He toughened my hide so
You see it has served me 530
For one hundred years,
And 'twill serve me another.
But life was not easy,
I tell you, Matróna:
First twenty years prison,
Then twenty years exile.
I saved up some money,
And when I came home,
Built this hut for myself.
And here I have lived 540
For a great many years now.
They loved the old grandad
So long as he'd money,
But now it has gone
They would part with him gladly,
They spit in his face.
Eh, you plucky toy heroes!
You're fit to make war
Upon old men and women!'
"And that was as much 550
As the grandfather told me."
"And now for your story,"
They answer Matróna.
"'Tis not very bright.
From one trouble God
In His goodness preserved me;
For Sitnikov died
Of the cholera. Soon, though,
Another arose,
I will tell you about it." 560
"Naddai!" say the peasants
(They love the word well),
They are filling the glasses.
CHAPTER IV
DJÓMUSHKA
"The little tree burns
For the lightning has struck it.
The nightingale's nest
Has been built in its branches.
The little tree burns,
It is sighing and groaning;
The nightingale's children
Are crying and calling:
'Oh, come, little Mother!
Oh, come, little Mother! 10
Take care of us, Mother,
Until we can fly,
Till our wings have grown stronger,
Until we can fly
To the peaceful green forest,
Until we can fly
To the far silent valleys….'
The poor little tree—
It is burnt to grey ashes;
The poor little fledgelings 20
Are burnt to grey ashes.
The mother flies home,
But the tree … and the fledgelings …
The nest…. She is calling,
Lamenting and calling;
She circles around,
She is sobbing and moaning;
She circles so quickly,
She circles so quickly,
Her tiny wings whistle. 30
The dark night has fallen,
The dark world is silent,
But one little creature
Is helplessly grieving
And cannot find comfort;—
The nightingale only
Laments for her children….
She never will see them
Again, though she call them
Till breaks the white day…. 40
I carried my baby
Asleep in my bosom
To work in the meadows.
But Mother-in-law cried,
'Come, leave him behind you,
At home with Savyéli,
You'll work better then.'
And I was so timid,
So tired of her scolding,
I left him behind. 50
"That year it so happened
The harvest was richer
Than ever we'd known it;
The reaping was hard,
But the reapers were merry,
I sang as I mounted
The sheaves on the waggon.
(The waggons are loaded
To laughter and singing;
The sledges in silence, 60
With thoughts sad and bitter;
The waggons convey the corn
Home to the peasants,
The sledges will bear it
Away to the market.)
"But as I was working
I heard of a sudden
A deep groan of anguish:
I saw old Savyéli
Creep trembling towards me, 70
His face white as death:
'Forgive me, Matróna!
Forgive me, Matróna!
I sinned….I was careless.'
He fell at my feet.
"Oh, stay, little swallow!
Your nest build not there!
Not there 'neath the leafless
Bare bank of the river:
The water will rise, 80
And your children will perish.
Oh, poor little woman,
Young wife and young mother,
The daughter-in-law
And the slave of the household,
Bear blows and abuse,
Suffer all things in silence,
But let not your baby
Be torn from your bosom….
Savyéli had fallen 90
Asleep in the sunshine,
And Djóma—the pigs
Had attacked him and killed him.
"I fell to the ground
And lay writhing in torture;
I bit the black earth
And I shrieked in wild anguish;
I called on his name,
And I thought in my madness
My voice must awake him…. 100
"Hark!—horses' hoofs stamping,[52]
And harness-bells jangling—
Another misfortune!
The children are frightened,
They run to the houses;
And outside the window
The old men and women
Are talking in whispers
And nodding together.
The Elder is running 110
And tapping each window
In turn with his staff;
Then he runs to the hayfields,
He runs to the pastures,
To summon the people.
They come, full of sorrow—
Another misfortune!
And God in His wrath
Has sent guests that are hateful,
Has sent unjust judges. 120
Perhaps they want money?
Their coats are worn threadbare?
Perhaps they are hungry?
"Without greeting Christ
They sit down at the table,
They've set up an icon
And cross in the middle;
Our pope, Father John,
Swears the witnesses singly.
"They question Savyéli, 130
And then a policeman
Is sent to find me,
While the officer, swearing,
Is striding about
Like a beast in the forest….
'Now, woman, confess it,'
He cries when I enter,
'You lived with the peasant
Savyéli in sin?'
"I whisper in answer, 140
'Kind sir, you are joking.
I am to my husband
A wife without stain,
And the peasant Savyéli
Is more than a hundred
Years old;—you can see it.'
"He's stamping about
Like a horse in the stable;
52
This paragraph refers to the custom of the country police in Russia, who, on hearing of the accidental death of anybody in a village, will, in order to extract bribes from the villagers, threaten to hold an inquest on the corpse. The peasants are usually ready to part with nearly all they possess in order to save their dead from what they consider desecration.