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 deeply believed in many things, And now it’s time for me to die... Not then to set off on the road, To again awaken the fatal alarm in a loving heart... I myself reluctantly caress my subdued muse... I sing the last song For you - I dedicate it to you too. 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 the willow that my mother planted, this willow that you strangely connected with our fate, on which the leaves faded in the night when 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 is in a hurry 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: 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, 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 the game, the horseman will not catch her, In trouble, he will not be discouraged, he will save her; He will stop a galloping horse and enter a burning hut! She has beautiful, even teeth, like large pearls, but strictly ruddy 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... It’s 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 : “Did the coffin go well?” 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 made a sign of the cross, 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 purpose 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 a word of melancholy And only the poor people 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 along the feather grass, It’s not the wedding train that’s thundering, - Prokle’s relatives howled, It’s Prokle’s family 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, You thought it over with the damp earth, - You thought it over - and He ordered us to stay 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! Splash, darling, with your hands, Look with your hawk's eye, Shake the silk O with your curls, Sakh A open your mouth! 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 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 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 deceased 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. A sparse crowd trudged behind Daria - neighbors, neighbors, 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 groaned: “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 were also 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 - 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 - chu! 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 torments. 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 block, 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 along her cheek, And the sun will play in her... Daria is in a hurry to cope, You know, she chops - she doesn’t feel the cold, She doesn’t hear that her legs are chilling, And, full of thoughts about her husband, Calls him, with says 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! Our Masha will be all flushed with a poppy flower, with blue eyes and a brown braid! She will beat with her feet 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... Stronger 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! May I not prolong 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, the shoulders, It burns the legs, the 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 quickly, You see, the grain is flowing... Together, things would be faster, Together, things would go more casually... XXII My dream was perfect, dear! Sleep before the rescue day. I fell asleep alone in the field. After noon, with a sickle; I see that I am being overtaken by a Force - 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?..” Here I am all around I looked around - Lord! 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 grieving 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 your dear one, If only the very little ones don’t cry, I’ll start weaving 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 will be a groom in our place, We will send reliable matchmakers to the guy, We will 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 youngster is a loner in the family, All of our children are Grisha and our daughter. Yes, our head is a thief - He will say: a worldly sentence! It won't bend at all A whatever O what a kid. 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! N A 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 - Th O was in your 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... 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 e with a deep bow, she stood on her legs, and lo and behold, the Raven was sitting on a gilded cross, and her 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 - That's how gentle the angels are! 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 can’t take 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 snowstorms 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? He walks - walks through the trees, cracks on 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 fogs are always submissive to the 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!” the widow answers. 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, She stands there, getting colder, And she dreams of a hot summer - Not all the rye has been brought in yet, But it has 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 at the sky: “Tea, isn’t it early?” I wish I had a 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. - He’s running!.. y!.. he’s running, little shooter, The grass is burning under his feet! - Grishukha is black as a little pebble, Only one head is white. Screaming, he runs up in a squat (A pea collar around his neck). I treated my grandmother, my uterus, my little sister - she'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! I killed myself - it’s not an important matter! Look!..” The wife was ashamed: “That’s enough for you alone!” (And I knew that the Child was already beating under my 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! What is she talking about - God knows! 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...

There is a terrible grief in the peasant hut: the owner and breadwinner Prokl Sevastyanich has died. The mother brings a coffin for her son, the father goes to the cemetery to dig a grave in the frozen ground. A peasant's widow, Daria, sews a shroud for her late husband.

Fate has three difficult fates: to marry a slave, to be the mother of a slave's son, and to submit to a slave until the grave - all of them fell on the shoulders of the Russian peasant woman. But despite the suffering, “there are women in Russian villages” to whom the dirt of a wretched situation does not seem to stick. These beauties bloom as a marvel to the world, patiently and evenly enduring both hunger and cold, remaining beautiful in all clothes and dexterous in any work. They do not like idleness on weekdays, but on holidays, when a smile of joy removes the stamp of work from their faces, money cannot buy such heartfelt laughter as theirs. A Russian woman “will stop a galloping horse and enter a burning hut!” You can feel both inner strength and strict efficiency in her. She is sure that all salvation lies in work, and therefore she does not feel sorry for the poor beggar walking around without work. She is rewarded in full for her work: her family knows no need, the children are healthy and well-fed, there is an extra piece for the holiday, the house is always warm.

