Chapter VIII: The Woman's Legend

Matrona is silent.You see that the peasantsHave seized the occasion--They are not forgettingTo drink to the healthOf the beautiful lady!But noticing soonThat Matrona is silent,In file they approach her."What more will you tell us?"

"What more?" says Matrona,"My fame as the 'lucky one'Spread through the volost,Since then they have called me'The Governor's Lady.'You ask me, what further?I managed the household,And brought up my children.You ask, was I happy?Well, that you can answerYourselves. And my children?Five sons! But the peasant'sMisfortunes are endless:They've robbed me of one."She lowers her voice,And her lashes are trembling,But turning her headShe endeavours to hide it.The peasants are ratherConfused, but they linger:"Well, neighbour," they say,"Will you tell us no more?"

"There's one thing: You're foolishTo seek among womenFor happiness, brothers."

"That's all?"

"I can tell youThat twice we were swallowedBy fire, and that three timesThe plague fell upon us;But such things are commonTo all of us peasants.Like cattle we toiled,My steps were as easyAs those of a horseIn the plough. But my troublesWere not very startling:No mountains have movedFrom their places to crush me;And God did not strike meWith arrows of thunder.The storm in my soulHas been silent, unnoticed,So how can I paint itTo you? O'er the MotherInsulted and outraged,The blood of her first-bornAs o'er a crushed wormHas been poured; and unansweredThe deadly offencesThat many have dealt her;The knout has been raisedUnopposed o'er her body.But one thing I neverHave suffered: I told youThat Sitnikov died,That the last, irreparableShame had been spared me.You ask me for happiness?Brothers, you mock me!Go, ask the official,The Minister mighty,The Tsar--Little Father,But never a woman!God knows--among womenYour search will be endless,Will lead to your graves.

"A pious old womanOnce asked us for shelter;The whole of her lifetimeThe Flesh she had conqueredBy penance and fasting;She'd bathed in the Jordan,And prayed at the tombOf Christ Jesus. She told usThe keys to the welfareAnd freedom of womenHave long been mislaid--God Himself has mislaid them.And hermits, chaste women,And monks of great learning,Have sought them all overThe world, but not found them.They're lost, and 'tis thoughtBy a fish they've been swallowed.God's knights have been seekingIn towns and in deserts,Weak, starving, and cold,Hung with torturing fetters.They've asked of the seers,The stars they have countedTo learn;--but no keys!Through the world they have journeyed;In underground caverns,In mountains, they've sought them.At last they discoveredSome keys. They were precious,But only--not ours.Yet the warriors triumphed:They fitted the lockOn the fetters of serfdom!A sigh from all overThe world rose to Heaven,A breath of relief,Oh, so deep and so joyful!Our keys were still missing....Great champions, though,Till to-day are still searching,Deep down in the bedOf the ocean they wander,They fly to the skies,In the clouds they are seeking,But never the keys.Do you think they will find them?Who knows? Who can say?But I think it is doubtful,For which fish has swallowedThose treasures so priceless,In which sea it swims--God Himself has forgotten!"