Chapter I The Wedding
“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;
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.
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
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,
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,
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
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
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,
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
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.
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,
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….
“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
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
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
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
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
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—
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,
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:
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.
‘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
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….”
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,
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,
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
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,
Matróna Korchágin?”
“An old woman, brothers,
And not drink some vodka?”