Chapter IV: Djomushka

"The little tree burnsFor the lightning has struck it.The nightingale's nestHas been built in its branches.The little tree burns,It is sighing and groaning;The nightingale's childrenAre crying and calling:'Oh, come, little Mother!Oh, come, little Mother!Take care of us, Mother,Until we can fly,Till our wings have grown stronger,Until we can flyTo the peaceful green forest,Until we can flyTo the far silent valleys....'The poor little tree--It is burnt to grey ashes;The poor little fledgelingsAre burnt to grey ashes.The mother flies home,But the tree ... and the fledgelings ...The nest.... She is calling,Lamenting and calling;She circles around,She is sobbing and moaning;She circles so quickly,She circles so quickly,Her tiny wings whistle.The dark night has fallen,The dark world is silent,But one little creatureIs helplessly grievingAnd cannot find comfort;--The nightingale onlyLaments for her children....She never will see themAgain, though she call themTill breaks the white day....I carried my babyAsleep in my bosomTo work in the meadows.But Mother-in-law cried,'Come, leave him behind you,At home with Savyeli,You'll work better then.'And I was so timid,So tired of her scolding,I left him behind.

"That year it so happenedThe harvest was richerThan ever we'd known it;The reaping was hard,But the reapers were merry,I sang as I mountedThe sheaves on the waggon.(The waggons are loadedTo laughter and singing;The sledges in silence,With thoughts sad and bitter;The waggons convey the cornHome to the peasants,The sledges will bear itAway to the market.)

"But as I was workingI heard of a suddenA deep groan of anguish:I saw old SavyeliCreep trembling towards me,His face white as death:'Forgive me, Matrona!Forgive me, Matrona!I sinned....I was careless.'He fell at my feet.

"Oh, stay, little swallow!Your nest build not there!Not there 'neath the leaflessBare bank of the river:The water will rise,And your children will perish.Oh, poor little woman,Young wife and young mother,The daughter-in-lawAnd the slave of the household,Bear blows and abuse,Suffer all things in silence,But let not your babyBe torn from your bosom....Savyeli had fallenAsleep in the sunshine,And Djoma--the pigsHad attacked him and killed him.

"I fell to the groundAnd lay writhing in torture;I bit the black earthAnd I shrieked in wild anguish;I called on his name,And I thought in my madnessMy voice must awake him....

"Hark!--horses' hoofs stamping,And harness-bells jangling--Another misfortune!The children are frightened,They run to the houses;And outside the windowThe old men and womenAre talking in whispersAnd nodding together.The Elder is runningAnd tapping each windowIn turn with his staff;Then he runs to the hayfields,He runs to the pastures,To summon the people.They come, full of sorrow--Another misfortune!And God in His wrathHas sent guests that are hateful,Has sent unjust judges.Perhaps they want money?Their coats are worn threadbare?Perhaps they are hungry?

"Without greeting ChristThey sit down at the table,They've set up an iconAnd cross in the middle;Our pope, Father John,Swears the witnesses singly.

"They question Savyeli,And then a policemanIs sent to find me,While the officer, swearing,Is striding aboutLike a beast in the forest....'Now, woman, confess it,'He cries when I enter,'You lived with the peasantSavyeli in sin?'

"I whisper in answer,'Kind sir, you are joking.I am to my husbandA wife without stain,And the peasant SavyeliIs more than a hundredYears old;--you can see it.'

"He's stamping aboutLike a horse in the stable;In fury he's thumpingHis fist on the table.'Be silent! Confess, then,That you with SavyeliHad plotted to murderYour child!'

"Holy Mother!What horrible ravings!My God, give me patience,And let me not strangleThe wicked blasphemer!I looked at the doctorAnd shuddered in terror:Before him lay lancets,Sharp scissors, and knives.I conquered myself,For I knew why they lay there.I answer him trembling,'I loved little Djoma,I would not have harmed him.'

"'And did you not poison him.Give him some powder?'

"'Oh, Heaven forbid!'I kneel to him crying,'Be gentle! Have mercy!And grant that my babyIn honour be buried,Forbid them to thrustThe cruel knives in his body!Oh, I am his mother!'

"Can anything move them?No hearts they possess,In their eyes is no conscience,No cross at their throats....

"They have lifted the napkinWhich covered my baby;His little white bodyWith scissors and lancetsThey worry and torture ...The room has grown darker,I'm struggling and screaming,'You butchers! You fiends!Not on earth, not on water,And not on God's templeMy tears shall be showered;But straight on the soulsOf my hellish tormentors!Oh, hear me, just God!May Thy curse fall and strike them!Ordain that their garmentsMay rot on their bodies!Their eyes be struck blind,And their brains scorch in madness!Their wives be unfaithful,Their children be crippled!Oh, hear me, just God!Hear the prayers of a mother,And look on her tears,--Strike these pitiless devils!'

"'She's crazy, the woman!'The officer shouted,'Why did you not tell usBefore? Stop this fooling!Or else I shall orderMy men, here, to bind you.'

"I sank on the bench,I was trembling all over;I shook like a leafAs I gazed at the doctor;His sleeves were rolled backwards,A knife was in one hand,A cloth in the other,And blood was upon it;His glasses were fixedOn his nose. All was silent.The officer's penBegan scratching on paper;The motionless peasantsStood gloomy and mournful;The pope lit his pipeAnd sat watching the doctor.He said, 'You are readingA heart with a knife.'I started up wildly;I knew that the doctorWas piercing the heartOf my little dead baby.

"'Now, bind her, the vixen!'The officer shouted;--She's mad!' He beganTo inquire of the peasants,'Have none of you noticedBefore that the womanKorchagin is crazy?'

