Content
Part one.
Death of a Peasant Part Two.
Frost, Red Nose Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov
You again reproached me, That I became friends with my Muse, That I submitted to the worries of the current day And its amusements. For everyday calculations and enchantments I would not have parted with my Muse, But God knows whether that gift, Which used to be friends with her, has not gone out? But the poet is not yet a brother to people, And his path is thorny and fragile, I knew how not to be afraid of slander, I myself was not preoccupied with them; But I knew whose heart was torn with sadness in the darkness of the night And on whose chest they fell like lead And whose life they poisoned. And even though they passed by, Thunderstorms passed over me, I know whose prayers and tears averted the fatal arrow... Yes, and time passed, I was tired... Even though I was not a fighter without reproach, But I recognized the strength in myself, I believed in a lot deeply, And now it’s time for me to die... Not then to set off on the road, So that in a loving heart again Awaken the fatal alarm...
I myself reluctantly caress my subdued Muse... I sing the last song For you - and I dedicate it to you. But she will not be more cheerful, She will be much sadder than before, Because her heart is darker And in the future she will be even more hopeless...
The storm is howling in the garden, the storm is breaking into the house, I am afraid that it will break the old oak tree that my father planted, And that willow tree that my mother planted, This willow tree that you strangely connected with our fate, On which the leaves have faded into the night, how the poor mother died...
And the window trembles and becomes colorful... Chu! how large hailstones jump! Dear friend, you realized a long time ago - Here only stones do not cry……………………………………………..
Part one Death of a peasant
I
Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift. Two pairs of frozen bast shoes, and the corner of a matting-covered coffin sticking out from the wretched wood.
An old woman in big mittens came down to urge Savraska. There are icicles on her eyelashes, It must be from the cold.
Plastov’s illustration for Nekrasov’s poem “Frost, Red Nose”
II
The usual thought of the poet is in a hurry to run ahead: Like a shroud, dressed in snow, The hut in the village stands,
In the hut - a calf in the basement, a dead man on a bench by the window; His stupid children are noisy, his wife is quietly sobbing.
Stitching pieces of linen onto the shroud with a nimble needle, Like rain that has charged for a long time, She sobs quietly.
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
III
Fate had three difficult shares, And the first share: to marry a slave, The second – to be the mother of a slave’s son, And the third – to submit to a slave until the grave, And all these formidable shares fell on the woman of the Russian land.
Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness, Everything in the world changed several times, God forgot to change one thing, The harsh lot of the peasant woman. And we all agree that the type crushed the Beautiful and powerful Slavic woman.
Random victim of fate! You suffered silently, invisibly, You did not entrust your complaints to the light of the bloody struggle, -
But you will tell them to me, my friend! You have known me since childhood. You are all fear embodied, You are all age-old languor! He didn’t carry a heart in his chest, Who didn’t shed tears over you!
IV
However, we started talking about a peasant woman to say that a type of majestic Slavic woman can still be found.
There are women in Russian villages With calm importance on their faces, With beautiful strength in their movements, With a gait, with the look of queens, -
Wouldn’t a blind person notice them, but a sighted person would say about them: “They will pass as if the sun were shining on them! If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!”
They walk the same road that all our people walk, but the dirt of the wretched situation does not seem to stick to them. Blooms
A beauty, a wonder to the world, Blush, slender, tall, Beautiful in all clothes, dexterous in any work.
She endures both hunger and cold, she is always patient, even... I saw how she mows: With a wave, the mop is ready!
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
The scarf has fallen over her ear, and her braids are about to fall. Some guy got creative and threw them up, you buffoon!
Heavy brown braids fell on her dark chest, covered her bare feet, and prevented the peasant woman from looking.
She pulled them away with her hands and looked at the guy angrily. The face is majestic, as if in a frame, burning with embarrassment and anger...
On weekdays he does not like idleness. But you won’t recognize her, How the smile of joy will drive away the stamp of labor from her face.
Such heartfelt laughter And such songs and dances Money cannot buy. "Joy!" - The men repeat among themselves.
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
In the game, the horseman will not catch her, In trouble, he will not be afraid, but will save her: He will stop the galloping horse, He will enter the burning hut!
Beautiful, even teeth, Like large pearls, But strictly rosy lips Keep their beauty from people -
She rarely smiles... She has no time to sharpen her lasses, Her neighbor won’t dare to ask for a pot;
She doesn’t feel sorry for the poor beggar - It’s free to walk without work! There is a seal of strict efficiency and inner strength on it.
There is a clear and strong consciousness in her, That all their salvation is in work, And work brings reward to her: The family does not struggle in need,
They always have a warm house, the bread is baked, the kvass is delicious, the guys are healthy and well-fed, there is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to mass in front of the whole family: a two-year-old child sits on her chest, as if on a chair,
Next to her six-year-old son, an elegant womb leads... And this picture is to the heart of all who love the Russian people!
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
V
And you amazed with your beauty, You were both dexterous and strong, But grief dried you up, Prokle’s wife who fell asleep!
You are proud - you don’t want to cry, you strengthen yourself, but you involuntarily wet the grave canvas with your tears, stitching with a nimble needle.
Tear after tear falls onto your quick hands. So the ear silently drops its ripened grains...
VI
In a village, four miles away, near the church, where the wind shakes the storm-damaged crosses, the old man chooses a place;
He’s tired, the work is difficult, skill is also needed here -
So that the cross can be seen from the road, So that the sun plays all around. His feet are covered in snow up to his knees, In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,
A large hat covered in frost, a mustache and beard in silver. The Old Man stands motionless, thinking, on a high hillock.