Daria, the widow of Proclus, was such a woman. But now grief has dried her up, and no matter how hard she tries to hold back her tears, they involuntarily fall onto her quick hands, sewing the shroud.

Having brought their frozen grandchildren, Masha and Grisha, to the neighbors, the mother and father dress up their late son. In this sad matter, no unnecessary words are said, no tears are shed - as if the harsh beauty of the deceased, lying with a burning candle in his head, does not allow crying. And only then, when the last rites are completed, does it become time for lamentations.

On a harsh winter morning, the Savraska takes its owner on his last journey. The horse served his owner a lot: both during peasant work and in winter, going with Proclus as a carrier. While driving a cab, in a hurry to deliver the goods on time, Proclus caught a cold. No matter how the family treated the breadwinner: they doused him with water from nine spindles, took him to a bathhouse, threaded him through a sweaty collar three times, lowered him into an ice hole, put him under a chicken roost, prayed for him to a miraculous icon - Proclus did not rise again.

Neighbors, as usual, cry during the funeral, feel sorry for the family, generously praise the deceased, and then go home with God. Returning from the funeral, Daria wants to take pity and caress the orphaned children, but she has no time for affection. She sees that there is not a log of firewood left at home, and, again taking the children to a neighbor, she sets off into the forest on the same Savraska.

On the way through the plain glistening with snow, tears appear in Daria's eyes - probably from the sun... And only when she enters the grave peace of the forest, a “dull, crushing howl” breaks out of her chest. The forest indifferently listens to the widow's moans, forever hiding them in its uninhabited wilderness. Without wiping away her tears, Daria begins to chop wood “and, full of thoughts about her husband, calls him, speaks to him...”.

She remembers her dream before Stasov's Day. In a dream, she was surrounded by a countless army, which suddenly turned into ears of rye; Daria called out to her husband for help, but he did not come out and left her alone to reap the overripe rye. Daria understands that her dream was prophetic, and asks her husband for help in the backbreaking work that now awaits her. She imagines winter nights without a sweetheart, endless fabrics that she will begin to weave for her son’s marriage. With thoughts of his son comes the fear that Grisha will be unlawfully given up as a recruit, because there will be no one to stand up for him.

Having piled the wood on the woodshed, Daria is getting ready to go home. But then, mechanically taking an ax and quietly, intermittently howling, he approaches the pine tree and freezes under it “without a thought, without a groan, without tears.” And then Frost the Voivode approaches her, walking around his domain. He waves an ice mace over Daria, beckons her to his kingdom, promises to caress her and warm her...

Daria is covered with sparkling frost, and she dreams of the recent hot summer. She sees herself digging potatoes in strips by the river. With her are her children, her beloved husband, and a child beating under her heart, who should be born by spring. Shielding herself from the sun, Daria watches as the cart, in which Proclus, Masha, Grisha are sitting, drives further and further...

In her sleep, she hears the sounds of a wonderful song, and the last traces of torment disappear from her face. The song quenches her heart, “it has the limit of lasting happiness.” Oblivion in deep and sweet peace comes to the widow with death, her soul dies to sorrow and passion.

Squirrel drops a lump of snow on her, and Daria freezes “in her enchanted sleep...”.

Retold

N.A. Nekrasov was always concerned about the fate of the Russian peasantry, and especially the position of women. He devoted many works to this topic, including the poem “Frost, Red Nose” published in 1863 - already in the post-reform period. The summary of the work, of course, does not make it possible to fully appreciate its merits, but it allows us to outline the range of problems that concern the author.

