Nikolay Alekseevich Nekrasov

Jack Frost

(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 pleasures.

For worldly calculations and charms

I would not part with my muse,

But God knows if that gift went out,

What used to be friends with her?

But a 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 concerned with them;

But I knew whose in the darkness of the night

Heart burst with sadness

And on whose chest they fell like lead,

And to whom they poisoned life.

And let them pass by

The thunderstorms above me,

I know whose prayers and tears

The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...

Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...

Let me not be a fighter without reproach,

But I knew the strength in myself,

I deeply believed in many things,

Now it's time for me to die...

Do not then start on the road,

So that in a loving heart again

Awaken fatal anxiety...

My subdued Muse

I myself reluctantly caress ...

I sing the last song

For you - and I dedicate to you.

But it won't be fun

It will be much sadder than before

Because the heart is darker

And the future is even more hopeless...

The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,

I'm afraid she won't break

The old oak planted by my father

And the willow that mother planted

This willow that you

Strangely connected with our fate,

On which the sheets faded

The night the poor mother was dying...

And the window trembles and dazzles ...

Chu! how large hailstones jump!

Dear friend, you understood a long time ago

Here, only stones do not cry ...

PART ONE

DEATH OF A PEASANT

Savraska stuck in half a snowdrift

Two pairs of frozen bast shoes

Yes, the corner of a bast-covered coffin

They stick out of poor firewood.

Old woman in big mittens

Savraska came down to goad her.

Icicles on her eyelashes

From the cold, I suppose.

The habitual thought of the poet

She is in a hurry to run ahead:

Like a shroud, dressed in snow,

The hut in the village is

In the hut - a calf in the basement,

The dead man on the bench by the window;

His stupid children make noise,

Wife sobs softly.

Stitching with a nimble needle

On shroud pieces of linen,

Like rain, charged for a long time,

She sobs softly.

Three heavy shares had fate,

And the first share: to marry a slave,

The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,

And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,

And all these formidable shares lay down

On the woman of the Russian land.

Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,

Everything in the world has changed several times,

Only one God forgot to change

The harsh share of the peasant woman.

And we all agree that the type was grinding

A beautiful and powerful Slav.

Accidental victim of fate!

You deafly, invisibly suffered,

You are the light of the bloody struggle

And she did not entrust her complaints,

But you will tell me them, my friend!

You have known me since childhood.

You are all fear incarnate

You are all - age-old languor!

He did not carry a heart in his chest,

Who did not shed tears over you!

However, we are talking about a peasant

We started to say

What type of majestic Slav

It is possible to find now.

There are women in Russian villages

With calm gravity of faces,

With beautiful strength in movements,

With a gait, with the eyes of queens,

Can't the blind see them?

And the sighted one says about them:

"It will pass - as if the sun will shine!

Look - the ruble will give!

They go the same way

What all our people go,

But the dirt of the environment is squalid

They don't seem to stick to them. blooms

Beauty, marvelous to the world,

Blush, slim, tall,

Beautiful in every dress

Dexterity for any work.

And hunger, and cold endures,

Always patient, even...

I saw how she mows:

What a wave - then a mop is ready!

The handkerchief fell into her ear,

Look, the braids will fall.

Some guy screwed up

And threw them up, fool!

Heavy blond braids

Fell on a swarthy chest,

Bare feet covered her legs,

They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She took them away with her hands,

He looks angrily at the guy.

The face is majestic, as in a frame,

Burning with embarrassment and anger...

On weekdays, he does not like idleness.

But you don't recognize her

How the smile of fun will drive away

From the face of the labor seal.

Such heartfelt laughter

And songs and dances

Money can't buy. "Joy!"

The men are talking to each other.

In the game, her equestrian will not catch,

In trouble, he will not fail - he will save:

Stop a galloping horse

Will enter the burning hut!

Beautiful straight teeth

That she has large pearls,

But strictly ruddy lips

Keep their beauty from people

She rarely smiles...

She has no time to sharpen her hair,

She won't dare a neighbor

Grip, ask for a pot;

She does not feel sorry for the wretched beggar

Feel free to walk without work!

Lies on it rigorously

AND inner strength seal.

It is clear and strong consciousness,

That all their salvation is in work,

And her work is rewarded:

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 dinner

Before the whole family ahead:

Sits as if on a chair, two years old

The baby is on her chest

Next to a six year old son

A smart mother leads...

And to the heart of this picture

To all those who love the Russian people!

And you marveled at the beauty

She was smart and strong

But grief dried you up

The wife of the sleeping Proclus!

You are proud - you don't want to cry,

Fasten, but the canvas is coffin

Tears involuntarily wet you,

Stitching with a nimble needle.

Tear after tear falls

On your quick hands.

So the ear silently drops

Ripe grains...

In the village, four miles away,

By the church where the wind sways

Storm-beaten 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 around.

In the snow up to the knees of his feet,

In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,

All in hoarfrost hat is big,

Mustache, beard in silver.

