"I'm waiting and waiting,
And Mítyenka sickens
Because of the musty 180
Old bread that I give him.
But what can I do?
This life—it is bitter!"
She fondles the head
Of a half-naked baby
Who sits by her side
In a little brass basin,
A button-nosed mite.
"The boy will take cold there,
The basin will chill him," 190
Says Prov; and he wishes
To lift the child up,
But it screams at him, angry.
"No, no! Don't you touch him,"
The mother says quickly,
"Why, can you not see
That's his carriage he's driving?
Drive on, little carriage!
Gee-up, little horses!
You see how he drives!" 200
The peasants each moment
Observe some new marvel;
And soon they have noticed
A strange kind of labour
Proceeding around them:
One man, it appears,
To the door has got fastened;
He's toiling away
To unscrew the brass handles,
His hands are so weak 210
He can scarcely control them.
Another is hugging
Some tiles: "See, Yegórshka,
I've dug quite a heap out!"
Some children are shaking
An apple-tree yonder:
"You see, little Uncles,
There aren't many left,
Though the tree was quite heavy."
"But why do you want them? 220
They're quite hard and green."
"We're thankful to get them!"
The peasants examine
The park for a long time;
Such wonders are seen here,
Such cunning inventions:
In one place a mountain
Is raised; in another
A ravine yawns deep!
A lake has been made too; 230
Perhaps at one time
There were swans on the water?
The summer-house has some
Inscriptions upon it,
Demyán begins spelling
Them out very slowly.
A grey-haired domestic
Is watching the peasants;
He sees they have very
Inquisitive natures, 240
And presently slowly
Goes hobbling towards them,
And holding a book.
He says, "Will you buy it?"
Demyán is a peasant
Acquainted with letters,
He tries for some time
But he can't read a word.
"Just sit down yourself
On that seat near the linden, 250
And read the book leisurely
Like a Pomyéshchick!"
"You think you are clever,"
The grey-headed servant
Retorts with resentment,
"Yet books which are learned
Are wasted upon you.
You read but the labels
On public-house windows,
And that which is written 260
On every odd corner:
'Most strictly forbidden.'"
The pathways are filthy,
The graceful stone ladies
Bereft of their noses.
"The fruit and the berries,
The geese and the swans
Which were once on the water,
The thieving old rascals
Have stuffed in their maws. 270
Like church without pastor,
Like fields without peasants,
Are all these fine gardens
Without a Pomyéshchick,"
The peasants remark.
For long the Pomyéshchick
Has gathered his treasures,
When all of a sudden….
(The six peasants laugh,
But the seventh is silent, 280
He hangs down his head.)
A song bursts upon them!
A voice is resounding
Like blasts of a trumpet.
The heads of the peasants
Are eagerly lifted,
They gaze at the tower.
On the balcony round it
A man is now standing;
He wears a pope's cassock; 290
He sings … on the balmy
Soft air of the evening,
The bass, like a huge
Silver bell, is vibrating,
And throbbing it enters
The hearts of the peasants.
The words are not Russian,
But some foreign language,
But, like Russian songs,
It is full of great sorrow, 300
Of passionate grief,
Unending, unfathomed;
It wails and laments,
It is bitterly sobbing….
"Pray tell us, good woman,
What man is that singing?"
Román asks the woman
Now feeding her baby
With steaming ukhá.[43]
"A singer, my brothers, 310
A born Little Russian,
The Barin once brought him
Away from his home,
With a promise to send him
To Italy later.
But long the Pomyéshchick
Has been in strange parts
And forgotten his promise;
And now the poor fellow
Would be but too glad 320
To get back to his village.
There's nothing to do here,
He hasn't a farthing,
There's nothing before him
And nothing behind him
Excepting his voice.
You have not really heard it;
You will if you stay here
Till sunrise to-morrow:
Some three versts away 330
There is living a deacon,
And he has a voice too.
They greet one another:
Each morning at sunrise
Will our little singer
Climb up to the watch-tower,
And call to the other,
'Good-morrow to Father
Ipát, and how fares he?'
(The windows all shake 340
At the sound.)
From the distance
The deacon will answer,
'Good-morrow, good-morrow,
To our little sweet-throat!
I go to drink vodka,
I'm going … I'm going….'
The voice on the air
Will hang quivering around us
For more than an hour, 350
Like the neigh of a stallion."