Introduction

N. Nekrasov dedicated the poem to his sister, Anna Alekseevna. Already in the extensive introduction its general theme and mood are indicated. This is the author’s recognition of the difficult lot of a poet who knows much more about life than other people. That’s why the new song “will be much sadder than the previous one,” and in the future everything seems “even more hopeless.”

Memories of his home and the death of his mother end with a direct appeal to his sister: “... you realized a long time ago - here only stones do not cry...”.

Part 1. Death of a Peasant

The poem evokes sad thoughts in the reader. Here is its summary.

Nekrasov begins “Frost, Red Nose” with a description of the tragedy in the life of a peasant family. Its head and breadwinner died, leaving his parents, wife and two young children orphans. The father went to dig his son’s grave (“It’s not for me to dig this hole!”). Mother went for the coffin. The wife “quietly sobs” over the shroud - she sews the last outfit for her husband. And only “stupid children” make noise, not yet understanding what happened.

About the hard lot of the Slav woman

The story about the difficult life of a peasant woman occupies an important place in part 1 of the poem “Frost, Red Nose.” Its summary is as follows.

Initially, a Russian woman is destined for three bitter fates: as the mother of a slave, and also to submit to fate until the grave. And no matter how many centuries pass, this situation does not change. But no harsh life can break the “beautiful and powerful Slavic woman” - this is exactly how Daria is seen from the poem “Frost, Red Nose.”

Beautiful and dexterous in everything, patient and stately, with the gait and “look of a queen,” a Russian woman always evokes admiration. She is beautiful both when she squints and when her face “burns with anger.” She doesn’t like idleness even on weekends, but if a “smile of fun” appears on her face, replacing the “labor mark” on it, then she has no equal in song or dance.

She feels responsible for the whole family, so her house is always warm, the kids are fed, and she has an extra piece saved for the holiday. And when such a “woman” goes to mass with a child in her arms, “everyone who loves the Russian people” becomes “to the heart” of the resulting picture - this is how N.A. ends the story. Nekrasov. “Frost, Red Nose,” thus, is primarily a poem about the fate of a Russian peasant woman.

Proud Daria strengthens herself, but tears involuntarily roll down, falling on her “quick hands” and shroud.

Farewell to Proclus

All preparations have been completed: the grave has been dug, the coffin has been brought, the shroud is ready. “Slowly, importantly, sternly” they began to dress Proclus. His whole life was spent in work. Now, motionless and stern, he lies with a candle in his head. The author notes large, worn-out hands and a face - “beautiful, alien to torment.”

And only when the rites were given to the deceased, “the relatives of Procles began to howl.” In their crying there is pain from the loss of a loved one, and praise to the breadwinner, and mourning the bitter orphaned lot of children, a widowed wife, old parents...

And in the morning, the faithful horse Savraska took his owner on his final journey. He served Proclus for many years: in the summer - in the field, in the winter - as a carriage driver. While rushing to deliver the goods on time on his last trip, the peasant caught a cold. Returned home - “there is a fire in my body.” He was treated with all known folk methods. Finally, the wife went to a distant monastery to get the miraculous icon. But I was late. When she returned, Proclus, seeing her, groaned and died...

They returned from the cemetery, and Daria, wanting to warm the children, saw that there was not a log left. Bitter is the lot of a widow! Leaving her son and daughter with a neighbor, she went into the forest.

Part 2. Daria

Finding herself alone in the open air, among the forest and plains sparkling with diamonds, Daria can no longer contain her feelings. The forest, the sun, the birds became witnesses to the “widow’s great grief”... Having cried to her heart’s content, she begins to chop wood. And tears keep rolling from my eyes, like pearls, and all my thoughts are about my husband. And also about what now awaits the young widow and her children. Now you need to keep up everywhere yourself: both in the field and around the house. Masha and Grisha will grow up, but there will be no one to protect them.