Standing still, thinking

* * *

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 pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a 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 concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety ...
My subdued Muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...
The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid she won't break
The old oak planted by my father
And the willow that mother planted
This willow that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets faded
The night the poor mother was dying...
And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood 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
Yes, the corner of a bast-covered coffin
They stick out of poor firewood.
Old woman in big mittens
Savraska came down to goad her.
Icicles on her eyelashes
Cold, I suppose.
II
The habitual thought of the poet
She is in a hurry to run ahead:
Like a shroud, dressed in snow,
The hut in the village is
In the hut - a calf in the basement,
The dead man on the bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
Wife sobs softly.
Stitching with a nimble needle
On shroud pieces of linen,
Like rain, charged for a long time,
She sobs softly.
III
Three heavy shares had fate,
And the first share: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,
And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,
And all these formidable shares lay down
On the woman of the Russian land.
Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,
Everything in the world has changed several times,
Only God forgot to change
The harsh share of the peasant woman.
And we all agree that the type was grinding
A beautiful and powerful Slav.
Accidental victim of fate!
You deafly, invisibly suffered,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And she did not entrust her complaints, -
But you will tell me them, my friend!
You have known me since childhood.
You are all fear incarnate
You are all - age-old languor!
He did not carry a heart in his chest,
Who did not shed tears over you!
IV
However, we are talking about a peasant
We started to say
What type of majestic Slav
It is possible to find now.
There are women in Russian villages
With calm gravity of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With a gait, with the eyes of queens, -
Can't the blind see them?
And the sighted one says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
If he looks, he will give you a ruble!”
They go the same way
What all our people go,
But the dirt of the environment is squalid
They don't seem to stick to them. blooms
Beauty, marvelous to the world,
Blush, slim, tall,
Beautiful in every dress
Dexterity for any work.
And hunger, and cold endures,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she mows:
What a wave - then a mop is ready!
The handkerchief fell into her ear,
Look, the braids will fall.
Some guy screwed up
And threw them up, fool!
Heavy blond braids
Fell on a swarthy chest,
Bare feet covered her legs,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.
She took them away with her hands,
He looks angrily at the guy.
The face is majestic, as in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...
On weekdays, he does not like idleness.
But you don't recognize her
How the smile of fun will drive away
From the face of the labor seal.
Such a hearty laugh
And songs and dances
Money can't buy. "Joy!" -
The men are talking to each other.
In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble - he will not fail, - he will save:
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!
Beautiful straight teeth
That she has large pearls,
But strictly ruddy lips
Keep their beauty from people -
She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her hair,
She won't dare a neighbor
Grip, ask for a pot;
She does not feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk without work!
Lies on it rigorously
And the seal of inner strength.
It is clear and strong consciousness,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work is rewarded:
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 dinner
Before the whole family ahead:
Sits as if on a chair, two years old
The baby is on her chest
Next to a six year old son
The elegant uterus leads ...
And to the heart of this picture
To all those who love the Russian people!
V
And you marveled at the beauty
She was smart and strong
But grief dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!
You are proud - you don't want to cry,
Fasten, but the canvas is coffin
Tears involuntarily wet you,
Stitching with a nimble needle.
Tear after tear falls
On your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Ripe grains...
VI
In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind sways
Storm-beaten 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 around.
In the snow up to the knees of his feet,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,
All in hoarfrost hat is big,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Standing still, thinking
An old man on a high hill.
Made up his mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug,
It dawned on the cross and began
Shovel the snow.
There were other methods
Cemetery is not like fields:
Crosses came out of the snow
The ground lay in crosses.
Bending your old back
He dug for a long time, diligently,
And yellow frozen clay
Immediately the snow covered.
The crow flew up to him,
Poked her nose, walked:
The earth rang like iron -
The crow got away with nothing ...
The grave is ready for glory, -
"I wouldn't want to dig this hole!"
(The old word escaped)
“Proclus would not rest in it,
Do not Proclus! .. "The old man stumbled,
A crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.
Went ... walking along the road ...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen ...
Like the whole world is dying
Calm, snow, semi-darkness ...
VII
In the ravine, by the river Jaundice,
The old man caught up with his grandmother
And quietly asked the old woman:
“Is the coffin good?”
Her lips whispered a little
In response to the old man: - Nothing. -
Then they were both silent
And the firewood ran so quietly,
Like they were afraid of something...
The village has not opened yet
And close - the fire flickers.
The old woman made a cross,
The horse shied away -
Without a hat, with bare feet,
With a big pointed stake
Suddenly appeared before them
An old acquaintance Pahom.
Covered with a women's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
Tapped the rustic fool
In the frosty ground with a stake,
Then he mumbled angrily,
He sighed and said: “Don't worry!
He worked quite well for you
And your turn has come!
Mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you work all the time! .. "
Mumbled again - and without a goal
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves shone
And the staff scrawled in the snow.
VIII
They left the roof on the house
To a neighbor brought to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress their son.
Slowly, importantly, severely
A sad thing happened:
No extra word was said
No tears came out.
Fell asleep, working in sweat!
Fell asleep, having worked the earth!
Lies uncared for,
On a white pine table
Lies motionless, severe,
With a burning candle in their heads
In a wide canvas shirt
And in fake new bast shoes.
Large, calloused hands
Having put in a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to flour
Face - and beard to the hands ...
IX
While the dead man was dressed up,
Did not give out a word of longing
And just avoided looking
To each other in the eyes of the poor,
But now it's over
no need b

