Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

"Not only to men

Must we go with our question,

We'll ask of the women,"

The peasants decided.

They asked in the village

"Split-up," but the people

Replied to them shortly,

"Not here will you find one.

But go to the village

'Stripped-Naked'—a woman 10

Lives there who is happy.

She's hardly a woman,

She's more like a cow,

For a woman so healthy,

So smooth and so clever,

Could hardly be found.

You must seek in the village

Matróna Korchágin—

The people there call her

'The Governor's Lady.'" 20

The peasants considered

And went….

Now already

The corn-stalks are rising

Like tall graceful columns,

With gilded heads nodding,

And whispering softly

In gentle low voices.

Oh, beautiful summer!

No time is so gorgeous, 30

So regal, so rich.

You full yellow cornfields,

To look at you now

One would never imagine

How sorely God's people

Had toiled to array you

Before you arose,

In the sight of the peasant,

And stood before him,

Like a glorious army 40

In front of a Tsar!

'Tis not by warm dew-drops

That you have been moistened,

The sweat of the peasant

Has fallen upon you.

The peasants are gladdened

At sight of the oats

And the rye and the barley,

But not by the wheat,

For it feeds but the chosen: 50

"We love you not, wheat!

But the rye and the barley

We love—they are kind,

They feed all men alike."

The flax, too, is growing

So sweetly and bravely:

"Ai! you little mite!

You are caught and entangled!"

A poor little lark

In the flax has been captured; 60

It struggles for freedom.

Pakhóm picks it up,

He kisses it tenderly:

"Fly, little birdie!" …

The lark flies away

To the blue heights of Heaven;

The kind-hearted peasants

Gaze lovingly upwards

To see it rejoice

In the freedom above…. 70

The peas have come on, too;

Like locusts, the peasants

Attack them and eat them.

They're like a plump maiden—

The peas—for whoever

Goes by must needs pinch them.

Now peas are being carried

In old hands, in young hands,

They're spreading abroad

Over seventy high-roads. 80

The vegetables—how

They're flourishing also!

Each toddler is clasping

A radish or carrot,

And many are cracking

The seeds of the sunflower.

The beetroots are dotted

Like little red slippers

All over the earth.

Our peasants are walking, 90

Now faster—now slower.

At last they have reached it—

The village 'Stripped-Naked,'

It's not much to look at:

Each hut is propped up

Like a beggar on crutches;

The thatch from the roofs

Has made food for the cattle;

The huts are like feeble

Old skeletons standing, 100

Like desolate rooks' nests

When young birds forsake them.

When wild Autumn winds

Have dismantled the birch-trees.

The people are all

In the fields; they are working.

Behind the poor village

A manor is standing;

It's built on the slope

Of a hill, and the peasants 110

Are making towards it

To look at it close.

The house is gigantic,

The courtyard is huge,

There's a pond in it too;

A watch-tower arises

From over the house,

With a gallery round it,

A flagstaff upon it.

They meet with a lackey 120

Near one of the gates:

He seems to be wearing

A strange kind of mantle;

"Well, what are you up to?"

He says to the friends,

"The Pomyéshchick's abroad now,

The manager's dying."

He shows them his back,

And they all begin laughing:

A tiger is clutching 130

The edge of his shoulders!

"Heh! here's a fine joke!"

They are hotly discussing

What kind of a mantle

The lackey is wearing,

Till clever Pakhóm

Has got hold of the riddle.

"The cunning old rascal,

He's stolen a carpet,

And cut in the middle 140

A hole for his head!"

Like weak, straddling beetles

Shut up to be frozen

In cold empty huts

By the pitiless peasants.

The servants are crawling

All over the courtyard.

Their master long since

Has forgotten about them,

And left them to live 150

As they can. They are hungry,

All old and decrepit,

And dressed in all manners,

They look like a crowd

In a gipsy encampment.

And some are now dragging

A net through the pond:

"God come to your help!

Have you caught something, brothers?"

"One carp—nothing more; 160

There used once to be many,

But now we have come

To the end of the feast!"

"Do try to get five!"

Says a pale, pregnant woman,

Who's fervently blowing

A fire near the pond.

"And what are those pretty

Carved poles you are burning?

They're balcony railings, 170

I think, are they not?"

"Yes, balcony railings."

"See here. They're like tinder;

Don't blow on them, Mother!

I bet they'll burn faster

Than you find the victuals

To cook in the pot!"

"I'm waiting and waiting,

And Mítyenka sickens

Because of the musty 180

Old bread that I give him.

But what can I do?

This life—it is bitter!"

She fondles the head

Of a half-naked baby

Who sits by her side

In a little brass basin,

A button-nosed mite.

"The boy will take cold there,

The basin will chill him," 190

Says Prov; and he wishes

To lift the child up,

But it screams at him, angry.

"No, no! Don't you touch him,"

The mother says quickly,

"Why, can you not see

That's his carriage he's driving?

Drive on, little carriage!

Gee-up, little horses!

You see how he drives!" 200

The peasants each moment

Observe some new marvel;

And soon they have noticed

A strange kind of labour

Proceeding around them:

One man, it appears,

To the door has got fastened;

He's toiling away

To unscrew the brass handles,

His hands are so weak 210

He can scarcely control them.

Another is hugging

Some tiles: "See, Yegórshka,

I've dug quite a heap out!"

Some children are shaking

An apple-tree yonder:

"You see, little Uncles,

There aren't many left,

Though the tree was quite heavy."

"But why do you want them? 220

They're quite hard and green."

"We're thankful to get them!"

The peasants examine

The park for a long time;

Such wonders are seen here,

Such cunning inventions:

In one place a mountain

Is raised; in another

A ravine yawns deep!

A lake has been made too; 230

Perhaps at one time

There were swans on the water?

The summer-house has some

Inscriptions upon it,

Demyán begins spelling

Them out very slowly.

A grey-haired domestic

Is watching the peasants;

He sees they have very

Inquisitive natures, 240

And presently slowly

Goes hobbling towards them,

And holding a book.

He says, "Will you buy it?"

