my pain I might endure.”

Cossacks dancing in village.

[63]

VIII.Now Mark comes on with the caravanSinging blithely as he can.To the inns he makes no speed,Quietly lets the oxen feed.Mark brings home for KatherinePrecious cloth of substance rich;For father dear, a girdle sewnOf silk so red.For Servant Annea gold cloth bonnetTo deck her head,And kerchief, toowith white lace on it.For the children are shoeswith figs and grapes.There’s gifts for all,there’s none escapes.For all he bringsred wine, so fine,From great old cityof Constantine.There’s buckets threein each barrel put on.And caviarfrom the river Don.Such gifts he hasin his wagon there,Nor knows the sorrowhis loved ones bear.[64]On comes Mark,knows not of worry;But he’s comeGive God the glory!The gate he opens,Praising God.“Hear’st thou, Katherine?Run to meet him!Already he’s come,Haste to greet him!Quickly bring him in to me.Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,All the strength has come from Thee.”And she “Our Father” softly saidJust as if in dream she read.The old man the team unyokes,Lays away the carven yokes.Kate at her husband strangely looks.“Where’s Anna, Katherine?I’ve been careless!She’s not dead?”“No, not dead,But very sick and calls for thee.”On the threshold Mark appears,Standing there as torn by fears.But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.[65]Go forth, Katherine,though I love you well,I’ve something to ask him,something to tell.”From the placefair Katherine went;While Mark his heado’er the Servant bent.“Mark, look at me,Look at me well!A secret now I have to tell.On this faded formset no longer store,No servant, I, nor Anna more,I am——”Came silence dumb,Nor yet guessed MarkWhat was to come.Yet once again her eyelids raisedInto his eyes she deeply gazed’Mid gathering tears.“I from thee forgiveness pray;I’ve penance offered day by dayAll my life to serve another.Forgive me, son, of me,For I—am thy mother.”[66]She ceased to speak.A sudden faintnessMark did take:It seemed the earthitself did shake.He roused—and to his mother crept,But the motherforever slept.

Now Mark comes on with the caravan

Singing blithely as he can.

To the inns he makes no speed,

Quietly lets the oxen feed.

Mark brings home for Katherine

Precious cloth of substance rich;

For father dear, a girdle sewn

Of silk so red.

For Servant Anne

a gold cloth bonnet

To deck her head,

And kerchief, too

with white lace on it.

For the children are shoes

with figs and grapes.

There’s gifts for all,

there’s none escapes.

For all he brings

red wine, so fine,

From great old city

of Constantine.

There’s buckets three

in each barrel put on.

And caviar

from the river Don.

Such gifts he has

in his wagon there,

Nor knows the sorrow

his loved ones bear.[64]

On comes Mark,

knows not of worry;

But he’s come

Give God the glory!

The gate he opens,

Praising God.

“Hear’st thou, Katherine?Run to meet him!Already he’s come,Haste to greet him!Quickly bring him in to me.Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,All the strength has come from Thee.”

“Hear’st thou, Katherine?

Run to meet him!

Already he’s come,

Haste to greet him!

Quickly bring him in to me.

Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,

All the strength has come from Thee.”

And she “Our Father” softly saidJust as if in dream she read.The old man the team unyokes,Lays away the carven yokes.Kate at her husband strangely looks.

And she “Our Father” softly said

Just as if in dream she read.

The old man the team unyokes,

Lays away the carven yokes.

Kate at her husband strangely looks.

“Where’s Anna, Katherine?I’ve been careless!She’s not dead?”

“Where’s Anna, Katherine?

I’ve been careless!

She’s not dead?”

“No, not dead,But very sick and calls for thee.”

“No, not dead,

But very sick and calls for thee.”

On the threshold Mark appears,Standing there as torn by fears.But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.

On the threshold Mark appears,

Standing there as torn by fears.

But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,

Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.

[65]

Go forth, Katherine,though I love you well,I’ve something to ask him,something to tell.”

Go forth, Katherine,

though I love you well,

I’ve something to ask him,

something to tell.”

From the placefair Katherine went;While Mark his heado’er the Servant bent.“Mark, look at me,Look at me well!A secret now I have to tell.On this faded formset no longer store,No servant, I, nor Anna more,I am——”Came silence dumb,Nor yet guessed MarkWhat was to come.

From the place

fair Katherine went;

While Mark his head

o’er the Servant bent.

“Mark, look at me,

Look at me well!

A secret now I have to tell.

On this faded form

set no longer store,

No servant, I, nor Anna more,

I am——”

Came silence dumb,

Nor yet guessed Mark

What was to come.

Yet once again her eyelids raisedInto his eyes she deeply gazed’Mid gathering tears.

Yet once again her eyelids raised

Into his eyes she deeply gazed

’Mid gathering tears.

“I from thee forgiveness pray;I’ve penance offered day by dayAll my life to serve another.Forgive me, son, of me,For I—am thy mother.”

“I from thee forgiveness pray;

I’ve penance offered day by day

All my life to serve another.

Forgive me, son, of me,

For I—am thy mother.”

[66]

She ceased to speak.A sudden faintnessMark did take:It seemed the earthitself did shake.He roused—and to his mother crept,But the motherforever slept.

She ceased to speak.

A sudden faintness

Mark did take:

It seemed the earth

itself did shake.

He roused—

and to his mother crept,

But the mother

forever slept.

Person kneeling in near bullock cart.

[67]

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