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

Fate has three heavy shares: to marry a slave, to be the mother of a slave's son, and to submit to a slave to the grave - all of them fell on the shoulders of a Russian peasant woman. But despite the suffering, "there are women in Russian villages" to whom the dirt of a miserable situation does not seem to stick. These beauties bloom marvelously to the world, patiently and evenly enduring both hunger and cold, remaining beautiful in all clothes and dexterous for any work. They do not like idleness on weekdays, but on holidays, when a smile of fun drives away the print of labor from their faces, money cannot buy such a hearty laugh as theirs. A Russian woman "stops a galloping horse, enters a burning hut!" It feels both inner strength and strict efficiency. She is sure that all salvation lies in work, and therefore she does not feel sorry for the miserable beggar walking without work. She is rewarded in full for her work: her family knows no need, the children are healthy and full, there is an extra piece for the holiday, the hut 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 the tears, they involuntarily fall on her quick hands, sewing the shroud together.

Having brought the chilled grandchildren, Masha and Grisha, to the neighbors, mother and father dress up the late son. In this sad deed, no superfluous words are said, no tears come out - as if the severe beauty of the deceased, lying with a burning candle in his head, does not allow crying. And only then, when the last rite is performed, does the time come for lamentations.

On a harsh winter morning, Savraska takes the owner to last way. The horse served the owner a lot: both during peasant work and in winter, going with Proclus to the cart. Being engaged in carting, in a hurry to deliver the goods on time, Proclus caught a cold. No matter how the family treated the breadwinner: they doused it with water from nine spindles, took it to the bathhouse, threaded it through a sweaty collar three times, lowered it into the hole, put it under the chicken perch, prayed for it miraculous icon Proclus didn't get up.

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

On the way through the plain shining with snow, tears appear in Daria's eyes - probably from the sun ... And only when she enters the grave peace of the forest, a "deaf, crushing howl" escapes from her chest. The forest indifferently listens to the widow's moans, forever hiding them in its unsociable wilderness. Without wiping her tears, Daria begins to chop wood "and, full of thoughts about her husband, she calls him, talks to him ...".

She recalls her dream before Stasov's day. In a dream, her innumerable army surrounded her, which suddenly turned into ears of rye; Daria called to her husband for help, but he did not come out, left her alone to reap overripe rye. Daria understands that her dream was prophetic, and asks her husband for help in the backbreaking work that now awaits her. She represents winter nights without cute, endless canvases that she will weave for her son's marriage. With thoughts of his son comes the fear that Grisha will be illegally recruited, because there will be no one to intercede for him.

Having stacked firewood on firewood, Daria is going home. But then, mechanically taking an ax and quietly, intermittently howling, he approaches the pine tree and freezes under it "without thought, without groaning, without tears." And then Frost the governor approaches her, bypassing his possessions. He waves an ice mace over Daria, beckons her into his kingdom, promises to take a nap and warm her...

Daria is covered with sparkling hoarfrost, and she dreams of the recent hot summer. She sees herself digging potatoes in the strips by the river. Her children are with her, her beloved husband, a child is beating under her heart, which should be born by spring. Having shielded herself from the sun, Daria watches how the cart with Proclus, Masha, Grisha is driving farther and farther ...

In her sleep, she hears the sounds of a wonderful song, and the last traces of agony leave her face. The song satisfies her heart, "there is a limit to the happiness of the valley." Oblivion in deep and sweet peace comes to the widow with death, her soul dies for sorrow and passion.

The squirrel drops a snowball on her, and Daria freezes "in her enchanted dream ...".

"Jack Frost"

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 pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a 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 concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead,
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety...

my subdued muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...

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

And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood a long time ago -
Here, only stones do not cry ...
. . .

Part one
DEATH OF A PEASANT

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

Old woman, in big mittens,
Savraska came down to goad her.
Icicles on her eyelashes
From the cold, I suppose.

The habitual thought of the poet
She is in a hurry to run ahead:
Like a shroud, dressed in snow,
The hut in the village is

In the hut - a calf in the basement,
The dead man on the bench by the window;
His stupid children make noise,
Wife sobs softly.

Stitching with a nimble needle
On shroud pieces of linen,
Like rain, charged for a long time,
She sobs softly.

Three heavy shares had fate,
And the first share: to marry a slave,
The second is to be the mother of the son of a slave,
And the third - to obey the slave to the grave,
And all these formidable shares lay down
On the woman of the Russian land.

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

Accidental victim of fate!
You deafly, invisibly suffered,
You are the light of the bloody struggle
And she did not entrust her complaints, -

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

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

There are women in Russian villages
With calm gravity of faces,
With beautiful strength in movements,
With a gait, with the eyes of queens, -

Can't the blind see them?
And the sighted one says about them:
“It will pass - as if the sun will shine!
He will look - he will give a ruble!

They go the same way
What all our people go,
But the dirt of the environment is squalid
They don't seem to stick to them. blooms

Beauty, marvelous to the world,
Blush, slim, tall,
Beautiful in every dress
Dexterity for any work.

And endures hunger and cold,
Always patient, even...
I saw how she mows:
What a wave - then a mop is ready!

The handkerchief fell into her ear,
Look, the braids will fall.
Some guy screwed up
And threw them up, fool!