"'No,' answered the peasants.And then Philip's parentsHe asked, and their children;They answered, 'Oh, no, sir!We never remarked it.'He asked old Savyeli,--There's one thing,' he answered,'That might make one thinkThat Matrona is crazy:She's come here this morningWithout bringing with herA present of moneyOr cloth to appease you.'

"And then the old manBegan bitterly crying.The officer frowningSat down and said nothing.And then I remembered:In truth it was madness--The piece of new linenWhich I had made readyWas still in my box--I'd forgotten to bring it;And now I had seen themSeize Djomushka's bodyAnd tear it to pieces.I think at that momentI turned into marble:I watched while the doctorWas drinking some vodkaAnd washing his hands;I saw how he offeredThe glass to the pope,And I heard the pope answer,'Why ask me? We mortalsAre pitiful sinners,--We don't need much urgingTo empty a glass!'

"The peasants are standingIn fear, and are thinking:'Now, how did these vulturesGet wind of the matter?Who told them that hereThere was chance of some profit?They dashed in like wolves,Seized the beards of the peasants,And snarled in their facesLike savage hyenas!'

"And now they are feasting,Are eating and drinking;They chat with the pope,He is murmuring to them,'The people in these partsAre beggars and drunken;They owe me for countlessConfessions and weddings;They'll take their last farthingTo spend in the tavern;And nothing but sinsDo they bring to their priest.'

"And then I hear singingIn clear, girlish voices--I know them all well:There's Natasha and Glasha,And Dariushka,--JesusHave mercy upon them!Hark! steps and accordion;Then there is silence.I think I had fallenAsleep; then I fanciedThat somebody enteringBent over me, saying,'Sleep, woman of sorrows,Exhausted by sorrow,'And making the signOf the cross on my forehead.I felt that the ropesOn my body were loosened,And then I rememberedNo more. In black darknessI woke, and astonishedI ran to the window:Deep night lay around me--What's happened? Where am I?I ran to the street,--It was empty, in HeavenNo moon and no stars,And a great cloud of darknessSpread over the village.The huts of the peasantsWere dark; only one hutWas brilliantly lighted,It shone like a palace--The hut of Savyeli.I ran to the doorway,And then ... I remembered.

"The table was gleamingWith yellow wax candles,And there, in the midst,Lay a tiny white coffin,And over it spreadWas a fine coloured napkin,An icon was placedAt its head....O you builders,For my little sonWhat a house you have fashioned!No windows you've madeThat the sunshine may enter,No stove and no bench,And no soft little pillows....Oh, Djomushka will notFeel happy within it,He cannot sleep well....'Begone!'--I cried harshlyOn seeing Savyeli;He stood near the coffinAnd read from the bookIn his hand, through his glasses.I cursed old Savyeli,Cried--'Branded one! Convict!Begone! 'Twas you killed him!You murdered my, Djoma,Begone from my sight!'

"He stood without moving;He crossed himself thriceAnd continued his reading.But when I grew calmerSavyeli approached me,And said to me gently,'In winter, Matrona,I told you my story,But yet there was more.Our forests were endless,Our lakes wild and lonely,Our people were savage;By cruelty lived we:By snaring the wood-grouse,By slaying the bears:--You must kill or you perish!I've told you of BarinShalashnikov, alsoOf how we were robbedBy the villainous German,And then of the prison,The exile, the mines.My heart was like stone,I grew wild and ferocious.My winter had lastedA century, Grandchild,But your little DjomaHad melted its frosts.One day as I rocked himHe smiled of a sudden,And I smiled in answer....A strange thing befell meSome days after that:As I prowled in the forestI aimed at a squirrel;But suddenly noticedHow happy and playfulIt was, in the branches:Its bright little faceWith its paw it sat washing.I lowered my gun:--'You shall live, little squirrel!'I rambled aboutIn the woods, in the meadows,And each tiny floweretI loved. I went home thenAnd nursed little Djoma,And played with him, laughing.God knows how I loved him,The innocent babe!And now ... through my folly,My sin, ... he has perished....Upbraid me and kill me,But nothing can help you,With God one can't argue....Stand up now, Matrona,And pray for your baby;God acted with reason:He's counted the joysIn the life of a peasant!'

"Long, long did SavyeliStand bitterly speaking,The piteous fateOf the peasant he painted;And if a rich Barin,A merchant or noble,If even our FatherThe Tsar had been listening,Savyeli could notHave found words which were truer,Have spoken them better....

"'Now Djoma is happyAnd safe, in God's Heaven,'He said to me later.His tears began falling....

"'I do not complainThat God took him, Savyeli,'I said,--'but the insultThey did him torments me,It's racking my heart.Why did vicious black ravensAlight on his bodyAnd tear it to pieces?Will neither our GodNor our Tsar--Little Father--Arise to defend us?'

"'But God, little Grandchild,Is high, and the TsarFar away,' said Savyeli."I cried, 'Yet I'll reach them!'

"But Grandfather answered,'Now hush, little Grandchild,You woman of sorrow,Bow down and have patience;No truth you will findIn the world, and no justice.'

"'But why then, Savyeli?'

"'A bondswoman, Grandchild,You are; and for suchIs no hope,' said Savyeli.

"For long I sat darklyAnd bitterly thinking.The thunder pealed forthAnd the windows were shaken;I started! SavyeliDrew nearer and touched me,And led me to standBy the little white coffin:

"'Now pray that the LordMay have placed little DjomaAmong the bright ranksOf His angels,' he whispered;A candle he placedIn my hand.... And I knelt thereThe whole of the nightTill the pale dawn of daybreak:The grandfather stoodBeside Djomushka's coffinAnd read from the bookIn a measured low voice...."