"Turn from that teaching
Tender and wise— 40
Cowards and traitors
Soon will arise.
"People of Russia,
Banish the night!
You have been granted
That which is needful—
Freedom and Light!"
The deacon was poor
As the poorest of peasants:
A mean little cottage 50
Like two narrow cages,
The one with an oven
Which smoked, and the other
For use in the summer,—
Such was his abode.
No horse he possessed
And no cow. He had once had
A dog and a cat,
But they'd both of them left him.
His sons put him safely 60
To bed, snoring loudly;
Then Sávushka opened
A book, while his brother
Went out, and away
To the fields and the forest.
A broad-shouldered youth
Was this Grísha; his face, though,
Was terribly thin.
In the clerical college
The students got little 70
To eat. Sometimes Grísha
Would lie the whole night
Without sleep; only longing
For morning and breakfast,—
The coarse piece of bread
And the glassful of sbeeten.[61]
The village was poor
And the food there was scanty,
But still, the two brothers
Grew certainly plumper 80
When home for the holidays—
Thanks to the peasants.
The boys would repay them
By all in their power,
By work, or by doing
Their little commissions
In town. Though the deacon
Was proud of his children,
He never had given
Much thought to their feeding. 90
Himself, the poor deacon,
Was endlessly hungry,
His principal thought
Was the manner of getting
The next piece of food.
He was rather light-minded
And vexed himself little;
But Dyómna, his wife,
Had been different entirely:
She worried and counted, 100
So God took her soon.
The whole of her life
She by salt[62] had been troubled:
If bread has run short
One can ask of the neighbours;
But salt, which means money,
Is hard to obtain.
The village with Dyómna
Had shared its bread freely;
And long, long ago 110
Would her two little children
Have lain in the churchyard
If not for the peasants.
And Dyómna was ready
To work without ceasing
For all who had helped her;
But salt was her trouble,
Her thought, ever present.
She dreamt of it, sang of it,
Sleeping and waking, 120
While washing, while spinning,
At work in the fields,
While rocking her darling
Her favourite, Grísha.
And many years after
The death of his mother,
His heart would grow heavy
And sad, when the peasants
Remembered one song,
And would sing it together 130
As Dyómna had sung it;
They called it "The Salt Song."
The Salt Song
Now none but God
Can save my son:
He's dying fast,
My little one….
I give him bread—-
He looks at it,
He cries to me,
"Put salt on it." 140
I have no salt—
No tiny grain;
"Take flour," God whispers,
"Try again…."