Heavy blond braids
Fell on a swarthy chest,
Bare feet covered her legs,
They prevent the peasant woman from looking.

She took them away with her hands,
He looks angrily at the guy.
The face is majestic, as in a frame,
Burning with embarrassment and anger...

On weekdays, he does not like idleness.
But you don't recognize her
How the smile of fun will drive away
From the face of the labor seal.

Such heartfelt laughter
And songs and dances
Money can't buy. "Joy!"
The men are talking to each other.

In the game, her equestrian will not catch,
In trouble - he will not fail, he will save;
Stop a galloping horse
Will enter the burning hut!

Beautiful straight teeth
What large pearls she has,
But strictly ruddy lips
Keep their beauty from people -

She rarely smiles...
She has no time to sharpen her hair,
She won't dare a neighbor
Grip, ask for a pot;

She does not feel sorry for the poor beggar -
Feel free to walk without work!
Lies on it rigorously
And the seal of inner strength.

It is clear and strong consciousness,
That all their salvation is in work,
And her work is rewarded:
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 dinner
Before the whole family ahead:
Sits as if on a chair, two years old
The baby is on her chest

Next to a six year old son
A smart mother leads...
And to the heart of this picture
To all those who love the Russian people!

And you marveled at the beauty
She was smart and strong
But grief dried you up
The wife of the sleeping Proclus!

You are proud - you don't want to cry,
Fasten, but the canvas is coffin
Tears involuntarily wet you,
Stitching with a nimble needle.

Tear after tear falls
On your quick hands.
So the ear silently drops
Ripe grains...

In the village, four miles away,
By the church where the wind sways
Storm-beaten 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 around.
In the snow up to the knees of his feet,
In his hands is a spade and a crowbar,

All in hoarfrost hat is big,
Mustache, beard in silver.
Standing still, thinking
An old man on a high hill.

Made up his mind. Marked with a cross
Where will the grave be dug,
It dawned on the cross and began
Shovel the snow.

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

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

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

The grave is ready for glory, -
“I don’t want to dig this hole!
(The old one let out a word.)
Proclus would not rest in it,

Do not Proclus! .. "The old man stumbled,
A crowbar slipped from his hands
And rolled into a white hole,
The old man took it out with difficulty.

Went ... walking along the road ...
There is no sun, the moon has not risen ...
Like the whole world is dying
Calm, snow, semi-darkness ...

In the ravine, by the river Jaundice,
The old man caught up with his grandmother
And quietly asked the old woman:
“Is the coffin good?”

Her lips whispered a little
In response to the old man: "Nothing."
Then they were both silent
And the firewood ran so quietly,
It's like they're afraid of something...

The village has not opened yet
And close - flickering fire.
The old woman made a cross,
The horse shied to the side, -

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

Covered with a women's shirt,
The chains on it rang;
The rustic fool tapped
In the frosty ground with a stake,

Then he mumbled angrily,
He sighed and said: “Don't worry!
He worked quite well for you
And your turn has come!

Mother bought a coffin for her son,
His father dug a hole for him
His wife sewed a shroud for him -
He gave you work all the time! .. "

Mumbled again - and without a goal
The fool ran into space.
The chains rang sadly,
And bare calves shone
And the staff scrawled in the snow.

They left the roof on the house
To a neighbor brought to spend the night
Freezing Masha and Grisha
And they began to dress their son.

Slowly, importantly, severely
A sad thing happened:
No extra word was said
No tears came out.

Fell asleep, working in sweat!
Fell asleep, having worked the earth!
Lies uncared for,
On a white pine table

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

Large, calloused hands
Having put in a lot of work,
Beautiful, alien to flour
Face - and beard to the arms ...

While the dead man was dressed up,
Did not give out a word of longing
And just avoided looking
To each other in the eyes of the poor.

But now it's over
No need to fight longing
And what boiled in my heart
From the mouth flowed like a river.

Not the wind is buzzing on the feather grass,
Not the wedding train rumbles, -
Relatives on Proclus howled,
According to Proclus, the family is crying:

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

You were an adviser to your parents,
You were a worker in the field
Guests hospitable and greeting,
You loved your wife and children...

Why did you walk around the world a little?
Why did you leave us, dear?
You thought about this thought
Thought with damp earth, -

Thought - and we stay
Ordered in the world; orphans,
Do not wash with fresh water
Tears burning us!

The old woman will die from the steep,
Not to live and your father,
Birch in the forest without a peak -
Mistress without a husband in the house.

You don't feel sorry for her, poor
You don't feel sorry for children... Get up!
From the strip of his reserved
Harvest in the summer!

Splash, beloved, with your hands,
Look with a hawk's eye
Shake your silk curls
Sugar lips dissolve!

For joy we would cook
And honey, and drunken mash,
They would put you at the table -
Eat, dear, dear!

And on the contrary, they would become -
The breadwinner, the hope of the family! -
Eyes would not be lowered from you,
They would catch your speeches ... "

To these sobs and groans
Neighbors flocked:
Putting a candle at the icon,
Made earthly prostrations
And they walked silently home.

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

The old man is a useless bastard
He did not let himself be mastered:
Getting closer to the torch,
He was picking a thin bast shoe.

Sighing long and loud
The old woman lay down on the stove
And Daria, a young widow,
Went to see the kids.

