* * * * *
"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.'''"
CHAPTER VII
THE GOVERNOR'S LADY
"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: