Chapter VI An Unlucky Year
“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!
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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!
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;
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!
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!
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—
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!”
“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,
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,
‘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,
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;
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
’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
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;
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!
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….
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:
“‘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.’’
“‘’’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.’’’”