All night, standing by the candle,
The deacon read over the deceased,
And echoed him from behind the stove
A piercing whistle of a cricket.

The blizzard howled severely
And threw snow at the window
The sun rose gloomily:
That morning I witnessed
It is a sad picture.

Savraska, harnessed to a sleigh,
Dejectedly stood at the gate;
No unnecessary speeches, no sobs
The people carried the dead man out.

Well, touch it, savrasushka! touch!
Pull tighter!
You served the 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.

Tried well with the owner
Stored bread for the winter
In the herd, the child was given
I ate grass and chaff,
And the body pretty well kept.

When did the work end
And frost bound the earth,
With the owner you went
From homemade food to cart.

A lot and got here -
You carried heavy luggage
In a fierce storm it happened
Exhausted, lose the way.

Visible on the sides of your sunken
The whip is not one lane,
But in the courtyards of inns
You ate plenty of oats.

Did you hear in January nights
Blizzards shrill howl
And burning eyes of the wolf
I saw at the edge of the forest,

Tremble, suffer fear,
And there - and again nothing!
Yes, it is clear that the owner made a mistake -
Winter has finished it!

Happened in a deep snowdrift
Half a day he stand,
Then in the heat, then in the chill
Three days to follow the underwater:

The dead man was in a hurry
Deliver the goods to the place.
Delivered, returned home -
No voice, fire in the body!

The old woman doused him
Water from nine spindles
And took me to a hot bath
No, he didn't get better!

Then the prophets were called -
And they drink, and whisper, and rub -
Everything is bad! He was threaded
Three times through a sweaty collar,

They lowered the darling into the hole,
A roost was laid under the chicken ...
He obeyed everything, like a dove, -
And badly - does not drink and does not eat!

Still put under the bear,
So that he kneaded his bones,
Sergachevsky walker Fedya -
Happened here - offered.

But Daria, the mistress of the patient,
Chased the adviser away;
Try other means
The woman thought: and into the night

Went to a remote monastery
(Ten versts from the village),
Where in a certain icon revealed
There was healing power.

She went, returned with an icon -
The patient lay silent,
Dressed as in a coffin, communed.
I saw my wife, moaned

Savrasushka, touch,
Pull tighter!
You served the master a lot,
Serve for the last time!

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

Both guys with the dead
Sat, not daring to cry,
And, ruling Savraska, at the tomb
With the reins of their poor mother

Chagall... Her eyes were sunken,
And was not whiter than her cheeks
Worn on her as a sign of sadness
Scarf made of white linen.

For Daria - neighbors, neighbors
There was a sparse crowd,
Interpreting that Proclus children
Now unenviable fate

That Daria's work will arrive,
What awaits her dark days.
“There will be no one to pity her,”
Accordingly they decided...

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

He lived honestly, and most importantly: on time,
How did God save you?
Paid the mister dues
And presented to the king!”

Having spent the stock of eloquence,
The venerable man grunted:
“Yes, this is human life!”
Added - and put on a hat.

“He fell off ... but he was in force! ..
Let's fall down ... not a minute for us too! .. "
Still baptized to the grave
And with God we went home.

Tall, gray-haired, lean,
Without a hat, motionless and mute,
Like a monument, old grandfather
He stood on the grave of his own!

Then the old bearded
Moved quietly along it,
Leveling the earth with a shovel
Under the cries of his old woman.

When, leaving the son,
He entered the village with a woman:
“Like drunks, the twist is staggering!
Look at it! .. ”- the people said.

And Daria returned home -
Clean up, feed the kids.
Ay-ay! How the hut got cold!
Hurrying to fire up the oven

But look - not a log of firewood!
The poor mother thought:
It's a pity for her to leave the kids,
I would like to caress them

Yes, there is no time for affection,
A widow brought them to a neighbor,
And immediately on the same savraska
I went to the forest, for firewood ...

Part two
JACK FROST

Frosty. The plains turn white under the snow
The forest is blackening ahead,
Savraska trudges neither step nor run,
You will not meet souls on the way.

Around - there is no urine to look,
The plain in diamonds glistens...
Daria's eyes filled with tears -
The sun must be blinding them...

It was quiet in the fields, but quieter
In the forest and as if lighter.
The farther - the trees are higher,
And the shadows are longer and longer.

Trees and sun and shadows
And dead, grave peace...
But - chu! mournful songs,
A deaf, crushing howl!

Grief overcame Daryushka,
And the forest listened impassively,
How groans flowed in the open space,
And the voice trembled and trembled,

And the sun, round and soulless,
Like the yellow eye of an owl
Looked from heaven indifferently
To the torment of a widow.

And how many strings broke
The poor peasant soul
Forever hidden remains
In the forest unsociable wilderness.

The great sorrow of the widow
And mothers of little orphans
Free birds overheard
But they did not dare to give it to the people ...

It’s not the kennel who trumpets the dubrovushka,
Cackle, daredevil, -
Crying, pricks and cuts
Drova young widow.

Having chopped down, throws on firewood -
Fill them up soon
And she hardly notices
That tears are pouring from the eyes:

Another will break from the eyelashes
And fall on the snow in a big way -
Will reach the very earth,
Will burn a deep hole;

Throw another on a tree
On the die - and look, she
A large pearl will freeze -
Bela, and round, and dense.

