"The table was gleamingWith yellow wax candles, 340And there, in the midst,Lay a tiny white coffin,And over it spreadWas a fine coloured napkin,An icon was placedAt its head….O you builders,For my little sonWhat a house you have fashioned!No windows you've made 350That the sunshine may enter,No stove and no bench,And no soft little pillows….Oh, Djómushka will notFeel happy within it,He cannot sleep well….'Begone!'—I cried harshlyOn seeing Savyéli;He stood near the coffinAnd read from the book 360In his hand, through his glasses.I cursed old Savyéli,Cried—'Branded one! Convict!Begone! 'Twas you killed him!You murdered my, Djóma,Begone from my sight!'
"He stood without moving;He crossed himself thriceAnd continued his reading.But when I grew calmer 370Savyéli approached me,And said to me gently,'In winter, Matróna,I told you my story,But yet there was more.Our forests were endless,Our lakes wild and lonely,Our people were savage;By cruelty lived we:By snaring the wood-grouse, 380By slaying the bears:—You must kill or you perish!I've told you of BarinShaláshnikov, alsoOf how we were robbedBy the villainous German,And then of the prison,The exile, the mines.My heart was like stone,I grew wild and ferocious. 390My winter had lastedA century, Grandchild,But your little DjómaHad melted its frosts.One day as I rocked himHe smiled of a sudden,And I smiled in answer….A strange thing befell meSome days after that:As I prowled in the forest 400I aimed at a squirrel;But suddenly noticedHow happy and playfulIt was, in the branches:Its bright little faceWith its paw it sat washing.I lowered my gun:—'You shall live, little squirrel!'I rambled aboutIn the woods, in the meadows, 410And each tiny floweretI loved. I went home thenAnd nursed little Djóma,And played with him, laughing.God knows how I loved him,The innocent babe!And now … through my folly,My sin, … he has perished….Upbraid me and kill me,But nothing can help you, 420With God one can't argue….Stand up now, Matróna,And pray for your baby;God acted with reason:He's counted the joysIn the life of a peasant!'
"Long, long did SavyéliStand bitterly speaking,The piteous fateOf the peasant he painted; 430And if a rich Barin,A merchant or noble,If even our FatherThe Tsar had been listening,Savyéli could notHave found words which were truer,Have spoken them better….
"'Now Djóma is happyAnd safe, in God's Heaven,'He said to me later. 440His tears began falling….
"'I do not complainThat God took him, Savyéli,'I said,—'but the insultThey did him torments me,It's racking my heart.Why did vicious black ravensAlight on his bodyAnd tear it to pieces?Will neither our God 450Nor our Tsar—Little Father—Arise to defend us?'
"'But God, little Grandchild,Is high, and the TsarFar away,' said Savyéli.
"I cried, 'Yet I'll reach them!'
"But Grandfather answered,'Now hush, little Grandchild,You woman of sorrow,Bow down and have patience; 460No truth you will findIn the world, and no justice.'
"'But why then, Savyéli?'
"'A bondswoman, Grandchild,You are; and for suchIs no hope,' said Savyéli.
"For long I sat darklyAnd bitterly thinking.The thunder pealed forthAnd the windows were shaken; 470I started! SavyéliDrew nearer and touched me,And led me to standBy the little white coffin:
"'Now pray that the LordMay have placed little DjómaAmong the bright ranksOf His angels,' he whispered;A candle he placedIn my hand…. And I knelt there 480The whole of the nightTill the pale dawn of daybreak:The grandfather stoodBeside Djómushka's coffinAnd read from the bookIn a measured low voice…."
"'Tis twenty years nowSince my Djóma was taken,Was carried to sleep'Neath his little grass blanket;And still my heart bleeds,And I pray for him always,No apple till Spassa[53]I touch with my lips….
