They to the master coach are harnessed;
men cooks prepare lunch; the kibitkas
are loaded mountain-high;
4 serf women, coachmen brawl.
Upon a lean and shaggy jade a bearded
postilion sits. Retainers at the gate
have gathered, running,
8 to bid their mistresses farewell. And now
they've settled, and the venerable sleigh-coach
beyond the gate creeps, gliding.
“Farewell, pacific sites!
12 Farewell, secluded refuge!
Shall I see you?” And from the eyes
of Tanya flows a stream of tears.
XXXIII
When we the boundaries of beneficial
enlightenment move farther out,
in due time (by the computation
4 of philosophic tabulae,
in some five hundred years) roads, surely,
at home will change immeasurably.
Paved highways at this point and that
8 uniting Russia will traverse her;
cast-iron bridges o'er the waters
in ample arcs will stride;
we shall part mountains; under water
12 dig daring tunnels;
and Christendom will institute
at every stage a tavern.
XXXIV
The roads at home are bad at present;42 forgotten bridges rot;
at stages the bedbugs and fleas
4 do not give one a minute's sleep.
No taverns. In a cold log hut
there hangs for show a highfalutin
but meager bill of fare, and teases
8 one's futile appetite,
while the rural Cyclopes
in front of a slow fire
treat with a Russian hammer
12 Europe's light article,
blessing the ruts
and ditches of the fatherland.
XXXV
Now, on the other hand, driving in winter's
cold season is agreeable and easy.
As in a modish song a verse devoid of thought,
4 smooth is the winter track.
Alert are our Automedons,
our troikas never tire,
and mileposts, humoring the idle gaze,
8 before one's eyes flick like a fence.43 Unluckily, Dame Larin dragged along,
fearing expensive stages,
with her own horses, not with posters,
12 and our maid tasted
viatic tedium in fulclass="underline"
they traveled seven days and nights.
XXXVI
But now 'tis near. Before them
the ancient tops of white-stone Moscow
already glow
4 with golden crosses, ember-bright.
Ah, chums, how pleased I was
when, all at once, the hemicircle
of churches and of belfries,
8 of gardens, domes, opened before me!
How often during woeful separation,
in my wandering fate,
Moscow, I thought of you!
12 Moscow!... How much within that sound
is blended for a Russian heart!
How much is echoed there!
XXXVII
Here is, surrounded by its park,
Petrovskiy Castle. Somberly
it prides itself on recent glory.
4 In vain Napoleon, intoxicated
with his last fortune, waited
for kneeling Moscow with the keys
of the old Kremlin: no,
8 to him my Moscow did not go
with craven brow;
not revelry, not gifts of bienvenue —
a conflagration she prepared
12 for the impatient hero.
From here, in meditation sunk,
he watched the formidable flame.
XXXVIII
Good-by, witness of fallen glory,
Petrovskiy Castle. Hup! Don't stop,
get on! The turnpike posts already
4 show white. Along Tverskaya Street
the coach now hies across the dips.
There flicker by: watch boxes, peasant women,
urchins, shops, street lamps,
8 palaces, gardens, monasteries,
Bokharans, sledges, kitchen gardens,
merchants, small shacks, muzhiks,
boulevards, towers, Cossacks,
12 pharmacies, fashion shops,
balconies, lions on the gates,
and flocks of jackdaws on the crosses.