And she shines in the eye
An arrow will run on the cheek,
And the sun will play in it ...
Daria is in a hurry to manage

Know, cuts, - does not feel the cold,
He does not hear that his legs are shivering,
And, full of thoughts of her husband,
Calling him, talking to him...

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Dove! our beauty
In the spring in a round dance again
Masha's girlfriends will pick up
And they will swing on the handles!

Will start to swing
throw up,
call poppy,
Mac Shake Off!1

All ours will blush
Poppy flower Masha
With blue eyes, with a blond braid!

kick and laugh
It will be ... but we are with you,
We admire her
We will, you are my desire! ..

You died, you did not live a century,
Died and buried in the ground!
Like spring to a person,
The sun burns brightly.

The sun brightened everything
God's beauty revealed
The plow field requested
Herbs ask for braids,

I got up early, bitter,
I didn’t eat at home, I didn’t take it with me,
Until the night plowed arable land,
At night I riveted a braid,
In the morning I went to mow...

Stronger you, little legs, stand!
White hands, don't whine!
One has to hurry!

In the field of one, it's nasty,
In the field of one disrespectful,
I will call cute!

Did you plow the field well?
Come out, dear, take a look!
Has the hay been removed dry?
Did you sweep the haystacks right? ..
I rested on a rake
All hay days!

Someone to fix the woman's work!
Some woman to instruct the mind.

The cattle began to get out into the forest,
Mother rye began to rush into the ear,
God sent us a harvest!
Today straw is up to the chest of a man,
God sent us a harvest!
Yes, I did not extend your century, -
Like it or not, hurry up alone! ..

The gadfly buzzes and bites,
Mortal thirst torments
The sun heats the sickle,
The sun blinds the eyes
It burns the head, shoulders,
Legs, little hands burns,
From rye, as if from an oven,
It also gives warmth
The back aches with an effort,
Hands and feet hurt
Red, yellow circles
Before the eyes...
Live, wait quickly
You see - the grain has flowed ...
Together it would be more difficult
Together it would be better to go ...

My dream was in hand, dear!
A dream before a saving day.
I fell asleep alone in the field
Afternoon, with sickle;
I see - it leaves me
Strength is an innumerable army, -
Waving his arms ominously
His eyes sparkle menacingly.
I thought to run away
Yes, the legs did not obey.
I began to ask for help
I began to scream loudly.

Hear the earth tremble
The first mother came running
Grasses are torn, noisy -
The children are in a hurry to visit their families.
He doesn't wave without the wind
Mill in the wing field:
Brother goes to lie down
The father-in-law trudges along.
Everyone came running, ran
Only one friend
My eyes didn't see...
I began to call him:
"See, I'm being overwhelmed
Strength is an innumerable army, -
Waving his arms ominously
Eyes gleaming menacingly:
Why don't you go to rescue? .. "
Here I looked around
God! What went where?
What was it with me?
There is no rati here!
These are not dashing people,
Not a busurman army,
These are rye ears,
Ripe grain poured,
Come fight with me!

They wave, they make noise; are coming
Hands, face tickle,
They themselves bend the straw under the sickle -
They don't want to stand anymore!

I began to reap deftly,
I reap, but on my neck
Large grains are poured -
It's like I'm standing under a hail!

Run out, run out overnight
All our mother rye ...
Where are you, Prokl Sevastyanych?
Why aren't you going to help?

My dream was in hand, dear!
Now I'll be alone.

I will reap without a sweetheart,
Snopiki tightly knit,
Shed tears in sheaves!

My tears are not pearly
Tears of a goryushka-widow,
What do you need the Lord
Why are you dear to him?

You are in debt, winter nights,
It's boring without sweet sleep,
If only they didn't cry very much,
I will weave cloths.

I have a lot of cloths,
Subtle good news,
Grow strong and dense
An affectionate son will grow up.

Will be in our place
He is at least a groom,
Get a guy a bride
We will send reliable matchmakers ...

I myself combed the curls for Grisha,
Blood with milk, our first-born son,
Blood and milk and a bride... Go!
Bless the young under the crown! ..

We have been waiting for this day like a holiday.
Do you remember how Grishukha started to walk,
We spent the whole night talking
How are we going to marry him?
They began to save a little for the wedding ...
Here - wait, thank God!

Choo, the bells are talking!
The train came back
Come out to meet quickly -
Pava-bride, falcon-groom! -
Rash on them grains,
Hop scree young!..2

A herd in the dark forest wanders,
In the forest, the shepherdess pulls lyki,
A gray wolf emerges from the forest.
Whose sheep will he take away?

Black cloud, thick, thick,
Hanging right above our village,
A thunderous arrow shoots out of the clouds,
Whose house is she in?

Bad news goes among the people,
Guys don't have long to walk free,
Recruitment Coming Soon!

Our young man in a single family,
We all have children - Grisha and daughter.
Yes, our head is a thief -
He will say: a worldly sentence!

The kid will die for nothing.
Stand up, stand up for your dear son!

No! you will not intervene! ..
Your white hands fell
Clear eyes closed forever...
We are bitter orphans!

Didn't I pray to the queen of heaven?
Was I lazy?
At night, alone according to the miraculous icon
I did not hesitate - I went.