Demyán is a peasant

Acquainted with letters,

He tries for some time

But he can't read a word.

"Just sit down yourself

On that seat near the linden, 250

And read the book leisurely

Like a Pomyéshchick!"

"You think you are clever,"

The grey-headed servant

Retorts with resentment,

"Yet books which are learned

Are wasted upon you.

You read but the labels

On public-house windows,

And that which is written 260

On every odd corner:

'Most strictly forbidden.'"

The pathways are filthy,

The graceful stone ladies

Bereft of their noses.

"The fruit and the berries,

The geese and the swans

Which were once on the water,

The thieving old rascals

Have stuffed in their maws. 270

Like church without pastor,

Like fields without peasants,

Are all these fine gardens

Without a Pomyéshchick,"

The peasants remark.

For long the Pomyéshchick

Has gathered his treasures,

When all of a sudden….

(The six peasants laugh,

But the seventh is silent, 280

He hangs down his head.)

A song bursts upon them!

A voice is resounding

Like blasts of a trumpet.

The heads of the peasants

Are eagerly lifted,

They gaze at the tower.

On the balcony round it

A man is now standing;

He wears a pope's cassock; 290

He sings … on the balmy

Soft air of the evening,

The bass, like a huge

Silver bell, is vibrating,

And throbbing it enters

The hearts of the peasants.

The words are not Russian,

But some foreign language,

But, like Russian songs,

It is full of great sorrow, 300

Of passionate grief,

Unending, unfathomed;

It wails and laments,

It is bitterly sobbing….

"Pray tell us, good woman,

What man is that singing?"

Román asks the woman

Now feeding her baby

With steaming ukhá.[43]

"A singer, my brothers, 310

A born Little Russian,

The Barin once brought him

Away from his home,

With a promise to send him

To Italy later.

But long the Pomyéshchick

Has been in strange parts

And forgotten his promise;

And now the poor fellow

Would be but too glad 320

To get back to his village.

There's nothing to do here,

He hasn't a farthing,

There's nothing before him

And nothing behind him

Excepting his voice.

You have not really heard it;

You will if you stay here

Till sunrise to-morrow:

Some three versts away 330

There is living a deacon,

And he has a voice too.

They greet one another:

Each morning at sunrise

Will our little singer

Climb up to the watch-tower,

And call to the other,

'Good-morrow to Father

Ipát, and how fares he?'

(The windows all shake 340

At the sound.)

From the distance

The deacon will answer,

'Good-morrow, good-morrow,

To our little sweet-throat!

I go to drink vodka,

I'm going … I'm going….'

The voice on the air

Will hang quivering around us

For more than an hour, 350

Like the neigh of a stallion."

The cattle are now

Coming home, and the evening

Is filled with the fragrance

Of milk; and the woman,

The mother of Mítyenka,

Sighs; she is thinking,

"If only one cow

Would turn into the courtyard!"

But hark! In the distance 360

Some voices in chorus!

"Good-bye, you poor mourners,

May God send you comfort!

The people are coming,

We're going to meet them."

The peasants are filled

With relief; because after

The whining old servants

The people who meet them

Returning from work 370

In the fields seem such healthy

And beautiful people.

The men and the women

And pretty young girls

Are all singing together.

"Good health to you! Which is

Among you the woman

Matróna Korchágin?"

The peasants demand.

"And what do you want 380

With Matróna Korchágin?"

The woman Matróna

Is tall, finely moulded,

Majestic in bearing,

And strikingly handsome.

Of thirty-eight years

She appears, and her black hair

Is mingled with grey.

Her complexion is swarthy,

Her eyes large and dark 390

And severe, with rich lashes.

A white shirt, and short

Sarafán[44] she is wearing,

She walks with a hay-fork

Slung over her shoulder.

"Well, what do you want

With Matróna Korchágin?"

The peasants are silent;

They wait till the others

Have gone in advance, 400

And then, bowing, they answer:

"We come from afar,

And a trouble torments us,

A trouble so great

That for it we've forsaken

Our homes and our work,

And our appetites fail.

We're orthodox peasants,

From District 'Most Wretched,'

From 'Destitute Parish,' 410

From neighbouring hamlets—

'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'

'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'

And 'Harvestless,' too.

We met in the roadway

And argued about

Who is happy in Russia.

Luká said, 'The pope,'

And Demyán, 'The Pomyéshchick,'

And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420

And Román, 'The official.'

'The round-bellied merchant,'

Said both brothers Goóbin,

Mitródor and Ívan.

Pakhóm said, 'His Highness,

The Tsar's Chief Adviser.'

Like bulls are the peasants:

Once folly is in them

You cannot dislodge it

Although you should beat them 430

With stout wooden cudgels,

They stick to their folly

And nothing will move them.

We argued and quarrelled,

While quarrelling fought,

And while fighting decided

That never again

Would we turn our steps homewards

To kiss wives and children,

To see the old people, 440

Until we have found

The reply to our question,

Of who can in Russia

Be happy and free?

We've questioned the pope,

We've asked the Pomyéshchick,

And now we ask you.

We'll seek the official,

The Minister, merchant,

We even will go 450

To the Tsar—Little Father,

Though whether he'll see us

We cannot be sure.

But rumour has told us

That you're free and happy.

Then say, in God's name,

If the rumour be true."

Matróna Korchágin

Does not seem astonished,

But only a sad look 460

Creeps into her eyes,

And her face becomes thoughtful.

"Your errand is surely

A foolish one, brothers,"

She says to the peasants,

"For this is the season

Of work, and no peasant

For chatter has time."

"Till now on our journey

Throughout half the Empire 470

We've met no denial,"

The peasants protest.

"But look for yourselves, now,

The corn-ears are bursting.

We've not enough hands."

"And we? What are we for?

Just give us some sickles,

And see if we don't

Get some work done to-morrow!"

The peasants reply. 480

Matróna sees clearly

Enough that this offer

Must not be rejected;

"Agreed," she said, smiling,

"To such lusty fellows

As you, we may well look

For ten sheaves apiece."