Made up his mind. He marked with a cross where the grave would be dug. He made the sign of the cross and began to rake away the snow with a shovel.
There were different techniques here, The cemetery is not like the fields: Crosses came out of the snow, Crosses lay on the ground.
Bending his old back, He dug for a long time, diligently, And the yellow frozen clay was immediately covered with snow.
A crow flew up to him, poked his nose, walked around: The earth rang like iron - The crow got away with nothing...
The grave is perfectly ready, - “It’s not for me to dig this hole!” (The old man burst out saying) “I wouldn’t curse him to rest in it,
I won’t curse you!..” The old man stumbled, the crowbar slipped out of his hands and rolled into a white hole, the old man pulled it out with difficulty.
He went... walking along the road... There is no sun, the moon has not risen... It’s as if the whole world is dying: Calm, snow, semi-darkness...
VII
In a ravine, near the Zheltukha River, the Old Man caught up with his woman and quietly asked the old woman: “Did the coffin go well?”
Her lips barely whispered in response to the old man: “Nothing.” - Then they were both silent, And the woods ran so quietly, As if they were afraid of something...
The village has not yet opened, but close by there is a flickering fire. The old woman crossed herself, the horse darted to the side -
Without a hat, with bare feet, and with a large pointed stake, the old acquaintance Pahom suddenly appeared before them.
Covered with a woman's shirt, the chains on him rang; The village fool tapped the frosty ground with a stake,
Then he grunted compassionately, sighed and said: “It’s not a problem! He worked for you quite a bit, And your turn has come!
The mother bought a coffin for her son, the father dug a hole for him, the wife sewed a shroud for him, and all at once he gave you a job!..”
He mumbled again - and without a goal, the fool ran into space. The chains rang sadly, And the bare calves glittered, And the staff scribbled across the snow.
VIII
They left the roof on the house, took the cold Masha and Grisha to spend the night with a neighbor, and began to dress up their son.
Slowly, importantly, sternly The sad business was carried out: Not an extra word was said, No tears were shed.
I fell asleep after working hard in sweat! Fell asleep after working the soil! Lies, uninvolved in care, on a white pine table,
He lies motionless, stern, with a burning candle in his head, in a wide canvas shirt and new linden bast shoes.
Large hands with calluses, which have taken up a lot of work, A beautiful face, alien to torment - and a beard reaching to the hands...
IX
While they were dressing the dead man, they did not express their melancholy with a word, and the poor people only avoided looking into each other’s eyes,
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
But now the matter is over, There is no need to fight with melancholy, And what was boiling in my soul flowed from my lips like a river.
It is not the wind that is humming through the feather grass, It is not the wedding train that is thundering - The relatives of Prokle howl, The family is wailing for Prokle:
“You are our blue-winged darling! Where did you fly away from us? You had no equal in beauty, height and strength in the village,
You were an adviser to parents, you were a worker in the field, you were hospitable and welcoming to guests, you loved your wife and children...
Why haven't you walked around the world enough? Why did you leave us, dear? You thought up this little idea, thought it over with damp earth -
He thought better of it - but he ordered us to stay in the world, orphans, not to wash ourselves with fresh water, but with burning tears!
The old woman will die from the cliff, Your father will not live either, A birch tree in the forest without a top - A housewife without a husband in the house.
You don’t feel sorry for her, poor thing, You don’t feel sorry for the children... Get up! You will reap a harvest from your protected strip in the summer!
Sprinkle your hands, darling, Look with your hawk's eye, Shake your silken curls, Dissolve your sugary lips!
For joy, we would cook both honey and intoxicating mash, They would seat you at the table: “Eat, dear, dear!”
And they themselves would become the opposite - Breadwinner, the hope of the family! They wouldn’t take their eyes off you, They would catch your speech...”
X
The neighbors flocked to these sobs and groans: Having placed a candle near the icon, they bowed to the ground and walked silently home.
Others took over. But now the crowd had dispersed, the relatives sat down to dinner - cabbage and kvass with bread.
“The relatives sat down for dinner...”
The old man did not allow the useless ruin to take control of Him: Having moved closer to the splinter, He picked the thin bast shoe.
Sighing long and loudly, the old woman lay down on the stove, and Daria, the young widow, went to visit the children.
All night long, standing by the candle, the sexton read over the deceased, and a cricket echoed him from behind the stove with a piercing whistle,
XI
The blizzard howled harshly and threw snow at the window, The sun rose sadly: That morning it witnessed a sad picture.
Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh, Ponuro stood at the gate; Without unnecessary speeches, without sobs, the people carried out the Dead.
Well, touch it, Savrasushka! touch it! Pull your tug tight! You served your master a lot, Serve for the last time!..
In the trading village of Chistopolye, he bought you as a suckling, he raised you in the wild, and you came out as a good horse.
He worked together with the owner, stored bread for the winter, gave it to the child in the herd, ate grass and chaff, and kept his body well.
When the work ended and the frost shackled the ground, you and your owner set off from the homemade food to the carrier.
You got a lot of trouble here too - You carried heavy luggage, It happened in a severe storm, You were exhausted and lost your way.
More than one stripe is visible on the sides of your sunken Knut, But in the courtyards of the inns You ate plenty of oats.