Daria also remembers a dream she recently had. She fell asleep in the field, and it seemed that the ears of corn, like an army of soldiers, surrounded her on all sides. She started calling for help. Everyone came running, except for my dear friend. She set to work, but the grains kept falling out - she couldn’t do it alone. The dream turned out to be prophetic: “Now I will reap alone.” Long and lonely winter nights await her. She is weaving canvases for her son’s wedding, but now recruits are already waiting for Grisha - the headman is dishonest, and there is no one to intercede. I chopped wood so much with bitter thoughts that I couldn’t take it away.

But the heroine of the work “Frost, Red Nose” is in no hurry to go home.

Brief summary of the meeting with the majestic governor of forests and fields

After thinking, Daria leaned against a tall pine tree, standing “without a thought, without a groan, without tears.” The exhausted soul suddenly found peace, terrible and involuntary. And the frost is getting stronger. And then he appears, bends over the unfortunate woman’s head, and invites her into his kingdom. And suddenly Frost turned to Proklushka and whispered tender words.

Daria is getting colder and colder, and a picture appears before her eyes. Hot Summer. She is digging potatoes, her mother-in-law and Masha are nearby. Suddenly the husband appears, walking next to Savraska, and Grisha jumps out of the pea field. And under her heart is a child who should be born in the spring. Then Proclus stood on the cart, put Mashutka with Grisha - and “the cart rolled.” And on the face of Daria, looking after them, a “smile of contentment and happiness” appears. Through her sleep she hears a lovely song, and her soul sinks more and more into the long-awaited peace. A squirrel jumping on a pine tree drops snow on the heroine, and Daria stands and freezes “in her enchanted dream.” This is how the poem “Frost, Red Nose” ends.

Neg. There are women in Russian villages, read by V. Nevinny

Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov is a Russian poet, writer and publicist. Recognized classic of world literature. Contemporaries said that he was “a gentle, kind, unenvious, generous, hospitable and completely simple man... a man with a real... Russian nature - ingenuous, cheerful and sad, capable of being carried away by both joy and grief to the point of excess.”

In his poems and poems, Nekrasov showed the wonderful characters of Russian women. He compared their fate with their future life, depicting the hard work of peasant women in corvee labor. An entire era of social development was reflected in his poetry. Nekrasov was the poetic leader of the generation of the 60-70s of the 19th century. The poet brought poetry closer to the people, introduced new themes and images into literature. His works remain relevant in our time.
In the poet’s works, an image of a peasant woman, pure in heart, bright in mind, and strong in spirit, appears, warmed by the author’s love. This is exactly what Daria is, the heroine of the poem “Frost, Red Nose”, in spirit - the sister of Nekrasov’s Decembrists.

“There are women in Russian villages...”

There are women in Russian villages
With calm importance of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With the gait, with the look of queens, -

Wouldn't a blind person notice them?
And the sighted man says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!”

They go the same way
How all our people are coming,
But the dirtiness of the situation is wretched
It doesn't seem to stick to them. Blooms

Beauty, the world is a wonder,
Blush, slim, tall,
She is beautiful in any clothes,
Dexterous for any job.

And endures hunger and cold,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she squints:
With a wave, the mop is ready!

The scarf fell over her ear,
Just look at the scythes falling.
Some guy got it wrong
And he threw them up, the fool!

Heavy brown braids
They fell on the dark chest,
Bare feet covered her feet,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She pulled them away with her hands,
He looks 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 disappear
The stamp of labor is on the face.

Such heartfelt laughter
And such songs and dances
Money can't buy it. "Joy!"
The men repeat among themselves.

In the game the horseman will not catch her,
In trouble, he will not fail, he will save;
Stops a galloping horse
He will enter a burning hut!

Beautiful, straight teeth,
What big pearls she has,
But strictly rosy lips
They keep their beauty from people -

She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her lasses,
Her neighbor won't dare
Ask for a grip, a potty;

She doesn't feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk around without work!
Lies on it with strict efficiency
And the seal of inner strength.

There is a clear and strong consciousness in her,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work brings reward:
The family does not struggle in need,

They always have a warm house,
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys,
There is an extra piece for the holiday.