"You give us your promise

To open your heart to us?"

"I will hide nothing." 490

Matróna Korchágin

Now enters her cottage,

And while she is working

Within it, the peasants

Discover a very

Nice spot just behind it,

And sit themselves down.

There's a barn close beside them

And two immense haystacks,

A flax-field around them; 500

And lying just near them

A fine plot of turnips,

And spreading above them

A wonderful oak-tree,

A king among oaks.

They're sitting beneath it,

And now they're producing

The magic white napkin:

"Heh, napkin enchanted,

Give food to the peasants!" 510

The napkin unfolds,

Two hands have come floating

From no one sees where,

Place a pailful of vodka,

A large pile of bread

On the magic white napkin,

And dwindle away.

The two brothers Goóbin

Are chuckling together,

For they have just pilfered 520

A very big horse-radish

Out of the garden—

It's really a monster!

The skies are dark blue now,

The bright stars are twinkling,

The moon has arisen

And sails high above them;

The woman Matróna

Comes out of the cottage

To tell them her tale. 530

"My girlhood was happy,

For we were a thrifty

Arid diligent household;

And I, the young maiden,

With Father and Mother

Knew nothing but joy.

My father got up

And went out before sunrise,

He woke me with kisses

And tender caresses; 10

My brother, while dressing,

Would sing little verses:

'Get up, little Sister,

Get up, little Sister,

In no little beds now

Are people delaying,

In all little churches

The peasants are praying,

Get up, now, get up,

It is time, little Sister. 20

The shepherd has gone

To the field with the sheep,

And no little maidens

Are lying asleep,

They've gone to pick raspberries,

Merrily singing.

The sound of the axe

In the forest is ringing.'

"And then my dear mother,

When she had done scouring 30

The pots and the pans,

When the hut was put tidy,

The bread in the oven,

Would steal to my bedside,

And cover me softly

And whisper to me:

"'Sleep on, little dove,

Gather strength—you will need it—

You will not stay always

With Father and Mother, 40

And when you will leave them

To live among strangers

Not long will you sleep.

You'll slave till past midnight,

And rise before daybreak;

You'll always be weary.

They'll give you a basket

And throw at the bottom

A crust. You will chew it,

My poor little dove, 50

And start working again….'

"But, brothers, I did not

Spend much time in sleeping;

And when I was five

On the day of St. Simon,

I mounted a horse

With the help of my father,

And then was no longer

A child. And at six years

I carried my father 60

His breakfast already,

And tended the ducks,

And at night brought the cow home,

And next—took my rake,

And was off to the hayfields!

And so by degrees

I became a great worker,

And yet best of all

I loved singing and dancing;

The whole day I worked 70

In the fields, and at nightfall

Returned to the cottage

All covered with grime.

But what's the hot bath for?

And thanks to the bath

And boughs of the birch-tree,

And icy spring water,

Again I was clean

And refreshed, and was ready

To take out my spinning-wheel, 80

And with companions

To sing half the night.

"I never ran after

The youths, and the forward

I checked very sharply.

To those who were gentle

And shy, I would whisper:

'My cheeks will grow hot,

And sharp eyes has my mother;

Be wise, now, and leave me 90

Alone'—and they left me.

"No matter how clever

I was to avoid them,

The one came at last

I was destined to wed;

And he—to my bitter

Regret—was a stranger:

Young Phílip Korchágin,

A builder of ovens.

He came from St. Petersburg. 100

Oh, how my mother

Did weep: 'Like a fish

In the ocean, my daughter,

You'll plunge and be lost;

Like a nightingale, straying

Away from its nest,

We shall lose you, my daughter!

The walls of the stranger

Are not built of sugar,

Are not spread with honey, 110

Their dwellings are chilly

And garnished with hunger;

The cold winds will nip you,

The black rooks will scold you,

The savage dogs bite you,

The strangers despise you.'

"But Father sat talking

And drinking till late

With the 'swat.'[45]

I was frightened.

I slept not all night…. 120

"Oh, youth, pray you, tell me,

Now what can you find

In the maiden to please you?

And where have you seen her?

Perhaps in the sledges

With merry young friends

Flying down from the mountain?

Then you were mistaken,

O son of your father,

It was but the frost 130

And the speed and the laughter

That brought the bright tints

To the cheeks of the maiden.

Perhaps at some feast

In the home of a neighbour

You saw her rejoicing

And clad in bright colours?

But then she was plump

From her rest in the winter;

Her rosy face bloomed 140

Like the scarlet-hued poppy;

But wait!—have you been

To the hut of her father

And seen her at work

Beating flax in the barn?

Ah, what shall I do?

I will take brother falcon

And send him to town:

'Fly to town, brother falcon,

And bring me some cloth 150

And six colours of worsted,

And tassels of blue.

I will make a fine curtain,

Embroider each corner

With Tsar and Tsaritsa,

With Moscow and Kiev,

And Constantinople,

And set the great sun

Shining bright in the middle,

And this I will hang 160

In the front of my window:

Perhaps you will see it,

And, struck by its beauty,

Will stand and admire it,

And will not remember

To seek for the maiden….'

"And so till the morning

I lay with such thoughts.

'Now, leave me, young fellow,'

I said to the youth 170

When he came in the evening;

'I will not be foolish

Enough to abandon

My freedom in order

To enter your service.

God sees me—I will not

Depart from my home!'

"'Do come,' said young Phílip,

'So far have I travelled

To fetch you. Don't fear me— 180

I will not ill-treat you.'

I begged him to leave me,

I wept and lamented;

But nevertheless

I was still a young maiden:

I did not forget

Sidelong glances to cast

At the youth who thus wooed me.

And Phílip was handsome,

Was rosy and lusty, 190

Was strong and broad-shouldered,

With fair curling hair,

With a voice low and tender….

Ah, well … I was won….

"'Come here, pretty fellow,

And stand up against me,

Look deep in my eyes—

They are clear eyes and truthful;

Look well at my rosy

Young face, and bethink you: 200

Will you not regret it,

Won't my heart be broken,

And shall I not weep

Day and night if I trust you

And go with you, leaving

My parents forever?'