On the January nights of the snowstorm you heard a piercing howl, and you saw the burning eyes of a wolf at the edge of the forest,
You'll be chilled, you'll suffer from fear, and then - and again, nothing! Yes, apparently the owner made a mistake - Winter finished him off!..
XII
It happened that he stood in a deep snowdrift for half a day, then in the heat, then in the chills, he walked for three days behind the cart:
The deceased was in a hurry to deliver the goods to the place. Delivered, returned home - No voice, my body is on fire!
The old woman doused him with Water from nine spindles and took him to a hot bath, but no, he did not recover!
Then they called the fortune tellers - And they drink, and they whisper, and they rub - Everything is bad! It was threaded three times through a sweaty collar,
They lowered my dear one into the hole, put him under a chicken nest... He submitted to everything like a dove, - But it’s bad - he doesn’t drink or eat!
Another thing to put under the bear, so that it can crush its bones, Sergachev's walker Fedya - who happened here - suggested.
But Daria, the patient’s mistress, drove the adviser away: The woman decided to try other means: and into the night
I went to a remote monastery (about thirty versts from the village), where there was healing power in a certain icon revealed.
She went and returned with the icon - The sick man was lying silent, dressed as if in a coffin, receiving communion, saw his wife, groaned
And he died...
XIII
...Savrasushka, touch it, pull the tug tighter! You served your master a lot, Serve for the last time!
Chu! two death blows! The priests are waiting - go!.. Murdered, mournful couple, Mother and father walked ahead.
The guys and the deceased both sat, not daring to sob, And, ruling Savraska, at the coffin With the reins of their poor mother
Illustration for the poem “Frost, Red Nose”
She walked... Her eyes were sunken, And the handkerchief she wore made of white canvas as a sign of sadness was no whiter than her cheeks.
Behind Daria - neighbors, neighbors A thin crowd trailed, Interpreting that the Proklov children now have an unenviable fate,
That Daria's work will arrive, That dark days await her. “There will be no one to feel sorry for her,” they decided in agreement...
XIV
As usual, they lowered him into the pit and covered Proclus with earth; They cried, howled loudly, took pity on the Family, and honored the Dead Man with generous praise.
The headman himself, Sidor Ivanovich, howled in a low voice to the women, and “Peace be with you, Prokl Sevastyanich! Said. - You were grateful
He lived honestly, and most importantly: on time, How God helped you out, Paid dues to the master, And presented taxes to the king!”
Having spent his reserve of eloquence, the venerable man groaned, “Yes, here it is, human life!” - He added and put on his hat.
“He fell... otherwise he was in power!.. Let’s fall... not too long for us!..” They also were baptized at the grave And with God they went home.
Tall, gray-haired, lean, Without a hat, motionless and mute, Like a monument, old grandfather stood at his dear grave!
Then the bearded old man moved quietly along it, leveling the earth with a shovel, accompanied by the cries of his old woman.
When, having left his son, He and the woman entered the village: “He’s staggering like a drunken man! Look!..” - the people said.
Frost, Red Nose (Nikolai Nekrasov)
Jack Frost
Nikolai Nekrasov Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna.
You again reproached me, That I became friends with my muse, That I submitted to the worries of the current day And its amusements. For everyday calculations and enchantments I would not have parted with my muse, But God knows whether that gift, That used to be friends with her, had not gone out? But the poet is not yet a brother to people, And his path is thorny and fragile, I knew how not to be afraid of slander, I myself was not preoccupied with them; But I knew whose heart was torn with sadness in the darkness of the night, And on whose chest they fell like lead, And whose life they poisoned. And even though they passed by, Thunderstorms passed over me, I know whose prayers and tears averted the fatal arrow... Yes, and time passed, I was tired... Even though I was not a fighter without reproach, But I recognized the strength in myself, I believed in a lot deeply, And now it’s time for me to die... Not then to set off on the road, To again awaken the fatal anxiety in a loving heart... I myself reluctantly caress my subdued muse... I sing the last song For you - and I dedicate it to you. But it will not be more cheerful, It will be much sadder than before, Because it is darker in the heart And in the future it will be even more hopeless... The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house, I am afraid that it will break the old oak tree that my father planted, And that willow tree, that the mother planted, This willow tree, which you strangely connected with our fate, On which the leaves faded In the night, as the poor mother died... And the window trembles and is variegated... Chu! how large hailstones jump! Dear friend, you realized a long time ago - Here only stones do not cry... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Part one THE DEATH OF A PEASANT I Savraska is stuck in half a snowdrift, - Two pairs of frozen bast shoes and the corner of the matting covered coffin sticking out from the wretched wood. An old woman in big mittens came down to urge Savraska. There are icicles on her eyelashes, It must be from the cold. II The usual thought of the poet She hurries forward to run ahead: Like a shroud, dressed in snow, A hut in the village stands, In the hut there is a calf in the basement, A dead man on a bench by the window; His stupid children are noisy, his wife is quietly sobbing. Stitching pieces of linen onto the shroud with a nimble needle, Like rain that has charged for a long time, She sobs quietly. III Fate had three difficult shares, And the first share was to marry a slave, The second was to be the mother of a slave’s son, And the third was to submit to a slave until the grave, And all these formidable shares fell on the woman of the Russian land. Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness, Everything in the world changed several times, God forgot to change one thing, The harsh lot of the peasant woman. And we all agree that the type crushed the Beautiful and powerful Slavic woman. Random victim of fate! You suffered silently, invisibly, You did not entrust your complaints to the light of the bloody struggle, But you will tell them to me, my friend! You have known me since childhood. You are all fear embodied, You are all age-old languor! He didn’t carry a heart in his chest, Who didn’t shed tears over you! IV However, we started talking about a peasant woman to say that a type of majestic Slavic woman can still be found. There are women in Russian villages With calm importance on their faces, With beautiful strength in their movements, With a gait, with the look of queens - Wouldn’t a blind person notice them, And a sighted person says about them: “It will pass as if the sun will illuminate it! If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!” They walk the same road that all our people walk, but the dirt of the wretched situation does not seem to stick to them. A beauty blooms, a wonder to the world, Blush, slender, tall, Beautiful in all clothes, dexterous in any work. She endures hunger and cold, she is always patient, even... I saw how she mows: With a wave, the mop is ready! The scarf has fallen over her ear, and her braids are about to fall. Some guy got creative and threw them up, you buffoon! Heavy brown braids fell on her dark chest, covered her bare feet, and prevented the peasant woman from looking. She pulled them away with her hands and looked at the guy angrily. The face is majestic, as if in a frame, Burns with embarrassment and anger... On weekdays he does not like idleness. But you won’t recognize her, How the smile of joy will drive away the stamp of labor from her face. Such heartfelt laughter, And such songs and dances, Money cannot buy. "Joy!" The men repeat among themselves. In a game, the horseman will not catch her, In trouble, he will not be discouraged, but will save her; He will stop a galloping horse and enter a burning hut! She has beautiful, even teeth, like large pearls, but strictly rosy lips Keep their beauty from people - She rarely smiles... She has no time to sharpen her braids, Her neighbor won’t dare to ask for a grip or a pot; She doesn’t feel sorry for the poor beggar - It’s free to walk without work! There is a seal of strict efficiency and inner strength on it. There is a clear and strong consciousness in her, That all their salvation is in work, And work brings reward to her: The family does not struggle in need, They always have a warm house, The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious, The guys are healthy and well-fed, There is an extra piece for the holiday. This woman is going to mass Before the whole family in front: Sitting as if on a chair, a two-year-old child on her chest, Next to her six-year-old son, an elegant womb is leading... And this picture is to the heart of all who love the Russian people! V And you amazed with your beauty, You were both dexterous and strong, But grief dried you up, Prokle’s wife fell asleep! You are proud - you don’t want to cry, you strengthen yourself, but you involuntarily wet the grave canvas with your tears, stitching with a nimble needle. Tear after tear falls onto your quick hands. So the ear silently drops its ripened grains... VI In a village, four miles away, Near the church, where the wind shakes the storm-damaged crosses, An old man chooses a place; He is tired, the work is difficult, Here, too, skill is needed - So that the cross can be seen from the road, So that the sun plays all around. His feet are covered in snow up to his knees, In his hands is a spade and a crowbar, A large hat covered in frost, His mustache and beard in silver. The Old Man stands motionless, thinking, on a high hillock. Made up his mind. He marked with a cross where the grave would be dug. He made the sign of the cross and began to rake away the snow with a shovel. There were different techniques here, The cemetery is not like the fields: Crosses came out of the snow, Crosses lay on the ground. Bending his old back, He dug for a long time, diligently, And the yellow frozen clay was immediately covered with snow. The crow flew up to him, poked his nose, walked around: The earth rang like iron - The crow got away with nothing... The grave was perfectly ready, - “It’s not for me to dig this hole! (The old man burst out.) I wouldn’t curse you to rest in it, I wouldn’t curse you!..” The old man stumbled, the crowbar slipped out of his hands and rolled into a white hole, the old man pulled it out with difficulty. He went... walking along the road... There is no sun, the moon has not risen... As if the whole world is dying: Calm, snow, half-darkness... VII In a ravine, near the river Zheltukha, the old man caught up with his woman And quietly asked the old woman: “Is the coffin a good one?” ? Her lips barely whispered in response to the old man: “Nothing.” Then they were both silent, And the firewood ran so quietly, As if they were afraid of something... The village had not yet opened, But fire was flashing close by. The old woman crossed herself, the horse darted to the side, - Without a hat, with bare feet, With a large pointed stake, Suddenly the old acquaintance Pakhom appeared before them. Covered with a woman's shirt, the chains on him rang; The village fool tapped a stake on the frosty ground, then grunted compassionately, sighed and said: “It’s no problem! He worked for you quite a bit, And your turn has come! The mother bought a coffin for her son, The father dug a hole for him, The wife sewed a shroud for him - He gave you all a job at once!..” He mumbled again - and without a goal, the fool ran into space. The chains rang sadly, And the bare calves glittered, And the staff scribbled across the snow. VIII They left the roof on the house, took chilly Masha and Grisha to spend the night with a neighbor, and began to dress up their son. Slowly, importantly, sternly The sad business was carried out: Not an extra word was said, No tears were shed. I fell asleep after working hard in sweat! Fell asleep after working the soil! Lying, uninvolved in care, On a white pine table, Lying motionless, stern, With a burning candle in his head, In a wide canvas shirt And in new linden bast shoes. Large, calloused hands, Having