"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!''