"For long I lay ill,Not a word did I utter, 10My eyes could not sufferThe old man, Savyéli.No work did I do,And my Father-in-law thoughtTo give me a lessonAnd took down the horse-reins;I bowed to his feet,And cried—'Kill me! Oh, kill me!I pray for the end!'He hung the reins up, then. 20I lived day and nightOn the grave of my Djóma,I dusted it cleanWith a soft little napkinThat grass might grow green,And I prayed for my lost one.I yearned for my parents:'Oh, you have forgotten,Forgotten your daughter!'
"'We have not forgotten 30Our poor little daughter,But is it worth while, say,To wear the grey horse outBy such a long journeyTo learn about your woes,To tell you of ours?Since long, little daughter,Would father and motherHave journeyed to see you,But ever the thought rose: 40She'll weep at our coming,She'll shriek when we leave!'
"In winter came Philip,Our sorrow togetherWe shared, and togetherWe fought with our griefIn the grandfather's hut."
"The grandfather died, then?"
"Oh, no, in his cottageFor seven whole days 50He lay still without speaking,And then he got upAnd he went to the forest;And there old SavyéliSo wept and lamented,The woods were set throbbing.In autumn he left usAnd went as a pilgrimOn foot to do penanceAt some distant convent…. 60
"I went with my husbandTo visit my parents,And then began workingAgain. Three years followed,Each week like the other,As twin to twin brother,And each year a child.There was no time for thinkingAnd no time for grieving;Praise God if you have time 70For getting your work doneAnd crossing your forehead.You eat—when there's somethingLeft over at table,When elders have eaten,When children have eaten;You sleep—when you're ill….
"In the fourth year came sorrowAgain; for when sorrowOnce lightens upon you 80To death he pursues you;He circles before you—A bright shining falcon;He hovers behind you—An ugly black raven;He flies in advance—But he will not forsake you;He lingers behind—But he will not forget….
"I lost my dear parents. 90The dark nights alone knewThe grief of the orphan;No need is there, brothers,To tell you about it.With tears did I waterThe grave of my baby.From far once I noticedA wooden cross standingErect at its head,And a little gilt icon; 100A figure is kneelingBefore it—'Savyéli!From whence have you come?'
"'I have come from Pesótchna.I've prayed for the soulOf our dear little Djóma;I've prayed for the peasantsOf Russia…. Matróna,Once more do I pray—Oh, Matróna … Matróna…. 110I pray that the heartOf the mother, at last,May be softened towards me….Forgive me, Matróna!'
"'Oh, long, long agoI forgave you, Savyéli.'
"'Then look at me nowAs in old times, Matróna!'
"I looked as of old.Then up rose Savyéli, 120And gazed in my eyes;He was trying to straightenHis stiffened old back;Like the snow was his hair now.I kissed the old man,And my new grief I told him;For long we sat weepingAnd mourning together.He did not live longAfter that. In the autumn 130A deep wound appearedIn his neck, and he sickened.He died very hard.For a hundred days, fully,No food passed his lips;To the bone he was shrunken.He laughed at himself:'Tell me, truly, Matróna,Now am I not likeA Korójin mosquito?' 140
"At times the old manWould be gentle and patient;At times he was angryAnd nothing would please him;He frightened us allBy his outbursts of fury:'Eh, plough not, and sow not,You downtrodden peasants!You women, sit spinningAnd weaving no longer! 150However you struggle,You fools, you must perish!You will not escapeWhat by fate has been written!Three roads are spread outFor the peasant to follow—They lead to the tavern,The mines, and the prison!Three nooses are hungFor the women of Russia: 160The one is of white silk,The second of red silk,The third is of black silk—Choose that which you please!'And Grandfather laughedIn a manner which caused usTo tremble with fearAnd draw nearer together….He died in the night,And we did as he asked us: 170We laid him to restIn the grave beside Djóma.The Grandfather livedTo a hundred and seven….