"'Don't fear, little pigeon,

We shall not regret it,'

Said Phílip, but still

I was timid and doubtful. 210

'Do go,' murmured I, and he,

'When you come with me.'

Of course I was fairer

And sweeter and dearer

Than any that lived,

And his arms were about me….

Then all of a sudden

I made a sharp effort

To wrench myself free. 219

'How now? What's the matter?

You're strong, little pigeon!'

Said Phílip astonished,

But still held me tight.

'Ah, Phílip, if you had

Not held me so firmly

You would not have won me;

I did it to try you,

To measure your strength;

You were strong, and it pleased me.'

We must have been happy 230

In those fleeting moments

When softly we whispered

And argued together;

I think that we never

Were happy again….

"How well I remember….

The night was like this night,

Was starlit and silent …

Was dreamy and tender

Like this…." 240

And the woman,

Matróna, sighed deeply,

And softly began—

Leaning back on the haystack—

To sing to herself

With her thoughts in the past:

"'Tell me, young merchant, pray,

Why do you love me so—

Poor peasant's daughter?

I am not clad in gold, 250

I am not hung with pearls,

Not decked with silver.'

"'Silver your chastity,

Golden your beauty shines,

O my belovèd,

White pearls are falling now

Out of your weeping eyes,

Falling like tear-drops.'

"My father gave orders

To bring forth the wine-cups, 260

To set them all out

On the solid oak table.

My dear mother blessed me:

'Go, serve them, my daughter,

Bow low to the strangers.'

I bowed for the first time,

My knees shook and trembled;

I bowed for the second—

My face had turned white;

And then for the third time 270

I bowed, and forever

The freedom of girlhood

Rolled down from my head…."

"Ah, that means a wedding,"

Cry both brothers Goóbin,

"Let's drink to the health

Of the happy young pair!"

"Well said! We'll begin

With the bride," say the others.

"Will you drink some vodka, 280

Matróna Korchágin?"

"An old woman, brothers,

And not drink some vodka?"

Stand before your judge—

And your legs will quake!

Stand before the priest

On your wedding-day,—

How your head will ache!

How your head will ache!

You will call to mind

Songs of long ago,

Songs of gloom and woe:

Telling how the guests 10

Crowd into the yard,

Run to see the bride

Whom the husband brings

Homeward at his side.

How his parents both

Fling themselves on her;

How his brothers soon

Call her "wasteful one";

How his sisters next

Call her "giddy one"; 20

How his father growls,

"Greedy little bear!"

How his mother snarls,

"Cannibal!" at her.

She is "slovenly"

And "disorderly,"

She's a "wicked one"!

"All that's in the song

Happened now to me.

Do you know the song? 30

Have you heard it sung?"

"Yes, we know it well;

Gossip, you begin,

We will all join in."

Matróna

So sleepy, so weary

I am, and my heavy head

Clings to the pillow.

But out in the passage

My Father-in-law

Begins stamping and swearing. 40

Peasants in Chorus

Stamping and swearing!

Stamping and swearing!

He won't let the poor woman

Rest for a moment.

Up, up, up, lazy-head!

Up, up, up, lie-abed!

Lazy-head!

Lie-abed!

Slut!

Matróna

So sleepy, so weary 50

I am, and my heavy head

Clings to the pillow;

But out in the passage

My Mother-in-law

Begins scolding and nagging.

Peasants in Chorus

Scolding and nagging!

Scolding and nagging!

She won't let the poor woman

Rest for a moment.

Up, up, up, lazy-head! 60

Up, up, up, lie-abed!

Lazy-head!

Lie-abed!

Slut!

"A quarrelsome household

It was—that of Philip's

To which I belonged now;

And I from my girlhood

Stepped straight into Hell.

My husband departed 70

To work in the city,

And leaving, advised me

To work and be silent,

To yield and be patient:

'Don't splash the red iron

With cold water—it hisses!'

With father and mother

And sisters-in-law he

Now left me alone;

Not a soul was among them 80

To love or to shield me,

But many to scold.

One sister-in-law—

It was Martha, the eldest,—

Soon set me to work

Like a slave for her pleasure.

And Father-in-law too

One had to look after,

Or else all his clothes

To redeem from the tavern. 90

In all that one did

There was need to be careful,

Or Mother-in-law's

Superstitions were troubled

(One never could please her).

Well, some superstitions

Of course may be right;

But they're most of them evil.

And one day it happened

That Mother-in-law 100

Murmured low to her husband

That corn which is stolen

Grows faster and better.

So Father-in-law

Stole away after midnight….

It chanced he was caught,

And at daybreak next morning

Brought back and flung down

Like a log in the stable.

"But I acted always 110

As Phílip had told me:

I worked, with the anger

Hid deep in my bosom,

And never a murmur

Allowed to escape me.

And then with the winter

Came Phílip, and brought me

A pretty silk scarf;

And one feast-day he took me

To drive in the sledges; 120

And quickly my sorrows

Were lost and forgotten:

I sang as in old days

At home, with my father.

For I and my husband

Were both of an age,

And were happy together

When only they left us

Alone, but remember

A husband like Phílip 130

Not often is found."

"Do you mean to say

That he never once beat you?"

Matróna was plainly

Confused by the question;

"Once, only, he beat me,"

She said, very low.

"And why?" asked the peasants.

"Well, you know yourselves, friends,

How quarrels arise 140

In the homes of the peasants.

A young married sister

Of Phílip's one day

Came to visit her parents.

She found she had holes

In her boots, and it vexed her.

Then Phílip said, 'Wife,

Fetch some boots for my sister.'

And I did not answer

At once; I was lifting 150

A large wooden tub,

So, of course, couldn't speak.

But Phílip was angry

With me, and he waited

Until I had hoisted

The tub to the oven,

Then struck me a blow

With his fist, on my temple.

"'We're glad that you came,

But you see that you'd better 160

Keep out of the way,'

Said the other young sister

To her that was married.

"Again Philip struck me!