This woman is going to mass
In front of the whole family in front:
Sits like he's sitting on a chair, two year old
The baby is on her chest

Six year old son nearby
The elegant uterus leads...
And this picture is to my heart
To everyone who loves the Russian people!

Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Nevinny (1934 - 2009) - Soviet and Russian theater and film actor. People's Artist of the USSR (1986).

© The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company ( www.litres.ru)

* * *

Dedicated to my sister Anna Alekseevna

You reproached me again
That I became friends with my Muse,
What are the worries of the day?
And he obeyed his amusements.
For everyday calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows whether that gift has not gone out,
What happened to me being friends with her?
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 in the darkness of the night
My heart was bursting with sadness
And on whose chest did they fall like lead?
And whose life they poisoned.
And let them pass by,
There were thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was retracted...
And time has passed, I’m tired...
I may not have been a fighter without reproach,
But I recognized the strength in myself,
I believed in a lot of things deeply,
And now it’s time for me to die...
Don’t go on the road then,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken the fatal alarm...

My subdued Muse
I myself am reluctant to caress...
I'm singing the last song
For you - and I dedicate it to you.
But it won't be any more fun
It will be much sadder than before,
Because the heart is darker
And the future will be even more hopeless...

The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid that she won't break
The old oak tree that my father planted
And that willow that my mother planted,
This willow tree that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets have faded
The night the poor mother died...

And the window trembles and becomes colorful...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you realized long ago -
Here only the stones do not cry...
……………………….

Part one
Death of a Peasant

I

Savraska got stuck in half a snowdrift -
Two pairs of frozen bast shoes
Yes, the corner of a matting-covered coffin
They stick out from the wretched woods.

Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to urge.
Icicles on her eyelashes,
From the cold - I guess.

II

The usual thought of a poet
She hurries to run ahead:
Dressed in snow like a shroud,
There is a hut in the village,

In the hut there is a calf in the basement,
Dead man on a bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
The wife is quietly sobbing.

Stitching with a nimble needle
Pieces of linen on the shroud,
Like rain that charges for a long time,
She sobs softly.

III

Fate had three hard parts,
And the first part: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of a slave's son,
And the third is to submit to the slave until the grave,
And all these formidable shares fell
To a woman of Russian soil.

Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
God forgot to change one thing
The harsh lot of a peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was crushed
A beautiful and powerful Slavic woman.

Random victim of fate!
You suffered silently, invisibly,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And I didn’t trust my complaints, -

But you will tell them to me, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate,
You are all age-old languor!
He didn't carry his heart in his chest,
Who didn’t shed tears over you!

IV

However, we are talking about a peasant woman
We started it to say
What type of majestic Slavic woman
It is possible to find it now.

There are women in Russian villages
With calm importance of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With the gait, with the look of queens, -
Wouldn't a blind person notice them?
And the sighted man says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he’ll give me a ruble!”

They go the same way
How all our people are coming,
But the dirtiness of the situation is wretched
It doesn't seem to stick to them. Blooms

Beauty, the world is a wonder,
Blush, slim, tall,
She is beautiful in any clothes,
Dexterous for any job.

He endures both hunger and cold,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she squints:
With a wave, the mop is ready!

The scarf fell over her ear,
Just look at the scythes falling.
Some guy got it wrong
And he threw them up, the fool!

Heavy brown braids
They fell on the dark chest,
Bare feet covered her feet,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She pulled them away with her hands,
He looks 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 disappear
The stamp of labor is on the face.

Such a hearty laugh
And such songs and dances
Money can't buy it. "Joy!" -
The men repeat among themselves.

In the game the horseman will not catch her,
In trouble, he will not fail, he will save:
Stops a galloping horse
He will enter a burning hut!

Beautiful, straight teeth,
That she has large pearls,
But strictly rosy lips
They keep their beauty from people -

She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her lasses,
Her neighbor won't dare
Ask for a grip, a potty;

She doesn't feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk around without work!
Lies on it with strict efficiency
And the seal of inner strength.