"Four years passed away then,The one like the other,And I was submissive,The slave of the household,For Mother-in-lawAnd her husband the drunkard, 180For Sister-in-lawBy all suitors rejected.I'd draw off their boots—Only,—touch not my children!For them I stood firmLike a rock. Once it happenedA pilgrim arrivedAt our village—a holyAnd pious-tongued woman;She spoke to the people 190Of how to please GodAnd of how to reach Heaven.She said that on fast-daysNo woman should offerThe breast to her child.The women obeyed her:On Wednesdays and FridaysThe village was filledBy the wailing of babies;And many a mother 200Sat bitterly weepingTo hear her child cryFor its food—full of pity,But fearing God's anger.But I did not listen!I said to myselfThat if penance were needfulThe mothers must suffer,But not little children.I said, 'I am guilty, 210My God—not my children!'
"It seems God was angryAnd punished me for itThrough my little son;My Father-in-lawTo the commune had offeredMy little FedótkaAs help to the shepherdWhen he was turned eight….One night I was waiting 220To give him his supper;The cattle alreadyWere home, but he came not.I went through the villageAnd saw that the peopleWere gathered togetherAnd talking of something.I listened, then elbowedMy way through the people;Fedótka was set 230In their midst, pale and trembling,The Elder was grippingHis ear. 'What has happened?And why do you hold him?'I said to the Elder.
"'I'm going to beat him,—He threw a young lambTo the wolf,' he replied.
"I snatched my FedótkaAway from their clutches; 240And somehow the ElderFell down on the ground!
"The story was strange:It appears that the shepherdWent home for awhile,Leaving little FedótkaIn charge of the flock.'I was sitting,' he told me,'Alone on the hillside,When all of a sudden 250A wolf ran close by meAnd picked Masha's lamb up.I threw myself at her,I whistled and shouted,I cracked with my whip,Blew my horn for Valétka,And then I gave chase.I run fast, little Mother,But still I could neverHave followed the robber 260If not for the tracesShe left; because, Mother,Her breasts hung so low(She was suckling her children)They dragged on the earthAnd left two tracks of blood.But further the grey oneWent slower and slower;And then she looked backAnd she saw I was coming. 270At last she sat down.With my whip then I lashed her;''Come, give me the lamb,You grey devil!'' She crouched,But would not give it up.I said—''I must save itAlthough she should kill me.''I threw myself on herAnd snatched it away,But she did not attack me. 280The lamb was quite dead,She herself was scarce living.She gnashed with her teethAnd her breathing was heavy;And two streams of blood ranFrom under her body.Her ribs could be counted,Her head was hung down,But her eyes, little Mother,Looked straight into mine … 290Then she groaned of a sudden,She groaned, and it soundedAs if she were crying.I threw her the lamb….'
"Well, that was the story.And foolish FedótkaRan back to the villageAnd told them about it.And they, in their anger,Were going to beat him 300When I came upon them.The Elder, becauseOf his fall, was indignant,He shouted—'How dare you!Do you want a beatingYourself?' And the womanWhose lamb had been stolenCried, 'Whip the lad soundly,'Twill teach him a lesson!'Fedótka she pulled from 310My arms, and he trembled,He shook like a leaf.
"Then the horns of the huntsmenWere heard,—the PomyéshchickReturning from hunting.I ran to him, crying,'Oh, save us! Protect us!'
"'What's wrong? Call the Elder!'And then, in an instant,The matter is settled: 320'The shepherd is tiny—His youth and his follyMay well be forgiven.The woman's presumptionYou'll punish severely!'
"'Oh, Barin, God bless you!'I danced with delight!'Fedótka is safe now!Run home, quick, Fedótka.'
"'Your will shall be done, sir,' 330The Elder said, bowing;'Now, woman, prepare;You can dance later on!'
"A gossip then whispered,'Fall down at the feetOf the Elder—beg mercy!'
"'Fedótka—go home!'
"Then I kissed him, and told him:'Remember, Fedótka,That I shall be angry 340If once you look backwards.Run home!'
"Well, my brothers,To leave out a wordOf the song is to spoil it,—I lay on the ground…."