"'It's long since I've seen you,

My dearly-loved daughter,

But could I have known

How the baggage would treat you!'…

Whined Mother-in-law.

"And again Phílip struck me! 170

"Well, that is the story.

'Tis surely not fitting

For wives to sit counting

The blows of their husbands,

But then I had promised

To keep nothing back."

"Ah, well, with these women—

The poisonous serpents!—

A corpse would awaken

And snatch up a horsewhip," 180

The peasants say, smiling.

Matróna said nothing.

The peasants, in order

To keep the occasion

In manner befitting,

Are filling the glasses;

And now they are singing

In voices of thunder

A rollicking chorus,

Of husbands' relations, 190

And wielding the knout.

… …

"Cruel hated husband,

Hark! he is coming!

Holding the knout…."

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt!

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!"

… …

"Run to his father!

Bowing before him— 200

'Save me!' I beg him;

'Stop my fierce husband—

Venomous serpent!'

Father-in-law says,

'Beat her more soundly!

Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt!

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!" 210

… …

"Quick—to his mother!

Bowing before her—

'Save me!' I beg her;

'Stop my cruel husband!

Venomous serpent!'

Mother-in-law says,

'Beat her more soundly,

Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt! 220

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!"

* * * * *

"On Lady-day Phílip

Went back to the city;

A little while later

Our baby was born.

Like a bright-coloured picture

Was he—little Djóma;

The sunbeams had given

Their radiance to him, 230

The pure snow its whiteness;

The poppies had painted

His lips; by the sable

His brow had been pencilled;

The falcon had fashioned

His eyes, and had lent them

Their wonderful brightness.

At sight of his first

Angel smile, all the anger

And bitterness nursed 240

In my bosom was melted;

It vanished away

Like the snow on the meadows

At sight of the smiling

Spring sun. And not longer

I worried and fretted;

I worked, and in silence

I let them upbraid.

But soon after that

A misfortune befell me: 250

The manager by

The Pomyéshchick appointed,

Called Sitnikov, hotly

Began to pursue me.

'My lovely Tsaritsa!

'My rosy-ripe berry!'

Said he; and I answered,

'Be off, shameless rascal!

Remember, the berry

Is not in your forest!' 260

I stayed from the field-work,

And hid in the cottage;

He very soon found me.

I hid in the corn-loft,

But Mother-in-law

Dragged me out to the courtyard;

'Now don't play with fire, girl!'

She said. I besought her

To send him away,

But she answered me roughly, 270

'And do you want Phílip

To serve as a soldier?'

I ran to Savyéli,

The grandfather, begging

His aid and advice.

"I haven't yet told you

A word of Savyéli,

The only one living

Of Phílip's relations

Who pitied and loved me. 280

Say, friends, shall I tell you

About him as well?"

"Yes, tell us his tale,

And we'll each throw a couple

Of sheaves in to-morrow,

Above what we promised."

"Well, well," says Matróna,

"And 'twould be a pity

To give old Savyéli

No place in the story; 290

For he was a happy one,

Too—the old man…."

"'Tis twenty years now

Since 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, 10

My eyes could not suffer

The old man, Savyéli.

No work did I do,

And my Father-in-law thought

To give me a lesson

And 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. 20

I lived day and night

On the grave of my Djóma,

I dusted it clean

With a soft little napkin

That 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 30

Our poor little daughter,

But is it worth while, say,

To wear the grey horse out

By such a long journey

To learn about your woes,

To tell you of ours?

Since long, little daughter,

Would father and mother

Have journeyed to see you,

But ever the thought rose: 40

She'll weep at our coming,

She'll shriek when we leave!'

"In winter came Philip,

Our sorrow together

We shared, and together

We fought with our grief

In the grandfather's hut."

"The grandfather died, then?"

"Oh, no, in his cottage

For seven whole days 50

He lay still without speaking,

And then he got up

And he went to the forest;

And there old Savyéli

So wept and lamented,

The woods were set throbbing.

In autumn he left us

And went as a pilgrim

On foot to do penance

At some distant convent…. 60

"I went with my husband

To visit my parents,

And then began working

Again. Three years followed,

Each week like the other,

As twin to twin brother,

And each year a child.

There was no time for thinking

And no time for grieving;

Praise God if you have time 70

For getting your work done

And crossing your forehead.

You eat—when there's something

Left over at table,

When elders have eaten,

When children have eaten;

You sleep—when you're ill….

"In the fourth year came sorrow

Again; for when sorrow

Once lightens upon you 80

To 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. 90

The dark nights alone knew

The grief of the orphan;

No need is there, brothers,

To tell you about it.

With tears did I water

The grave of my baby.

From far once I noticed

A wooden cross standing

Erect at its head,

And a little gilt icon; 100

A figure is kneeling

Before it—'Savyéli!

From whence have you come?'

"'I have come from Pesótchna.

I've prayed for the soul

Of our dear little Djóma;

I've prayed for the peasants

Of Russia…. Matróna,

Once more do I pray—

Oh, Matróna … Matróna…. 110

I pray that the heart

Of the mother, at last,

May be softened towards me….

Forgive me, Matróna!'

"'Oh, long, long ago

I forgave you, Savyéli.'

"'Then look at me now

As in old times, Matróna!'

"I looked as of old.

Then up rose Savyéli, 120

And gazed in my eyes;

He was trying to straighten

His 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 weeping

And mourning together.

He did not live long

After that. In the autumn 130

A deep wound appeared

In 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 like

A Korójin mosquito?' 140

"At times the old man

Would be gentle and patient;

At times he was angry

And nothing would please him;

He frightened us all

By his outbursts of fury:

'Eh, plough not, and sow not,

You downtrodden peasants!

You women, sit spinning

And weaving no longer! 150

However you struggle,

You fools, you must perish!

You will not escape

What by fate has been written!

Three roads are spread out

For the peasant to follow—

They lead to the tavern,

The mines, and the prison!

Three nooses are hung

For the women of Russia: 160

The one is of white silk,

The second of red silk,

The third is of black silk—

Choose that which you please!'