raised a lot of labor, A beautiful face, alien to torment - and a beard reaching to the hands... IX While the dead man was being dressed, They did not betray their melancholy with a word, And the poor people only avoided looking into each other’s eyes. But now the matter is over, There is no need to fight with melancholy, And what was boiling in my soul flowed from my lips like a river. It’s not the wind that’s humming through the feather grass, It’s not the wedding train that’s thundering,— The Prokle relatives howled, The Prokle family is howling: “You’re our blue-winged darling!” Where did you fly away from us? You had no equal in your beauty, height and strength in the village, You were an adviser to your parents, You were a worker in the field, You were hospitable and welcoming to guests, You loved your wife and children... Why didn’t you walk around the world enough? Why did you leave us, dear? You thought about this little idea, thought it over with the damp earth, thought it over, and ordered us to remain in the world; for orphans, not to wash with fresh water, but for us with burning tears! The old woman will die from the cliff, Your father will not live either, A birch tree in the forest without a top - A housewife without a husband in the house. You don’t feel sorry for her, poor thing, You don’t feel sorry for the children... Get up! You will reap a harvest from your protected strip in the summer! Sprinkle your hands, darling, Look with your hawk's eye, Shake your silken curls, Dissolve your sugary lips! For joy, we would brew both honey and intoxicating mash, They would seat you at the table - Eat, dear, dear! And they themselves would stand opposite - Breadwinner, the family's hope! - They wouldn't take their eyes off you, They would catch your speech...” Others took over. But now the crowd had dispersed, the relatives sat down to dinner - cabbage and kvass with bread. The old man did not allow the useless ruin to take control of Him: Having moved closer to the splinter, He picked the thin bast shoe. Sighing long and loudly, the old woman lay down on the stove, and Daria, the young widow, went to visit the children. All night, standing by the candle, the sexton read over the deceased, and a cricket echoed him from behind the stove with a piercing whistle. XI The blizzard howled harshly and threw snow at the window, The sun rose sadly: That morning it witnessed a sad picture. Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh, Ponuro stood at the gate; Without unnecessary speeches, without sobs, the people carried out the Dead. - Well, touch it, Savrasushka! touch! Pull your tug tight! You served your master a lot, Serve for the last time!.. In the trading village of Chistopolye He bought you as a suckling, He raised you in the wild, And you came out as a good horse. He worked together with the owner, stored bread for the winter, gave it to the child in the herd, ate grass and chaff, and kept his body well. When the work ended and the frost shackled the ground, you and your owner set off from the homemade food to the carrier. You got a lot of trouble here too - You carried heavy luggage, It happened in a severe storm, You were exhausted and lost your way. More than one stripe is visible on the sides of your sunken Knut, But in the courtyards of the inns You ate plenty of oats. On the January nights of the snowstorm, you heard a piercing howl, And you saw the burning eyes of a wolf at the edge of the forest, You will be chilled, you will suffer from fear, And there - and again nothing! Yes, apparently, the owner made a mistake - Winter finished him off!.. XII It happened in a deep snowdrift He stood for half a day, Then, in the heat, then in the chill, he walked for three days behind the cart: The dead man was in a hurry to deliver the goods to the place. Delivered, returned home - No voice, my body is on fire! The old woman doused him with Water from nine spindles and took him to a hot bath, but no, he did not recover! Then they called the fortune tellers - And they drink, and they whisper, and they rub - Everything is bad! They threaded him three times through a sweaty collar, lowered his darling into the hole, put him under a chicken roost... He submitted to everything like a dove, - But it’s bad - he doesn’t drink or eat! Another thing to put under the bear, so that it can crush its bones, Sergachev's walker Fedya - who happened here - suggested. But Daria, the owner of the patient, drove the adviser away; The woman decided to try other means: and at night she went to a distant monastery (ten versts from the village), where in a certain icon there was healing power. She went and returned with the icon - The sick man was lying silent, dressed as if in a coffin, receiving communion. He saw his wife, groaned and died... XIII ...Savrasushka, touch, Pull the tug tighter! You served your master a lot, Serve for the last time! Chu! two death blows! The priests are waiting - go!.. Murdered, mournful couple, Mother and father walked ahead. The guys and the dead man both sat, not daring to sob, And, ruling Savraska, at the coffin With the reins of their poor mother Chagall... Her eyes were sunken, And the scarf she wore, made of white canvas, was not whiter than her cheeks. Behind Daria - her neighbors, a thin crowd trudged along, Interpreting that the fate of Proklov's children was now unenviable, That Daria would get work, That dark days awaited her. “There will be no one to feel sorry for her,” they decided in agreement... XIV As usual, they lowered him into the pit and covered Proclus with earth; They cried, howled loudly, took pity on the Family, and honored the Dead Man with generous praise. The headman himself, Sidor Ivanovich, howled in an undertone to the women and “Peace be with you, Prokl Sevastyanich!” He said, “You were complacent, Lived honestly, and most importantly: on time, How God helped you out, Paid dues to the master, And presented taxes to the tsar!” Having spent his reserve of eloquence, the venerable man grunted: “Yes, this is human life!” He added and put on his hat. “He fell... otherwise he was in power!.. Let’s fall... not too long for us!..” They also were baptized at the grave And with God they went home. Tall, gray-haired, lean, Without a hat, motionless and mute, Like a monument, old grandfather stood at his