* * * * *
"I crawled like a catTo Fedótushka's cornerThat night. He was sleeping,He tossed in his dream. 350One hand was hung down,While the other, clenched tightly,Was shielding his eyes:'You've been crying, my treasure;Sleep, darling, it's nothing—See, Mother is near!'I'd lost little DjómaWhile heavy with this one;He was but a weakling,But grew very clever. 360He works with his dad now,And built such a chimneyWith him, for his master,The like of it neverWas seen. Well, I sat thereThe whole of the nightBy the sweet little shepherd.At daybreak I crossed him,I fastened his laputs,I gave him his wallet, 370His horn and his whip.The rest began stirring,But nothing I told themOf all that had happened,But that day I stayedFrom the work in the fields.
"I went to the banksOf the swift little river,I sought for a spotWhich was silent and lonely 380Amid the green rushesThat grow by the bank.
"And on the grey stoneI sat down, sick and weary,And leaning my headOn my hands, I lamented,Poor sorrowing orphan.And loudly I calledOn the names of my parents:'Oh, come, little Father, 390My tender protector!Oh, look at the daughterYou cherished and loved!'
"In vain do I call him!The loved one has left me;The guest without lord,Without race, without kindred,Named Death, has appeared,And has called him away.
"And wildly I summon 400My mother, my mother!The boisterous wind cries,The distant hills answer,But mother is dead,She can hear me no longer!
"You grieved day and night,And you prayed for me always,But never, beloved,Shall I see you again;You cannot turn back now, 410And I may not follow.
"A pathway so strange,So unknown, you have chosen,The beasts cannot find it,The winds cannot reach it,My voice will be lostIn the terrible distance….
"My loving protectors,If you could but see me!Could know what your daughter 420Must suffer without you!Could learn of the peopleTo whom you have left her!
"By night bathed in tears,And by day weak and trembling,I bow like the grassTo the wind, but in secretA heart full of furyIs gnawing my breast!"
"Strange stars played that yearOn the face of the Heavens;And some said, 'The Lord ridesAbroad, and His angelsWith long flaming brooms sweepThe floor of the HeavensIn front of his carriage.'But others were frightened,—They said, 'It is ratherThe Antichrist coming! 10It signals misfortune!'And they read it truly.A terrible year came,A terrible famine,When brother deniedTo his brother a morsel.And then I rememberedThe wolf that was hungry,For I was like her,Craving food for my children. 20Now Mother-in-law foundA new superstition:She said to the neighboursThat I was the reasonOf all the misfortune;And why? I had caused itBy changing my shirtOn the day before Christmas!Well, I escaped lightly,For I had a husband 30To shield and protect me,But one woman, havingOffended, was beatenTo death by the people.To play with the starvingIs dangerous, my friends.
"The famine was scarcelyAt end, when anotherMisfortune befell us—The dreaded recruiting. 40But I was not troubledBy that, because PhílipWas safe: one alreadyHad served of his people.One night I sat working,My husband, his brothers,The family, all hadBeen out since the morning.My Father-in-lawHad been called to take part 50In the communal meeting.The women were standingAnd chatting with neighbours.But I was exhausted,For then I was heavyWith child. I was ailing,And hourly expectedMy time. When the childrenWere fed and asleepI lay down on the oven. 60The women came home soonAnd called for their suppers;But Father-in-lawHad not come, so we waited.He came, tired and gloomy:'Eh, wife, we are ruined!I'm weary with running,But nothing can save us:They've taken the eldest—Now give them the youngest! 70I've counted the yearsTo a day—I have proved them;They listen to nothing.They want to take Phílip!I prayed to the commune—But what is it worth?I ran to the bailiff;He swore he was sorry,But couldn't assist us.I went to the clerk then; 80You might just as wellSet to work with a hatchetTo chop out the shadowsUp there, on the ceiling,As try to get truthOut of that little rascal!He's bought. They are all bought,—Not one of them honest!If only he knew it—The Governor—he'd teach them! 90If he would but orderThe commune to show himThe lists of the volost,And see how they cheat us!'The mother and daughtersAre groaning and crying;But I! … I am cold….I am burning in fever! …My thoughts … I have no thoughts!I think I am dreaming! 100My fatherless childrenAre standing before me,And crying with hunger.The family, frowning,Looks coldly upon them….At home they are 'noisy,'At play they are 'clumsy,'At table they're 'gluttons'!And somebody threatensTo punish my children— 110They slap them and pinch them!Be silent, you mother!You wife of a soldier!"