And Grandfather laughed

In a manner which caused us

To tremble with fear

And draw nearer together….

He died in the night,

And we did as he asked us: 170

We laid him to rest

In the grave beside Djóma.

The Grandfather lived

To 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-law

And her husband the drunkard, 180

For Sister-in-law

By all suitors rejected.

I'd draw off their boots—

Only,—touch not my children!

For them I stood firm

Like a rock. Once it happened

A pilgrim arrived

At our village—a holy

And pious-tongued woman;

She spoke to the people 190

Of how to please God

And of how to reach Heaven.

She said that on fast-days

No woman should offer

The breast to her child.

The women obeyed her:

On Wednesdays and Fridays

The village was filled

By the wailing of babies;

And many a mother 200

Sat bitterly weeping

To hear her child cry

For its food—full of pity,

But fearing God's anger.

But I did not listen!

I said to myself

That if penance were needful

The mothers must suffer,

But not little children.

I said, 'I am guilty, 210

My God—not my children!'

"It seems God was angry

And punished me for it

Through my little son;

My Father-in-law

To the commune had offered

My little Fedótka

As help to the shepherd

When he was turned eight….

One night I was waiting 220

To give him his supper;

The cattle already

Were home, but he came not.

I went through the village

And saw that the people

Were gathered together

And talking of something.

I listened, then elbowed

My way through the people;

Fedótka was set 230

In their midst, pale and trembling,

The Elder was gripping

His 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 lamb

To the wolf,' he replied.

"I snatched my Fedótka

Away from their clutches; 240

And somehow the Elder

Fell down on the ground!

"The story was strange:

It appears that the shepherd

Went home for awhile,

Leaving little Fedótka

In charge of the flock.

'I was sitting,' he told me,

'Alone on the hillside,

When all of a sudden 250

A wolf ran close by me

And 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 never

Have followed the robber 260

If not for the traces

She left; because, Mother,

Her breasts hung so low

(She was suckling her children)

They dragged on the earth

And left two tracks of blood.

But further the grey one

Went slower and slower;

And then she looked back

And she saw I was coming. 270

At 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 it

Although she should kill me.''

I threw myself on her

And snatched it away,

But she did not attack me. 280

The lamb was quite dead,

She herself was scarce living.

She gnashed with her teeth

And her breathing was heavy;

And two streams of blood ran

From under her body.

Her ribs could be counted,

Her head was hung down,

But her eyes, little Mother,

Looked straight into mine … 290

Then she groaned of a sudden,

She groaned, and it sounded

As if she were crying.

I threw her the lamb….'

"Well, that was the story.

And foolish Fedótka

Ran back to the village

And told them about it.

And they, in their anger,

Were going to beat him 300

When I came upon them.

The Elder, because

Of his fall, was indignant,

He shouted—'How dare you!

Do you want a beating

Yourself?' And the woman

Whose lamb had been stolen

Cried, 'Whip the lad soundly,

'Twill teach him a lesson!'

Fedótka she pulled from 310

My arms, and he trembled,

He shook like a leaf.

"Then the horns of the huntsmen

Were heard,—the Pomyéshchick

Returning 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 folly

May well be forgiven.

The woman's presumption

You'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,' 330

The Elder said, bowing;

'Now, woman, prepare;

You can dance later on!'

"A gossip then whispered,

'Fall down at the feet

Of the Elder—beg mercy!'

"'Fedótka—go home!'

"Then I kissed him, and told him:

'Remember, Fedótka,

That I shall be angry 340

If once you look backwards.

Run home!'

"Well, my brothers,

To leave out a word

Of the song is to spoil it,—

I lay on the ground…."

"I crawled like a cat

To Fedótushka's corner

That night. He was sleeping,

He tossed in his dream. 350

One 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 Djóma

While heavy with this one;

He was but a weakling,

But grew very clever. 360

He works with his dad now,

And built such a chimney

With him, for his master,

The like of it never

Was seen. Well, I sat there

The whole of the night

By the sweet little shepherd.

At daybreak I crossed him,

I fastened his laputs,

I gave him his wallet, 370

His horn and his whip.

The rest began stirring,

But nothing I told them

Of all that had happened,

But that day I stayed

From the work in the fields.

"I went to the banks

Of the swift little river,

I sought for a spot

Which was silent and lonely 380

Amid the green rushes

That grow by the bank.

"And on the grey stone

I sat down, sick and weary,

And leaning my head

On my hands, I lamented,

Poor sorrowing orphan.

And loudly I called

On the names of my parents:

'Oh, come, little Father, 390

My tender protector!

Oh, look at the daughter

You 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 400

My 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, 410

And 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 lost

In the terrible distance….

"My loving protectors,

If you could but see me!

Could know what your daughter 420

Must suffer without you!

Could learn of the people

To whom you have left her!

"By night bathed in tears,

And by day weak and trembling,

I bow like the grass

To the wind, but in secret

A heart full of fury

Is gnawing my breast!"

"Strange stars played that year

On the face of the Heavens;

And some said, 'The Lord rides

Abroad, and His angels

With long flaming brooms sweep

The floor of the Heavens

In front of his carriage.'

But others were frightened,—

They said, 'It is rather

The Antichrist coming! 10

It signals misfortune!'

And they read it truly.

A terrible year came,

A terrible famine,

When brother denied

To his brother a morsel.

And then I remembered

The wolf that was hungry,

For I was like her,

Craving food for my children. 20

Now Mother-in-law found

A new superstition:

She said to the neighbours

That I was the reason

Of all the misfortune;

And why? I had caused it

By changing my shirt

On the day before Christmas!

Well, I escaped lightly,

For I had a husband 30

To shield and protect me,

But one woman, having

Offended, was beaten

To death by the people.

To play with the starving

Is dangerous, my friends.

"The famine was scarcely

At end, when another

Misfortune befell us—

The dreaded recruiting. 40

But I was not troubled

By that, because Phílip

Was safe: one already

Had served of his people.

One night I sat working,

My husband, his brothers,

The family, all had

Been out since the morning.

My Father-in-law

Had been called to take part 50

In the communal meeting.