dear grave! Then the bearded old man moved quietly along it, Leveling the earth with a shovel Under the cries of his old woman. When, having left his son, He and the woman entered the village: “He’s staggering like a drunken man! Look!..” - the people said. XV And Daria returned home - to clean up, feed the children. Ay-ay! How cold the hut has become! He's in a hurry to light the stove, and lo and behold, there's not a log of firewood! The poor mother thought: She feels sorry for leaving the children, I would like to caress them, But there is no time for affection, The widow took them to a neighbor, And immediately on the same Savraska she went into the forest to get firewood... Part two FROST, RED NOSE XVI Frosty. The plains turn white under the snow, The forest ahead turns black, Savraska trudges along, neither walking nor running, You won’t meet a soul on the way. How quiet! A voice rang out in the village, as if buzzing right next to your ear, a stumbling snake against a tree root, knocking and squealing, and scratching at your heart. All around - there is no urine to look, The plain glitters in diamonds... Daria's eyes filled with tears - The sun must be blinding them... XVII It was quiet in the fields, but quieter in the forest and seemed brighter. The farther you go, the trees get higher and higher, and the shadows get longer and longer. Trees, and sun, and shadows, And dead, grave peace... But - wow! mournful pennies, a dull, crushing howl! Grief overpowered Daryushka, And the forest listened indifferently, As moans flowed in the open air, And the voice tore and trembled, And the sun, round and soulless, Like the yellow eye of an owl, Looked from heaven indifferently At the widow's grave torment. And how many strings broke in the poor peasant soul, remained hidden forever in the uninhabited wilderness of the forest. The great grief of the widow And the mothers of little orphans The free birds overheard, But they did not dare to give it to the people... XVIII It is not the huntsman who trumpets the oak tree, The daredevil cackles, - Having cried, the young widow chops and chops wood. Having cut it down, he throws it on the wood - I wish I could fill it as soon as possible, And she hardly notices that tears are still pouring from her eyes: Another will fall from an eyelash And fall into the snow with a flourish - It will reach the very ground, Burn a deep hole; He’ll throw another one onto a tree, onto a die, and look, it will solidify like a large pearl - White, and round, and dense. And she will shine on the eye, She will run like an arrow across her cheek, And the sun will play in her... Daria is in a hurry to cope, Know, she chops, she does not feel the cold, She does not hear that her legs are chilling, And, full of thoughts about her husband, Calls him, speaks to him ...XIX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Darling! Our beauty In the spring, Masha’s girlfriends will again pick up Masha in a round dance And begin to swing her in her arms! They will swing it, throw it up, call it Poppy, shake it off! 1 Our Masha will be all flushed with a poppy flower, with blue eyes and a brown braid! She will beat with her legs and laugh... and you and I, We will admire her, We will admire her, my beloved!.. XX Died, you did not live to live, Died and buried in the ground! Man loves spring, the sun burns brightly. The sun revived everything, God's beauty was revealed, The field asked for plows, The grasses asked for scythes, I got up early, bitter, I didn't eat at home, I didn't take it with me, I plowed the arable land until nightfall, At night I riveted a scythe, In the morning I went to mow... Tougher you, little legs, stop! White hands, don't whine! One must keep up! In the field alone it’s annoying, in the field alone it’s discouraging, I’ll start calling my dear one! Did you plow the arable land well? Come out, darling, take a look! Was the hay removed dry? Did I sweep the haystacks straight?.. I rested on a rake All the haymaking days! There’s no one to fix a woman’s work! There is no one to teach a woman some sense. XXI The little cattle began to go into the forest, Mother rye began to rush about in the ear, God sent us a harvest! Today the straw is up to a man's chest, God has sent us a harvest! Yes, I didn’t extend your life, - Whether you like it or not, keep up alone!.. The gadfly buzzes and bites, Mortal thirst languishes, The sun heats the sickle, The sun blinds the eyes, It burns the head, shoulders, Legs, burns little hands, From rye, as if from an oven , It also gives you warmth, Your back aches from the strain, Your arms and legs hurt, Red and yellow circles stand before your eyes... Reap, reap as quickly as possible, You see, the grain has flowed... Together things would be faster, Together things would go more casually... XXII My dream was right, dear! Sleep before the rescue day. I fell asleep alone in the field. After noon, with a sickle; I see that the Force is closing in on me, a countless army, waving its arms menacingly, its eyes sparkling menacingly. I thought I’d run away, but my legs didn’t listen. I began to ask for help, I began to scream loudly. I hear the earth tremble - The first mother came running, The grass is bursting, making noise - The children are rushing to their homeland. The windmill in the field does not flap its wings wildly without the wind: Brother goes and lies down, Father-in-law trudges along in small steps. Everyone arrived, came running, Only one friend My eyes didn’t see... I began to call to him: “You see, the Force is closing in on me - a countless army, - Waves his arms menacingly, Menacingly sparkles his eyes: Why aren’t you coming to help?..” Then I looked around - God! What went where? What was wrong with me? There is no army here! These are not dashing people, Not the Busurman army, These are rye ears, filled with ripe grain, They came out to fight with me! They wave and make noise; They are advancing, Hands are tickling your face, They themselves are bending the straw under the sickle - They don’t want to stand anymore! I began to reap quickly, I am reaping, and large grains are falling on my neck - It’s like I’m standing under hail! All our mother rye will flow out, flow out overnight... Where are you, Prokl Sevastyanich? Why aren’t you going to help?.. My dream was in