* * * * *
"I now have no partIn the village allotments,No share in the building,The clothes, and the cattle,And these are my riches:Three lakes of salt tear-drops,Three fields sown with grief!" 120
* * * * *
"And now, like a sinner,I bow to the neighbours;I ask their forgiveness;I hear myself saying,'Forgive me for beingSo haughty and proud!I little expectedThat God, for my pride,Would have left me forsaken!I pray you, good people, 130To show me more wisdom,To teach me to liveAnd to nourish my children,What food they should have,And what drink, and what teaching.'"
* * * * *
"I'm sending my childrenTo beg in the village;'Go, children, beg humbly,But dare not to steal.'The children are sobbing, 140'It's cold, little Mother,Our clothes are in rags;We are weary of passingFrom doorway to doorway;We stand by the windowsAnd shiver. We're frightenedTo beg of the rich folk;The poor ones say, ''God willProvide for the orphans!''We cannot come home, 150For if we bring nothingWe know you'll be angry!'"
* * * * *
"To go to God's churchI have made myself tidy;I hear how the neighboursAre laughing around me:'Now who is she settingHer cap at?' they whisper."
* * * * *
"Don't wash yourself clean.And don't dress yourself nicely; 160The neighbours are sharp—They have eyes like the eagleAnd tongues like the serpent.Walk humbly and slowly,Don't laugh when you're cheerful,Don't weep when you're sad."
* * * * *
"The dull, endless winterHas come, and the fieldsAnd the pretty green meadowsAre hidden away 170'Neath the snow. Nothing livingIs seen in the foldsOf the gleaming white grave-clothes.No friend under HeavenThere is for the woman,The wife of the soldier.Who knows what her thoughts are?Who cares for her words?Who is sad for her sorrow?And where can she bury 180The insults they cast her?Perhaps in the woods?—But the woods are all withered!Perhaps in the meadows?—The meadows are frozen!The swift little stream?—But its waters are sleeping!No,—carry them with youTo hide in your grave!"
* * * * *
"My husband is gone; 190There is no one to shield me.Hark, hark! There's the drum!And the soldiers are coming!They halt;—they are formingA line in the market.'Attention!' There's Phílip!There's Phílip! I see him!'Attention! Eyes front!'It's Shaláshnikov shouting….Oh, Phílip has fallen! 200Have mercy! Have mercy!'Try that—try some physic!You'll soon get to like it!Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!'He is striking my husband!'I flog, not with whips,But with knouts made for giants!'"
* * * * *
"I sprang from the stove,Though my burden was heavy;I listen…. All silent…. 210The family sleeping.I creep to the doorwayAnd open it softly,I pass down the streetThrough the night…. It is frosty.In Domina's hut,Where the youths and young maidensAssemble at night,They are singing in chorusMy favourite song: 220
"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Máshenka is there.Her father comes to look for her,He wakens her and coaxes her:''Eh, Máshenka, come home,'' he cries,''Efeémovna, come home!''
"'''I won't come, and I won't listen!Black the night—no moon in Heaven!Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry!Dark the wood—no guards.'' 231
"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Máshenka is there.Her mother comes to look for her,She wakens her and coaxes her:''Now, Máshenka, come home,'' she says,''Efeémovna, come home!''