The women were standing

And chatting with neighbours.

But I was exhausted,

For then I was heavy

With child. I was ailing,

And hourly expected

My time. When the children

Were fed and asleep

I lay down on the oven. 60

The women came home soon

And called for their suppers;

But Father-in-law

Had 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! 70

I've counted the years

To 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; 80

You might just as well

Set to work with a hatchet

To chop out the shadows

Up there, on the ceiling,

As try to get truth

Out 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! 90

If he would but order

The commune to show him

The lists of the volost,

And see how they cheat us!'

The mother and daughters

Are groaning and crying;

But I! … I am cold….

I am burning in fever! …

My thoughts … I have no thoughts!

I think I am dreaming! 100

My fatherless children

Are 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 threatens

To punish my children— 110

They slap them and pinch them!

Be silent, you mother!

You wife of a soldier!"

"I now have no part

In 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 being

So haughty and proud!

I little expected

That God, for my pride,

Would have left me forsaken!

I pray you, good people, 130

To show me more wisdom,

To teach me to live

And to nourish my children,

What food they should have,

And what drink, and what teaching.'"

"I'm sending my children

To 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 passing

From doorway to doorway;

We stand by the windows

And shiver. We're frightened

To beg of the rich folk;

The poor ones say, ''God will

Provide for the orphans!''

We cannot come home, 150

For if we bring nothing

We know you'll be angry!'"

"To go to God's church

I have made myself tidy;

I hear how the neighbours

Are laughing around me:

'Now who is she setting

Her cap at?' they whisper."

"Don't wash yourself clean.

And don't dress yourself nicely; 160

The neighbours are sharp—

They have eyes like the eagle

And 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 winter

Has come, and the fields

And the pretty green meadows

Are hidden away 170

'Neath the snow. Nothing living

Is seen in the folds

Of the gleaming white grave-clothes.

No friend under Heaven

There 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 180

The 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 you

To hide in your grave!"

"My husband is gone; 190

There is no one to shield me.

Hark, hark! There's the drum!

And the soldiers are coming!

They halt;—they are forming

A 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! 200

Have 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…. 210

The family sleeping.

I creep to the doorway

And open it softly,

I pass down the street

Through the night…. It is frosty.

In Domina's hut,

Where the youths and young maidens

Assemble at night,

They are singing in chorus

My 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 singing

From Domina's cottage

Pursues me and rings

In my ears. My pace slackens,

I rest for awhile,

And look back at the village:

I see the white snowdrift

O'er valley and meadow, 10

The moon in the Heavens,

My self, and my shadow….

"I do not feel frightened;

A flutter of gladness

Awakes in my bosom,

'You brisk winter breezes,

My thanks for your freshness!

I crave for your breath

As the sick man for water.'

My mind has grown clear, 20

To my knees I am falling:

'O Mother of Christ!

I beseech Thee to tell me

Why God is so angry

With me. Holy Mother!

No tiniest bone

In my limbs is unbroken;

No nerve in my body

Uncrushed. I am patient,—

I have not complained. 30

All the strength that God gave me

I'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 pray

On a night clear and frosty;

To kneel on the earth

'Neath the stars in the winter. 40

Remember, my brothers,

If trouble befall you,

To counsel your women

To pray in that manner;

In no other place

Can one pray so devoutly,

At no other season….

"I prayed and grew stronger;

I bowed my hot head

To the cool snowy napkin, 50

And quickly my fever

Was spent. And when later

I looked at the roadway

I found that I knew it;

I'd passed it before

On the mild summer evenings;

At morning I'd greeted

The sunrise upon it

In haste to be off

To the fair. And I walked now 60

The whole of the night

Without meeting a soul….

But now to the cities

The sledges are starting,

Piled high with the hay

Of the peasants. I watch them,

And pity the horses:

Their lawful provision

Themselves they are dragging

Away from the courtyard; 70

And afterwards they

Will be hungry. I pondered:

The horses that work

Must eat straw, while the idlers

Are fed upon oats.

But when Need comes he hastens

To empty your corn-lofts,

Won't wait to be asked….

"I come within sight

Of the town. On the outskirts 80

The merchants are cheating

And wheedling the peasants,

There's shouting and swearing,

Abusing and coaxing.

"I enter the town

As the bell rings for matins.

I make for the market

Before the cathedral.

I know that the gates

Of the Governor's courtyard 90

Are there. It is dark still,

The square is quite empty;

In front of the courtyard

A 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; 100

He knows all about it.'

"'Where is he? And what

Is 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 doorsteps

And think….

"It grows lighter, 110

A man with a ladder

Is turning the lamps down.

"'Heh, what are you doing?

And how did you enter?'

"I start in confusion,

I see in the doorway

A bald-headed man

In a bed-gown. Then quickly

I come to my senses,

And bowing before him 120

(Makhár Fedosséich),

I give him a rouble.

"'I come in great need

To the Governor, and see him

I must, little Uncle!'

"'You can't see him, woman.

Well, well…. I'll consider….

Return in two hours.'

"I see in the market

A pedestal standing, 130

A peasant upon it,

He's just like Savyéli,

And all made of brass:

It's Susánin's memorial.

While crossing the market

I'm suddenly startled—

A heavy grey drake

From a cook is escaping;

The fellow pursues

With a knife. It is shrieking. 140

My God, what a sound!

To the soul it has pierced me.

('Tis only the knife

That can wring such a shriek.)

The cook has now caught it;

It stretches its neck,

Begins angrily hissing,

As if it would frighten

The cook,—the poor creature!

I run from the market, 150

I'm trembling and thinking,

'The drake will grow calm

'Neath the kiss of the knife!'

"The Governor's dwelling

Again is before me,

With balconies, turrets,

And steps which are covered

With beautiful carpets.

I gaze at the windows

All 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 side

Not to tread on the carpets;

And there, near the entrance,

I wait for the porter.

"'You're early, my gossip!' 170

Again I am startled:

A stranger I see,—

For at first I don't know him;

A livery richly

Embroidered 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, 180

God's mercy be yours!