order, dear! Now I will be the only one to reap. I will begin to reap without my dear one, I will knit the sheaves tightly, I will drop tears into the sheaves! My tears are not pearly, The tears of a grief-stricken widow, Why does the Lord need you, Why are you dear to him?.. XXIII You are in debt, winter nights, It’s boring to sleep without a sweetheart, If only the very little ones don’t cry, I’ll begin to weave linen. I have made a lot of canvases, fine, good-quality new items, He will grow up strong and dense, He will grow up to be an affectionate son. He'll be a groom in our place, We'll send reliable matchmakers to the guy, We'll send reliable matchmakers... I combed Grisha's curls myself, Blood and milk is our first-born son, Blood and milk and the bride... Go! Bless the newlyweds down the aisle!.. We were waiting for this day like a holiday, Do you remember how Grishukha began to walk, We spent the whole night talking about how we were going to marry him, We began to save up little by little for the wedding... Well, we have waited, thank God! Chu, the bells are talking! The train has returned back, Come quickly towards them - Pava-bride, falcon-groom! - Sprinkle grains of grain on them, Shower the young ones with hops! Whose sheep will he carry away? A black cloud, thick and thick, hangs right above our village, A thunder arrow will shoot out of the cloud, Whose house will it hit? Bad news is spreading among the people, The boys won't be free for long, Recruitment is coming soon! Our young man is a loner in the family, All of our children are Grisha and a daughter. Yes, our head is a thief - He will say: a worldly sentence! The kid will die for no reason. Get up, stand up for your dear son! No! you will not intercede!.. Your white hands dropped, your clear eyes closed forever... We are bitter orphans!.. XXV Didn’t I pray to the queen of heaven? Was I lazy? At night, alone, I didn’t lose sight of the wonderful icon - I went. The wind is noisy, blowing snowdrifts. There is no month - at least a ray! If you look at the sky, there are some coffins, Chains and weights coming out of the clouds... Didn’t I try to take care of him? Did I regret anything? I was afraid to tell him how much I loved him! The night will have stars, Will it be brighter for us?.. The hare jumped out from under the night, Bunny, stop! Don't you dare cross my path! He drove off into the forest, thank God... By midnight it became worse, - I hear the evil spirit has stomped, howled, and howled in the forest. What do I care about evil spirits? Forget me! I bring an offering to the Most Pure Virgin! I hear horses neighing, I hear wolves howling, I hear them chasing me, - Don’t rush at me, the beast! Don't touch a dashing man, Our penny of labor is dear! _____ He spent the summer working, did not see the children in the winter, spent the night thinking about him, I did not close my eyes. He rides, he’s cold... and I, sad, made of fibrous flax, As if his road is alien, I’m pulling a long thread. My spindle jumps, spins, hits the floor. The proklushka walks on foot, crosses himself in a pothole, and harnesses himself to the cart on the hill. Summer after summer, winter after winter, That's how we got the treasury! Be merciful to the poor peasant, Lord! We give everything away, What we earned by hard work, a penny, a copper penny!.. XXVI All of you, forest path! The forest is over. By morning, a golden star suddenly fell from God's heavens and fell, God blew on it, my heart trembled: I thought, I remembered - What was in my thoughts then, How did the star roll? I remembered! My little legs have become, I’m trying to walk, but I can’t! I thought that I would hardly find Proclus alive... No! The queen of heaven will not allow it! A wonderful icon will give healing! I was overshadowed by the cross And ran away... The strength in him is heroic, God is merciful, he will not die... Here is the monastery wall! My shadow already reaches the monastery gates with its head. I bowed to the ground, stood on my little feet, and lo and behold, the Raven was sitting on a gilded cross, My heart trembled again! XXVII They kept me for a long time - the sisters buried the Schema-montress that day. Matins was going on, nuns were quietly walking around the church, dressed in black robes, only the deceased was in white: She was sleeping - young, calm, knowing what would happen in heaven. I, unworthy, also kissed your white hand! I looked into your face for a long time: You are younger, smarter, sweeter than everyone else, You are like a white dove among the sisters, Between gray, simple pigeons. The rosary is black in the hands, the written aureole is on the forehead. Black cover on the coffin - The angels are so meek! Speak, my killer whale, to God with holy lips, So that I do not remain a bitter widow with orphans! They carried the coffin in their arms to the grave, They buried her with singing and crying. XXVIII The holy icon moved in peace, the sisters sang, seeing it off, everyone venerated it. The mistress was greatly honored: The old and young gave up their work, They followed her from the villages. They brought the sick and wretched to her... I know, mistress! I know: You dried the tears of many... Only you showed no mercy to us! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . God! how much wood I chopped! You won’t be able to carry it on a cart...” XXIX Having finished the usual task, the widow put firewood on the firewood, took the reins and wanted to set off on the road. Yes, I thought again, standing, I mechanically took the ax and quietly, intermittently howling, I approached a tall pine tree. As soon as her legs could hold her up, Her soul was exhausted with melancholy, There came a lull of sadness - An involuntary and terrible peace! She stands under the pine tree, barely alive, without a thought, without a groan, without tears. There is deathly silence in the forest - The day is bright, the frost is getting stronger. XXX It is not the wind that rages over the forest, It is not the streams that run from the mountains, Frost the warlord patrols his domain. He looks to see if the blizzards have covered the forest paths well, and are there any cracks or crevices, and is there any bare ground? Are the tops of the pines fluffy, Are the patterns on the oaks beautiful? And are the ice floes