The wind is roaring, sweeping snowdrifts.
There is no month - at least a ray!
You look at the sky - some coffins,
Chains and weights come out of the clouds...

Haven't I tried about it?
What did I regret?
I was afraid to tell him
How I loved him!

Stars will be at night
Will it be brighter for us? ..

The hare jumped out from under the night,
Zainka, stop! don't you dare
Cross my path!

I drove off into the forest, thank God ...
By midnight it got worse,

Hear, evil spirit
zalotoshila, howled,
Voted in the forest.

What do I care about unclean power?
Fuck me! virgin
I bring an offering!

I hear a horse neighing
I hear wolves howling
I hear the chase for me -

Beast don't attack me!
Dashing man don't touch
Our labor penny is dear!

He spent the summer working
Winter did not see the children,
Nights thinking about him
I didn't close my eyes.

He rides, chills ... and I, sad,
From fibrous linen
As if his road is alien,
I pull a long thread.

My spindle is jumping, spinning,
It hits the floor.
The proklushka is walking, it is baptized in a pothole,
He 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,
God! we give everything
What's for a penny, for a copper penny
We put together hard! ..

All you, forest path!
The forest is over.
In the morning a golden star
From god's heaven
Suddenly broke - and fell,
God blew on her
My heart trembled:
I thought, I remembered
What was on my mind then
How did the star roll?
I remembered! steel scissors,
I try to go, but I won't!
I thought it was hardly
I will find Proclus alive...

No! the queen of heaven will not allow!
A wonderful icon will give healing!

I made a sign of the cross
And she ran...

The strength in him is heroic,
God bless you, don't die...
Here is the wall of the monastery!
The shadow already reaches my head
to the monastery gates.

I bowed down to the ground
She got on her feet, look -
A raven sits on a gilded cross,
Heart beat again!

They kept me for a long time -
The sister's schemer was buried that day.

Matins went on
Quietly the nuns walked around the church,
Dressed in black robes
Only the deceased in white was:
Sleeping - young, calm,
He knows what will happen in paradise.
I also kissed, unworthy,
Your white hand!
I looked into the face for a long time:
You are all younger, smarter, sweeter,
You are like a white dove between sisters
Between gray, simple pigeons.

The rosary blackens in the pens,
Written aureole on the forehead.
Black cover on the coffin -
So meek angels!

Say, my killer whale,
God with holy lips
So that I don't stay
A bitter widow with orphans!

They carried the coffin in their arms to the grave,
They buried her with singing and weeping.

The holy icon moved in peace,
The sisters sang, seeing her off,
Everyone leaned towards her.

Much to the mistress was honored:
Old and young quit their jobs
They followed her from the villages.

The sick and the wretched were brought to her...
I know, mistress! I know: many
You dried a tear...
Only you showed no mercy to us!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
God! how much wood I chopped!
You won’t take it on a cart ... "

Finishing the usual
I put firewood on the firewood,
I took up the reins and wanted to
Set off on the road widow.

Yes, I thought again, standing,
I took the ax automatically
And quietly, intermittently howling,
I approached a tall pine tree.

Barely holding her legs
The soul is tired of longing,
The calm of sadness has come -
Involuntary and terrible peace!

It stands under a pine tree a little alive,
No thought, no moan, no tears.
In the forest, deathly silence -
The day is bright, the frost is getting stronger.

It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains,
Frost-voivode patrol
Bypasses his possessions.

Looks - good blizzards
Forest paths brought
And are there any cracks, cracks,
Is there any bare ground anywhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy,
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound
In great and small waters?

Walks - walks through the trees,
Cracking on frozen water
AND bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard.

The road is everywhere to the sorcerer,
Chu! comes closer, gray-haired.
And suddenly he was over her,
Above her head!

Climbing on a large pine tree,
Hits the branches with a club
And I delete myself,
Boastful song sings:

"Look, young lady, bolder,
What a governor Frost!
You probably have a stronger guy
And it turned out better?

Blizzards, snow and fog
Always submissive to frost
I'll go to the sea-okiyany -
I will build palaces of ice.

I think - the rivers are big
For a long time I will hide under oppression,
I will build bridges of ice
Which the people will not build.

Where fast, noisy waters
Recently flowed freely -
Pedestrians passed today
The carts with the goods have passed.

I love in deep graves
Row the dead in frost,
And freeze the blood in your veins,
And the brain freezes in the head.

On the mountain unkind thief,
At the fear of the rider and the horse,
I love in the evening
Start a chatter in the forest.

Babenki, singing to the goblin,
They run home quickly.
And drunk, and horseback, and foot
It's even more fun to fool around.

I'll whiten my face without chalk,
And the nose is on fire
And I'll freeze my beard like that
To the reins - even cut with an ax!

I'm rich, I don't count the treasury
And everything does not lack good;
I take away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver.

Come into my kingdom with me
And be you queen in it!
We will reign gloriously in winter,
And in the summer we will fall asleep deeply.

Come in! I'll take a nap, I'll warm
I will take the palace blue ... "
And became the governor over her
Swing an ice mace.

"Are you warm, young lady?" -
From a tall pine she screams.
- Warmly! - the widow answers,
She is cold, trembling.

