Chapter VI: An Unlucky Year

"Strange stars played that yearOn the face of the Heavens;And some said, 'The Lord ridesAbroad, and His angelsWith long flaming brooms sweepThe floor of the HeavensIn front of his carriage.'But others were frightened,--They said, 'It is ratherThe Antichrist coming!It signals misfortune!'And they read it truly.A terrible year came,A terrible famine,When brother deniedTo his brother a morsel.And then I rememberedThe wolf that was hungry,For I was like her,Craving food for my children.Now Mother-in-law foundA new superstition:She said to the neighboursThat I was the reasonOf all the misfortune;And why? I had caused itBy changing my shirtOn the day before Christmas!Well, I escaped lightly,For I had a husbandTo shield and protect me,But one woman, havingOffended, was beatenTo death by the people.To play with the starvingIs dangerous, my friends.

"The famine was scarcelyAt end, when anotherMisfortune befell us--The dreaded recruiting.But I was not troubledBy that, because PhilipWas safe: one alreadyHad served of his people.One night I sat working,My husband, his brothers,The family, all hadBeen out since the morning.My Father-in-lawHad been called to take partIn the communal meeting.The women were standingAnd chatting with neighbours.But I was exhausted,For then I was heavyWith child. I was ailing,And hourly expectedMy time. When the childrenWere fed and asleepI lay down on the oven.The women came home soonAnd called for their suppers;But Father-in-lawHad not come, so we waited.He came, tired and gloomy:'Eh, wife, we are ruined!I'm weary with running,But nothing can save us:They've taken the eldest--Now give them the youngest!I've counted the yearsTo a day--I have proved them;They listen to nothing.They want to take Philip!I prayed to the commune--But what is it worth?I ran to the bailiff;He swore he was sorry,But couldn't assist us.I went to the clerk then;You might just as wellSet to work with a hatchetTo chop out the shadowsUp there, on the ceiling,As try to get truthOut of that little rascal!He's bought. They are all bought,--Not one of them honest!If only he knew it--The Governor--he'd teach them!If he would but orderThe commune to show himThe lists of the volost,And see how they cheat us!'The mother and daughtersAre groaning and crying;But I! ... I am cold....I am burning in fever! ...My thoughts ... I have no thoughts!I think I am dreaming!My fatherless childrenAre standing before me,And crying with hunger.The family, frowning,Looks coldly upon them....At home they are 'noisy,'At play they are 'clumsy,'At table they're 'gluttons'!And somebody threatensTo punish my children--They slap them and pinch them!Be silent, you mother!You wife of a soldier!"

"I now have no partIn the village allotments,No share in the building,The clothes, and the cattle,And these are my riches:Three lakes of salt tear-drops,Three fields sown with grief!"

"And now, like a sinner,I bow to the neighbours;I ask their forgiveness;I hear myself saying,'Forgive me for beingSo haughty and proud!I little expectedThat God, for my pride,Would have left me forsaken!I pray you, good people,To show me more wisdom,To teach me to liveAnd to nourish my children,What food they should have,And what drink, and what teaching.'"

"I'm sending my childrenTo beg in the village;'Go, children, beg humbly,But dare not to steal.'The children are sobbing,'It's cold, little Mother,Our clothes are in rags;We are weary of passingFrom doorway to doorway;We stand by the windowsAnd shiver. We're frightenedTo beg of the rich folk;The poor ones say, ''God willProvide for the orphans!''We cannot come home,For if we bring nothingWe know you'll be angry!'"

"To go to God's churchI have made myself tidy;I hear how the neighboursAre laughing around me:'Now who is she settingHer cap at?' they whisper."

"Don't wash yourself clean.And don't dress yourself nicely;The neighbours are sharp--They have eyes like the eagleAnd 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 winterHas come, and the fieldsAnd the pretty green meadowsAre hidden away'Neath the snow. Nothing livingIs seen in the foldsOf the gleaming white grave-clothes.No friend under HeavenThere 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 buryThe 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 youTo hide in your grave!"

"My husband is gone;There is no one to shield me.Hark, hark! There's the drum!And the soldiers are coming!They halt;--they are formingA line in the market.'Attention!' There's Philip!There's Philip! I see him!'Attention! Eyes front!'It's Shalashnikov shouting....Oh, Philip has fallen!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....The family sleeping.I creep to the doorwayAnd open it softly,I pass down the streetThrough the night.... It is frosty.In Domina's hut,Where the youths and young maidensAssemble at night,They are singing in chorusMy favourite song:

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Mashenka is there.Her father comes to look for her,He wakens her and coaxes her:''Eh, Mashenka, come home,'' he cries,''Efeemovna, 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.''

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Mashenka is there.Her mother comes to look for her,She wakens her and coaxes her:''Now, Mashenka, come home,'' she says,''Efeemovna, 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!''

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,The little cottage at its foot,And Mashenka is there.Young Peter comes to look for her,He wakens her, and coaxes her:''Oh, Mashenka, come home with me!My little dove, Efeemovna,Come home, my dear, with me.''

"'''I will come, and I will listen,Fair the night--the moon in Heaven,Calm the stream with bridge and ferry,In the wood strong guards.'''"