Come, give me another,

And I will befriend you.'

"(I give him a rouble.)

'Now come, I will make you

Some tea in my office.'

"His den is just under

The stairs. There's a bedstead,

A little iron stove,

And a candlestick in it, 190

A big samovar,

And a lamp in the corner.

Some pictures are hung

On the wall. 'That's His Highness,'

The porter remarks,

And he points with his finger.

I look at the picture:

A warrior covered

With stars. 'Is he gentle?'

"'That's just as you happen 200

To find him. Why, neighbour,

The same is with me:

To-day I'm obliging,

At times I'm as cross

As 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 210

With a foe: Sleep his name is.

And I can assure you

That when I have taken

An odd cup of vodka,

The stove is red hot,

And the smuts from the candle

Have blackened the air,

It's a desperate struggle!'

"There's somebody knocking.

Makhár has gone out; 220

I am sitting alone now.

I go to the door

And look out. In the courtyard

A carriage is waiting.

I ask, 'Is he coming?'

'The lady is coming,'

The porter makes answer,

And hurries away

To the foot of the staircase.

A lady descends, 230

Wrapped in costliest sables,

A lackey behind her.

I know not what followed

(The Mother of God

Must have come to my aid),

It seems that I fell

At the feet of the lady,

And cried, 'Oh, protect us!

They try to deceive us!

My husband—the only 240

Support 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 tore

My body in twain."

"I opened my eyes

In a beautiful chamber, 250

In bed I was laid

'Neath a canopy, brothers,

And near me was sitting

A nurse, in a head-dress

All 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 260

At the feet of the lady,

I wept so and raved so,

Already so weakened

By grief and exhaustion,

That there, without warning,

My labour had seized me.

I bless the sweet lady,

Elyén Alexándrovna,

Only a mother

Could bless her as I do. 270

She christened my baby,

Lidórushka called him."

"And what of your husband?"

"They sent to the village

And started enquiries,

And soon he was righted.

Elyén Alexándrovna

Brought him herself

To my side. She was tender

And clever and lovely, 280

And healthy, but childless,

For God would not grant her

A child. While I stayed there

My baby was never

Away from her bosom.

She tended and nursed him

Herself, like a mother.

The spring had set in

And the birch trees were budding,

Before she would let us 290

Set out to go home.

"Oh, how fair and bright

In 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, 300

How you leap and sing,

Rippling in the leaves!

High the little lark

Soars 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 pray

For Elyénushka,

For the lady fair,

Alexándrovna!'

"Look, the church of God! 320

Sign the cross we twain

Time and time again….

'Grant, O blessed Lord,

Thy most fair reward

To the gentle heart

Of Elyénushka,

Alexándrovna!'

"Green the forest grows,

Green the pretty fields,

In each dip and dell 330

Bright a mirror gleams.

Oh, how fair it is

In God's world to-day,

Glad my heart and gay!

Like the snowy swan

O'er the lake I sail,

O'er the waving steppes

Speeding like the quail.

"Here we are at home.

Through the door I fly 340

Like the pigeon grey;

Low the family

Bow at sight of me,

Nearly to the ground,

Pardon they beseech

For the way in which

They have treated me.

'Sit you down,' I say,

'Do not bow to me.

Listen to my words: 350

You must bow to one

Better far than I,

Stronger far than I,

Sing your praise to her.'

"'Sing to whom,' you say?

'To Elyénushka,

To the fairest soul

God has sent on earth:

Alexándrovna!'"

Matróna is silent.

You see that the peasants

Have seized the occasion—

They are not forgetting

To drink to the health

Of the beautiful lady!

But noticing soon

That 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 20

Yourselves. And my children?

Five sons! But the peasant's

Misfortunes are endless:

They've robbed me of one."

She lowers her voice,

And her lashes are trembling,

But turning her head

She endeavours to hide it.

The peasants are rather

Confused, but they linger: 30

"Well, neighbour," they say,

"Will you tell us no more?"

"There's one thing: You're foolish

To seek among women

For happiness, brothers."

"That's all?"

"I can tell you

That twice we were swallowed

By fire, and that three times

The plague fell upon us; 40

But such things are common

To all of us peasants.

Like cattle we toiled,

My steps were as easy

As those of a horse

In the plough. But my troubles

Were not very startling:

No mountains have moved

From their places to crush me;

And God did not strike me 50

With arrows of thunder.

The storm in my soul

Has been silent, unnoticed,

So how can I paint it

To you? O'er the Mother

Insulted and outraged,

The blood of her first-born

As o'er a crushed worm

Has been poured; and unanswered

The deadly offences 60

That many have dealt her;

The knout has been raised

Unopposed o'er her body.

But one thing I never

Have suffered: I told you

That Sítnikov died,

That the last, irreparable

Shame had been spared me.

You ask me for happiness?

Brothers, you mock me! 70

Go, ask the official,

The Minister mighty,

The Tsar—Little Father,

But never a woman!

God knows—among women

Your search will be endless,

Will lead to your graves.

"A pious old woman

Once asked us for shelter;

The whole of her lifetime 80

The Flesh she had conquered

By penance and fasting;

She'd bathed in the Jordan,

And prayed at the tomb

Of Christ Jesus. She told us

The keys to the welfare

And freedom of women

Have long been mislaid—

God Himself has mislaid them.

And hermits, chaste women, 90

And monks of great learning,

Have sought them all over

The world, but not found them.

They're lost, and 'tis thought

By a fish they've been swallowed.

God's knights have been seeking

In towns and in deserts,

Weak, starving, and cold,

Hung with torturing fetters.

They've asked of the seers, 100

The stars they have counted

To learn;—but no keys!

Through the world they have journeyed;

In underground caverns,

In mountains, they've sought them.

At last they discovered

Some keys. They were precious,

But only—not ours.

Yet the warriors triumphed:

They fitted the lock 110

On the fetters of serfdom!

A sigh from all over

The 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 bed

Of the ocean they wander, 120

They 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 swallowed

Those treasures so priceless,

In which sea it swims—

God Himself has forgotten!" 130