There is a clear and strong consciousness in her,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work brings reward:
The family does not struggle in need,

They always have a warm house,
The bread is baked, the kvass is delicious,
Healthy and well-fed guys,
There is an extra piece for the holiday.
This woman is going to mass
In front of the whole family in front:
Sits like he's sitting on a chair, two year old
The baby is on her chest

Six year old son nearby
The elegant uterus leads...
And this picture is to my heart
To everyone who loves the Russian people!

V

And you amazed me with its beauty,
She was both dexterous and strong,
But grief has dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!

You are proud - you don’t want to cry,
You strengthen yourself, but the canvas is grave
You involuntarily wet your tears,
Stitching with a nimble needle.

Tear after tear falls
In your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Their ripened grains...

VI

In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind shakes
Storm-damaged crosses,
The 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 big hat covered in frost,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Stands motionless, thinking,
An old man on a high hill.

Made up his mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug?
He made the sign of the cross and began
Shovel the snow.

There were other methods here,
The cemetery is not like the fields:
Crosses came out of the snow,
The ground lay in crosses.

Bend your old back,
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered it.

The crow flew up to him,
She poked her nose and walked around:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing...

The grave is ready for glory, -
“It’s not for me to dig this hole!”
(The old man let out a word)
“I wouldn’t curse him to rest in it,

I won’t curse you!..” The old man stumbled,
The crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.

He went... walking along the road...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen...
It's like the whole world is dying:
Calm, snow, semi-dark...

VII

In a ravine, near the river Zheltukha,
The old man caught up with his woman
And he 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 logs ran so quietly,
As if they were afraid of something...

The village has not yet opened,
And close - the fire flashes.
The old woman made a sign of the cross,
The horse darted to the side -

Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a large pointed stake,
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pakhom.

Covered with a woman's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
The village fool knocked
A stake into the frosty ground,
Then he hummed compassionately,
He sighed and said: “No problem!
He worked quite hard for you,
And your turn has come!

The mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him,
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you all a job at once!..”

He hummed again - and without purpose
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves glittered,
And the staff scribbled across the snow.

VIII

They left the roof on the house,
They took me to a neighbor's house to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress up their son.

Slow, important, harsh
It was a sad affair:
No extra words were said
No tears came out.

I fell asleep after working hard in sweat!
Fell asleep after working the soil!
Lies, uninvolved in care,
On a white pine table,

Lies motionless, stern,
With a burning candle in our heads,
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.

Large, calloused hands,
Those who put up a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to torment
Face - and beard down to the arms...

IX

While the dead man was being dressed,
They didn’t express melancholy with a word
And they just avoided looking
Poor people look into each other's eyes,

But now it's over,
There's no need to fight the sadness
And what boiled in my soul,
It flowed like a river from my mouth.

It’s not the wind that hums through the feather grass,
It's not the wedding train that's thundering -
The relatives of Procles howled,
According to Procles, the family says:

“You are our blue-winged darling!
Where did you fly away from us?
Comeliness, height and strength
You had no equal in the village,

You were an adviser to parents,
You were a worker in the field,
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?
Have you thought about this idea?
I thought about it with damp earth -

I thought better of it - should we stay?
He commanded the world, the orphans,
Do not wash your face with fresh water,
Burning tears for us!

The old woman will die from the cliff,
Neither will your father live,
Birch in a 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!
From your reserved strip
You'll reap the harvest this summer!

Splash, darling, with your hands,
Look with a hawk's eye,
Shake your silken curls
Dissolve your sugar lips!

For joy we would cook
And honey and intoxicating mash,
They would seat you at the table:
“Eat, beloved, dear!”

And they themselves would become the opposite -
The breadwinner, the hope of the family!
They wouldn't take their eyes off you,
They would catch your words..."

X

To these sobs and groans
The neighbors came in a crowd:
Having placed a candle near the icon,
Made prostrations
And they walked home silently.

Others took over.
But now the crowd has dispersed,
Relatives sat down for dinner -
Cabbage and kvass with bread.