"'''I won't come, and I won't listen!Black the night—no moon in Heaven!Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry!Dark the wood—no guards!'' 242
"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Máshenka is there.Young Peter comes to look for her,He wakens her, and coaxes her:''Oh, Máshenka, come home with me!My little dove, Efeémovna,Come home, my dear, with me.'' 250
"'''I will come, and I will listen,Fair the night—the moon in Heaven,Calm the stream with bridge and ferry,In the wood strong guards.'''"
"I'm hurrying blindly,I've run through the village;Yet strangely the singingFrom Domina's cottagePursues me and ringsIn my ears. My pace slackens,I rest for awhile,And look back at the village:I see the white snowdriftO'er valley and meadow, 10The moon in the Heavens,My self, and my shadow….
"I do not feel frightened;A flutter of gladnessAwakes in my bosom,'You brisk winter breezes,My thanks for your freshness!I crave for your breathAs the sick man for water.'My mind has grown clear, 20To my knees I am falling:'O Mother of Christ!I beseech Thee to tell meWhy God is so angryWith me. Holy Mother!No tiniest boneIn my limbs is unbroken;No nerve in my bodyUncrushed. I am patient,—I have not complained. 30All the strength that God gave meI've spent on my work;All the love on my children.But Thou seest all things,And Thou art so mighty;Oh, succour thy slave!'
"I love now to prayOn a night clear and frosty;To kneel on the earth'Neath the stars in the winter. 40Remember, my brothers,If trouble befall you,To counsel your womenTo pray in that manner;In no other placeCan one pray so devoutly,At no other season….
"I prayed and grew stronger;I bowed my hot headTo the cool snowy napkin, 50And quickly my feverWas spent. And when laterI looked at the roadwayI found that I knew it;I'd passed it beforeOn the mild summer evenings;At morning I'd greetedThe sunrise upon itIn haste to be offTo the fair. And I walked now 60The whole of the nightWithout meeting a soul….But now to the citiesThe sledges are starting,Piled high with the hayOf the peasants. I watch them,And pity the horses:Their lawful provisionThemselves they are draggingAway from the courtyard; 70And afterwards theyWill be hungry. I pondered:The horses that workMust eat straw, while the idlersAre fed upon oats.But when Need comes he hastensTo empty your corn-lofts,Won't wait to be asked….
"I come within sightOf the town. On the outskirts 80The merchants are cheatingAnd wheedling the peasants,There's shouting and swearing,Abusing and coaxing.
"I enter the townAs the bell rings for matins.I make for the marketBefore the cathedral.I know that the gatesOf the Governor's courtyard 90Are there. It is dark still,The square is quite empty;In front of the courtyardA sentinel paces:'Pray tell me, good man,Does the Governor rise early?'
"'Don't know. Go away.I'm forbidden to chatter.'(I give him some farthings.)'Well, go to the porter; 100He knows all about it.'
"'Where is he? And whatIs his name, little sentry?'
"'Makhár Fedosséich,He stands at the entrance.'I walk to the entrance,The doors are not opened.I sit on the doorstepsAnd think….
"It grows lighter, 110A man with a ladderIs turning the lamps down.
"'Heh, what are you doing?And how did you enter?'
"I start in confusion,I see in the doorwayA bald-headed manIn a bed-gown. Then quicklyI come to my senses,And bowing before him 120(Makhár Fedosséich),I give him a rouble.
"'I come in great needTo the Governor, and see himI must, little Uncle!'
"'You can't see him, woman.Well, well…. I'll consider….Return in two hours.'
"I see in the marketA pedestal standing, 130A peasant upon it,He's just like Savyéli,And all made of brass:It's Susánin's memorial.While crossing the marketI'm suddenly startled—A heavy grey drakeFrom a cook is escaping;The fellow pursuesWith a knife. It is shrieking. 140My God, what a sound!To the soul it has pierced me.('Tis only the knifeThat can wring such a shriek.)The cook has now caught it;It stretches its neck,Begins angrily hissing,As if it would frightenThe cook,—the poor creature!I run from the market, 150I'm trembling and thinking,'The drake will grow calm'Neath the kiss of the knife!'