Frosty went down lower,
Again waved the mace
And whispers to her softer, quieter:
“Is it warm?..” - Warm, golden!

Warm - and she stiffens.
Frost touched her:
Breath blows in her face
And sows thorny needles
From a gray beard to her.

And here he sank in front of her!
"Is it warm?" - said again
And he suddenly turned to Proklushka,
And he began to kiss her.

In her mouth, in her eyes and in her shoulders
The gray-haired sorcerer kissed
And the same sweet words to her,
What a dear about the wedding, he whispered.

And did she like it that way?
Listen to his sweet words,
That Daryushka closed her eyes,
Dropped the ax at my feet

The smile of the bitter widow
Plays on pale lips
Fluffy and white eyelashes
Frosty needles in the eyebrows...

Dressed in sparkling frost,
It's worth it, she's getting cold,
And she dreams of a hot summer -
Not all rye has been brought yet,

But compressed, it became easier for them!
The men carried sheaves,
And Daria was digging potatoes
From adjacent lanes by the river.

Her mother-in-law is right there, old woman,
Worked; on a full bag
Beautiful Masha
Sitting with a carrot in her hand.

The cart, creaking, drives up, -
Savraska looks at her
And Proklushka walks big
Behind a cartload of sheaves of gold.

God help! And where is Grisha?
Father casually said.
“In peas,” said the old woman.
- Grishukha! - father shouted,

He looked up at the sky: “Tea, isn’t it too early?”
I would like to drink ... - The hostess gets up
And Proclus from a white jug
He serves kvass to get drunk.

Grishukha, meanwhile, responded:
Peas entangled in a circle,
The nimble little boy seemed
Running green bush.

Runs! .. y! .. runs, little shooter,
The grass is burning underfoot!
Grishukha is as black as a jackdaw,
Only one head is white.

Screaming, running up squatting
(Pea collar around the neck).
Treated grandmother, uterus,
Little sister - spinning like a loach!

From the mother to the young man affection,
The boy's father pinched;
Meanwhile, Savraska did not doze:
He pulled his neck and pulled,

Reached, - baring his teeth,
Peas chew appetizingly,
And soft kind lips
Grishukhino's ear takes...

Mashutka shouted to her father:
- Take me, daddy, with you!
Jumped off the bag - and fell,
Her father raised her. "Don't howl!

Killed - no matter! ..
I don't need girls
Another shot like this
Give birth to me, hostess, by spring!

Look! .. ”The wife was ashamed:
- Enough with you one! -
(And I knew it was beating under my heart
Child...) "Well! Mashuk, nothing!”

And Proklushka, standing on the cart,
I planted a car with me.
Grishukha jumped up with a run,
And with a roar the cart rolled.

The flock of sparrows has flown
From sheaves, soared over the cart.
And Daryushka looked for a long time,
Shielding from the sun,

How the children and father approached
To his smoking barn,
And they smiled at her from the sheaves
Ruddy faces of children...

Soul flying away for the song,
She gave herself completely...
There is no sweeter song in the world
Which we hear in a dream!

About what she - God knows her!
I couldn't catch the words
But it soothes the heart
There is a limit to her happiness.

There is a gentle caress of participation in it,
Vows of love without end...
A smile of contentment and happiness
Daria does not leave her face.

Whatever the price
Oblivion to my peasant woman,
What needs? She smiled.
We will not regret her.

No deeper, no sweeter peace
Which forest sends us
Still, standing still
Under the cold winter skies

Nowhere so deep and free
Tired chest does not breathe,
And if we live enough,
We can't sleep anywhere!

Not a sound! Soul dies
For grief, for passion. standing
And you feel how conquers
Her dead silence.

Not a sound! And you see blue
The vault of the sky, yes the sun, yes the forest,
In silver-matt hoarfrost
Dressed up, full of miracles,

Attracting an unknown mystery,
Deeply impassive... But here
A random rustle was heard -
The tops of the protein goes.

Whom the snow she dropped
On Daria, jumping on a pine tree,
And Daria stood and froze
In my enchanted dream...

* * *

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 pleasures.
For worldly calculations and charms
I would not part with my Muse,
But God knows if that gift went out,
What used to be friends with her?
But a 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 concerned with them;
But I knew whose in the darkness of the night
Heart burst with sadness
And on whose chest they fell like lead
And to whom they poisoned life.
And let them pass by
The thunderstorms above me,
I know whose prayers and tears
The fatal arrow was withdrawn ...
Yes, and time has gone - I'm tired ...
Let me not be a fighter without reproach,
But I knew the strength in myself,
I deeply believed in many things,
Now it's time for me to die...
Do not then start on the road,
So that in a loving heart again
Awaken fatal anxiety ...
My subdued Muse
I myself reluctantly caress ...
I sing the last song
For you - and I dedicate to you.
But it won't be fun
It will be much sadder than before
Because the heart is darker
And the future is even more hopeless...
The storm howls in the garden, the storm breaks into the house,
I'm afraid she won't break
The old oak planted by my father
And the willow that mother planted
This willow that you
Strangely connected with our fate,
On which the sheets faded
The night the poor mother was dying...
And the window trembles and dazzles ...
Chu! how large hailstones jump!
Dear friend, you understood a long time ago -
Here, only stones do not cry ...
……………………….