The old man is a useless mess
I didn’t let myself control myself:
Getting closer to the splinter,
He was picking at a thin bast shoe.

Sighing long and loudly,
The old woman lay down on the stove,
And Daria, a young widow,
I went to check on the kids.

All night, standing by the candle,
The sexton read over the deceased,
And he echoed him from behind the stove
A cricket whistling shrilly.

XI

The blizzard howled harshly
And threw snow at the window,
The sun rose gloomily:
That morning the witness was
It's a sad picture.

Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh,
Ponuro stood at the gate;
Without unnecessary speeches, without sobs
The people carried out the dead man.
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 sucker,
He raised you in freedom,
And you came out a good horse.

I tried together with the owner,
I stored bread for the winter,
In the herd the child was given
He ate grass and chaff,
And he held his body pretty well.

When did the work end?
And the frost covered the ground,
You went with the owner
From homemade food to transport.

There was a lot here too -
You carried heavy luggage,
It happened in a severe storm,
Exhausted, losing the way.

Visible on your sunken sides
The whip has more than one stripe,
But in the inns' yards
You ate plenty of oats.

Did you hear on January nights
Blizzards piercing howl,
And the wolf's burning eyes
I saw it 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 has finished him off!..

XII

Happened in a deep snowdrift
He'll have to stand for half a day,
Then in the heat, then in the chills
Walk for three days behind the cart:

The deceased was in a hurry
Deliver the goods to the location.
Delivered, returned home -
No voice, my body is on fire!

The old woman doused him
With water from nine spindles
And she took me to a hot bathhouse,
No, he hasn’t recovered!

Then the fortune tellers were called -
And they sing, 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,
They put a roost under the chicken...
He submitted to everything like a dove -
And the bad thing is he doesn’t drink or eat!

Still put under the bear,
So that he can crush his bones,
Sergachevsky walker Fedya -
The one who happened here suggested.
But Daria, the owner of the patient,
She drove the adviser away:
Try different means
The woman thought: and into the night

Went to a distant monastery
(Thirty versts from the village),
Where in some icon revealed
There was healing power.

She went and returned with the icon -
The sick man lay speechless,
Dressed as if in a coffin, receiving communion,
I saw my wife and groaned

And he died...

XIII

...Savrasushka, touch it,
Pull your tug tight!
You served your master a lot,
Serve one last time!

Chu! two death blows!
The priests are waiting - go!..
Murdered, mournful couple,
Mother and father walked ahead.

Both guys and the dead man
We sat, not daring to cry,
And, ruling Savraska, at the tomb
With the reins their poor mother

She was walking... Her eyes were sunken,
And he was no whiter than her cheeks
Worn on her as a sign of sadness
A scarf made of white canvas.

Behind Daria - neighbors, neighbors
A thin crowd trudged along
Interpreting that Proklov's children
Now fate is unenviable,

That Daria's work will arrive,
What dark days await her.
“There will be no one to feel sorry for her,”
They decided accordingly...

XIV

As usual, they lowered me into the pit,
They covered Proclus with earth;
They cried, howled loudly,
The family was pitied and honored
The deceased with generous praise.

He lived honestly, and most importantly: on time,
How God saved you
Paid dues to the master
And presented the king with a tribute!”

Having spent my 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!..
We’ll fall... not a minute for us either!..”
Still baptized at the grave
And with God we went home.

Tall, gray-haired, lean,
Without a hat, motionless and mute,
Like a monument, old grandfather
I stood at my dear one’s grave!

Then the bearded old man
He 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 at this!..” - the people said.

XV

And Daria returned home -
Clean up, feed the children.
Ay-ay! How the hut got cold!
He's in a hurry to light the stove,

And lo and behold, not a log of firewood!
The poor mother thought:
She feels sorry for leaving the kids,
I would like to caress them

Yes, there is no time for affection.
The widow took them to a neighbor
And immediately, on the same Savraska,
I went to the forest to get firewood...