"The Governor's dwellingAgain is before me,With balconies, turrets,And steps which are coveredWith beautiful carpets.I gaze at the windowsAll shaded with curtains. 160'Now, which is your chamber,'I think, 'my desired one?Say, do you sleep sweetly?Of what are you dreaming?'I creep up the doorsteps,And keep to the sideNot to tread on the carpets;And there, near the entrance,I wait for the porter.
"'You're early, my gossip!' 170Again I am startled:A stranger I see,—For at first I don't know him;A livery richlyEmbroidered he wears now;He holds a fine staff;He's not bald any longer!He laughs—'You were frightened?'
"'I'm tired, little Uncle.'
"'You've plenty of courage, 180God's mercy be yours!Come, give me another,And I will befriend you.'
"(I give him a rouble.)'Now come, I will make youSome tea in my office.'
"His den is just underThe stairs. There's a bedstead,A little iron stove,And a candlestick in it, 190A big samovar,And a lamp in the corner.Some pictures are hungOn the wall. 'That's His Highness,'The porter remarks,And he points with his finger.I look at the picture:A warrior coveredWith stars. 'Is he gentle?'
"'That's just as you happen 200To find him. Why, neighbour,The same is with me:To-day I'm obliging,At times I'm as crossAs a dog.'
"'You are dull here,Perhaps, little Uncle?'
"'Oh no, I'm not dull;I've a task that's exciting:Ten years have I fought 210With a foe: Sleep his name is.And I can assure youThat when I have takenAn odd cup of vodka,The stove is red hot,And the smuts from the candleHave blackened the air,It's a desperate struggle!'
"There's somebody knocking.Makhár has gone out; 220I am sitting alone now.I go to the doorAnd look out. In the courtyardA carriage is waiting.I ask, 'Is he coming?''The lady is coming,'The porter makes answer,And hurries awayTo the foot of the staircase.A lady descends, 230Wrapped in costliest sables,A lackey behind her.I know not what followed(The Mother of GodMust have come to my aid),It seems that I fellAt the feet of the lady,And cried, 'Oh, protect us!They try to deceive us!My husband—the only 240Support of my children—They've taken away—Oh, they've acted unjustly!'…
"'Who are you, my pigeon?'
"My answer I know not,Or whether I gave one;A sudden sharp pang toreMy body in twain."
* * * * *
"I opened my eyesIn a beautiful chamber, 250In bed I was laid'Neath a canopy, brothers,And near me was sittingA nurse, in a head-dressAll streaming with ribbons.She's nursing a baby.'Who's is it?' I ask her.
"'It's yours, little Mother.'I kiss my sweet child.It seems, when I fell 260At the feet of the lady,I wept so and raved so,Already so weakenedBy grief and exhaustion,That there, without warning,My labour had seized me.I bless the sweet lady,Elyén Alexándrovna,Only a motherCould bless her as I do. 270She christened my baby,Lidórushka called him."
"And what of your husband?"
"They sent to the villageAnd started enquiries,And soon he was righted.Elyén AlexándrovnaBrought him herselfTo my side. She was tenderAnd clever and lovely, 280And healthy, but childless,For God would not grant herA child. While I stayed thereMy baby was neverAway from her bosom.She tended and nursed himHerself, like a mother.The spring had set inAnd the birch trees were budding,Before she would let us 290Set out to go home.
"Oh, how fair and brightIn God's world to-day!Glad my heart and gay!
"Homewards lies our way,Near the wood we pause,See, the meadows green,Hark! the waters play.Rivulet so pure,Little child of Spring, 300How you leap and sing,Rippling in the leaves!High the little larkSoars above our heads,Carols blissfully!Let us stand and gaze;Soon our eyes will meet,I will laugh to thee,Thou wilt smile at me,Wee Lidórushka! 310
"Look, a beggar comes,Trembling, weak, old man,Give him what we can.'Do not pray for us,'Let us to him say,'Father, you must prayFor Elyénushka,For the lady fair,Alexándrovna!'
