"'Then look at me now
As in old times, Matróna!'
"I looked as of old.
Then up rose Savyéli, 120
And gazed in my eyes;
He was trying to straighten
His stiffened old back;
Like the snow was his hair now.
I kissed the old man,
And my new grief I told him;
For long we sat weeping
And mourning together.
He did not live long
After that. In the autumn 130
A deep wound appeared
In his neck, and he sickened.
He died very hard.
For a hundred days, fully,
No food passed his lips;
To the bone he was shrunken.
He laughed at himself:
'Tell me, truly, Matróna,
Now am I not like
A Korójin mosquito?' 140
"At times the old man
Would be gentle and patient;
At times he was angry
And nothing would please him;
He frightened us all
By his outbursts of fury:
'Eh, plough not, and sow not,
You downtrodden peasants!
You women, sit spinning
And weaving no longer! 150
However you struggle,
You fools, you must perish!
You will not escape
What by fate has been written!
Three roads are spread out
For the peasant to follow—
They lead to the tavern,
The mines, and the prison!
Three nooses are hung
For the women of Russia: 160
The one is of white silk,
The second of red silk,
The third is of black silk—
Choose that which you please!'
And Grandfather laughed
In a manner which caused us
To tremble with fear
And draw nearer together….
He died in the night,
And we did as he asked us: 170
We laid him to rest
In the grave beside Djóma.
The Grandfather lived
To a hundred and seven….
"Four years passed away then,
The one like the other,
And I was submissive,
The slave of the household,
For Mother-in-law
And her husband the drunkard, 180
For Sister-in-law
By all suitors rejected.
I'd draw off their boots—
Only,—touch not my children!
For them I stood firm
Like a rock. Once it happened
A pilgrim arrived
At our village—a holy
And pious-tongued woman;
She spoke to the people 190
Of how to please God
And of how to reach Heaven.
She said that on fast-days
No woman should offer
The breast to her child.
The women obeyed her:
On Wednesdays and Fridays
The village was filled
By the wailing of babies;
And many a mother 200
Sat bitterly weeping
To hear her child cry
For its food—full of pity,
But fearing God's anger.
But I did not listen!
I said to myself
That if penance were needful
The mothers must suffer,
But not little children.
I said, 'I am guilty, 210
My God—not my children!'
"It seems God was angry
And punished me for it
Through my little son;
My Father-in-law
To the commune had offered
My little Fedótka
As help to the shepherd
When he was turned eight….
One night I was waiting 220
To give him his supper;
The cattle already
Were home, but he came not.
I went through the village
And saw that the people
Were gathered together
And talking of something.
I listened, then elbowed
My way through the people;
Fedótka was set 230
In their midst, pale and trembling,
The Elder was gripping
His ear. 'What has happened?
And why do you hold him?'
I said to the Elder.
"'I'm going to beat him,—
He threw a young lamb
To the wolf,' he replied.
"I snatched my Fedótka
Away from their clutches; 240
And somehow the Elder
Fell down on the ground!
"The story was strange:
It appears that the shepherd
Went home for awhile,
Leaving little Fedótka
In charge of the flock.
'I was sitting,' he told me,
'Alone on the hillside,
When all of a sudden 250
A wolf ran close by me
And picked Masha's lamb up.
I threw myself at her,
I whistled and shouted,
I cracked with my whip,
Blew my horn for Valétka,
And then I gave chase.
I run fast, little Mother,
But still I could never
Have followed the robber 260
If not for the traces
She left; because, Mother,
Her breasts hung so low
(She was suckling her children)
They dragged on the earth
And left two tracks of blood.
But further the grey one
Went slower and slower;
And then she looked back
And she saw I was coming. 270
At last she sat down.
With my whip then I lashed her;
''Come, give me the lamb,
You grey devil!'' She crouched,
But would not give it up.
I said—''I must save it
Although she should kill me.''
I threw myself on her
And snatched it away,
But she did not attack me. 280
The lamb was quite dead,
She herself was scarce living.
She gnashed with her teeth
And her breathing was heavy;
And two streams of blood ran
From under her body.
Her ribs could be counted,
Her head was hung down,
But her eyes, little Mother,
Looked straight into mine … 290
Then she groaned of a sudden,
She groaned, and it sounded
As if she were crying.
I threw her the lamb….'
"Well, that was the story.
And foolish Fedótka
Ran back to the village
And told them about it.
And they, in their anger,
Were going to beat him 300
When I came upon them.
The Elder, because
Of his fall, was indignant,
He shouted—'How dare you!
Do you want a beating
Yourself?' And the woman
Whose lamb had been stolen
Cried, 'Whip the lad soundly,
'Twill teach him a lesson!'
Fedótka she pulled from 310
My arms, and he trembled,
He shook like a leaf.
"Then the horns of the huntsmen
Were heard,—the Pomyéshchick
Returning from hunting.
I ran to him, crying,
'Oh, save us! Protect us!'