firmly bound in the great and small waters? As he walks, he walks through the trees, cracks across the frozen water, and the bright sun plays in his shaggy beard. The sorcerer is welcome everywhere, Chu! The gray-haired man comes closer. And suddenly he found himself above her, above her very head! Climbing onto a large pine tree, he hits the branches with his club, and to himself, daringly, he sings a boastful song: XXXI “Look, young lady, more boldly, What a governor Frost is like! It’s unlikely that you have a stronger guy and a prettier one? Blizzards, snow and fog are always submissive to frost, I will go to the ocean seas - I will build palaces of ice. I’ll think about it - I’ll hide large rivers under oppression for a long time, I’ll build ice bridges, which the people will not build. Where the fast, noisy waters recently flowed freely - Today pedestrians passed, Carts with goods passed. I love to dress the dead in frost in deep graves, and freeze the blood in the veins, and freeze the brain in the head. To woe to the unkind thief, To the fear of rider and horse, I love to start a chatter in the forest in the evening. The little women, blaming the devils, quickly run away home. And it’s even more fun to fool drunk people, both on horseback and on foot. Without chalk, I’ll whiten my whole face, And my nose will burn with fire, And I’ll freeze my beard to the reins - even if I chop it with an axe! I am rich, I don’t count the treasury, And everything is not scarce; I am cleaning up my kingdom Into diamonds, pearls, silver. Enter my kingdom with me and be the queen in it! We will reign gloriously in winter, And in summer we will fall asleep deeply. Come in! I’ll take care of her, I’ll warm her up, I’ll take her to the blue palace...” And the governor began to wave his ice mace over her. XXXII “Are you warm, young lady?” - He shouts to her from a high pine tree. “It’s warm!” answers the widow. She herself is getting cold and trembling. Morozko went lower, waved his mace again, and whispered to her more affectionately, more quietly: “Is it warm?...” - Warm, golden! It’s warm, but she’s getting numb. Frost touched her: his breath blows into her face and sows prickly needles from her gray beard onto her. And then he fell in front of her! “Is it warm?” - He said again, And suddenly he turned into Proklushka, And he began to kiss her. The gray-haired sorcerer kissed her mouth, eyes and shoulders, and whispered the same sweet words to her that my dear one about the wedding. And did she really like to listen to his sweet speeches, That Daryushka closed her eyes, Dropped the ax at her feet, The smile of the bitter widow Plays on her pale lips, Fluffy and white eyelashes, Frosty needles in her eyebrows... XXXIII Dressed in sparkling frost, Stands, She’s getting colder, And she’s dreaming of a hot summer - Not all the rye has been brought in yet, But it’s been harvested - they feel better! The men carried the sheaves, and Daria dug potatoes from the neighboring strips by the river. Her mother-in-law, an old lady, was working right there; on a full bag Beautiful Masha the playful girl sat with a carrot in her hand. The cart, creaking, drives up, Savraska looks at her people, and Proklushka strides along behind the cart of sheaves of gold. - God help! “Where is Grishukha?” Father said casually. “In peas,” said the old woman. “Grishukha!” the father shouted, looked up at the sky: “Tea, isn’t it early?” I would like to drink... - The hostess gets up and gives Proclus some kvass from a white jug to drink. Grisha meanwhile responded: Entangled in peas all around, The agile boy seemed like a running green bush. - Running! Screaming, he runs up in a squat (A pea collar around his neck). I treated my grandmother, my uterus, my little sister - he's spinning like a loach! The mother gave the young fellow a kindness, The boy's father pinched him; Meanwhile, the Savraska was not dozing either: He stretched his neck and pulled, He got there, baring his teeth, chewing peas appetizingly, And taking Grishukhino’s ear into his soft, kind lips... XXXIV Mashutka shouted to her father: “Take me, daddy, with you!” She jumped off the bag and fell. Her father picked her up. “Don't howl! If I'm killed, it's not a big deal!.. I don't need girls, Another shot like this. Give birth to me, mistress, by spring! Look!..” The wife was ashamed: “That’s enough for you alone!” (And she knew that the Child was already beating under her heart...) “Well! Mashuk, nothing!” And Proklushka, standing on the cart, took Mashutka with him. Grishukha jumped up and ran, and the cart rolled off with a roar. A flock of sparrows flew from the sheaves and soared above the cart. And Daryushka watched for a long time, shielding herself from the sun with her hand, as the children and their father approached their smoking barn, and the rosy faces of the children smiled at her from the sheaves... What a song! familiar sounds! The singer has a good voice... The last signs of Daria's torment disappeared from her face, Her soul flew away after the song, She surrendered herself completely to it... There is no more charming song in the world, Which we hear in our dreams! God knows what she's talking about! I couldn’t catch the words, But she satisfies my heart, There is a limit to lasting happiness in her. It contains a gentle caress of participation, Vows of love without end... The smile of contentment and happiness does not leave Daria's face. XXXV No matter what price my peasant woman gets Oblivion, What does she need? She smiled. We won't regret it. There is no deeper, no sweeter peace, Which the forest sends us, Standing motionless, fearlessly Under the cold of the winter skies. Nowhere does a tired chest breathe so deeply and freely, And if life is enough for us, We can’t sleep sweeter anywhere! XXXVI Not a sound! The soul dies for sorrow, for passion. You stand and feel how this dead silence conquers Her. Not a sound! And you see the blue vault of the sky, and the sun, and the forest, In silver-matte frost, Dressed up, full of miracles, Attracting with an unknown secret, Deeply dispassionate... But then A random rustle was heard - A squirrel is walking along the tops. She dropped a lump of snow on Daria, jumping on a pine tree, And Daria stood and froze in her enchanted dream... All poems by Nikolai Nekrasov