"Look, the church of God! 320Sign the cross we twainTime and time again….'Grant, O blessed Lord,Thy most fair rewardTo the gentle heartOf Elyénushka,Alexándrovna!'
"Green the forest grows,Green the pretty fields,In each dip and dell 330Bright a mirror gleams.Oh, how fair it isIn God's world to-day,Glad my heart and gay!Like the snowy swanO'er the lake I sail,O'er the waving steppesSpeeding like the quail.
"Here we are at home.Through the door I fly 340Like the pigeon grey;Low the familyBow at sight of me,Nearly to the ground,Pardon they beseechFor the way in whichThey have treated me.'Sit you down,' I say,'Do not bow to me.Listen to my words: 350You must bow to oneBetter far than I,Stronger far than I,Sing your praise to her.'
"'Sing to whom,' you say?'To Elyénushka,To the fairest soulGod has sent on earth:Alexándrovna!'"
Matróna is silent.You see that the peasantsHave seized the occasion—They are not forgettingTo drink to the healthOf the beautiful lady!But noticing soonThat Matróna is silent,In file they approach her.
"What more will you tell us?" 10
"What more?" says Matróna,"My fame as the 'lucky one'Spread through the volost,Since then they have called me'The Governor's Lady.'You ask me, what further?I managed the household,And brought up my children.You ask, was I happy?Well, that you can answer 20Yourselves. And my children?Five sons! But the peasant'sMisfortunes are endless:They've robbed me of one."She lowers her voice,And her lashes are trembling,But turning her headShe endeavours to hide it.The peasants are ratherConfused, but they linger: 30"Well, neighbour," they say,"Will you tell us no more?"
"There's one thing: You're foolishTo seek among womenFor happiness, brothers."
"That's all?"
"I can tell youThat twice we were swallowedBy fire, and that three timesThe plague fell upon us; 40But such things are commonTo all of us peasants.Like cattle we toiled,My steps were as easyAs those of a horseIn the plough. But my troublesWere not very startling:No mountains have movedFrom their places to crush me;And God did not strike me 50With arrows of thunder.The storm in my soulHas been silent, unnoticed,So how can I paint itTo you? O'er the MotherInsulted and outraged,The blood of her first-bornAs o'er a crushed wormHas been poured; and unansweredThe deadly offences 60That many have dealt her;The knout has been raisedUnopposed o'er her body.But one thing I neverHave suffered: I told youThat Sítnikov died,That the last, irreparableShame had been spared me.You ask me for happiness?Brothers, you mock me! 70Go, ask the official,The Minister mighty,The Tsar—Little Father,But never a woman!God knows—among womenYour search will be endless,Will lead to your graves.
"A pious old womanOnce asked us for shelter;The whole of her lifetime 80The Flesh she had conqueredBy penance and fasting;She'd bathed in the Jordan,And prayed at the tombOf Christ Jesus. She told usThe keys to the welfareAnd freedom of womenHave long been mislaid—God Himself has mislaid them.And hermits, chaste women, 90And monks of great learning,Have sought them all overThe world, but not found them.They're lost, and 'tis thoughtBy a fish they've been swallowed.God's knights have been seekingIn towns and in deserts,Weak, starving, and cold,Hung with torturing fetters.They've asked of the seers, 100The stars they have countedTo learn;—but no keys!Through the world they have journeyed;In underground caverns,In mountains, they've sought them.At last they discoveredSome keys. They were precious,But only—not ours.Yet the warriors triumphed:They fitted the lock 110On the fetters of serfdom!A sigh from all overThe world rose to Heaven,A breath of relief,Oh, so deep and so joyful!Our keys were still missing….Great champions, though,Till to-day are still searching,Deep down in the bedOf the ocean they wander, 120They fly to the skies,In the clouds they are seeking,But never the keys.Do you think they will find them?Who knows? Who can say?But I think it is doubtful,For which fish has swallowedThose treasures so priceless,In which sea it swims—God Himself has forgotten!" 130