The Kobzar of the Ukraine/Naimechka; or The Servant
Naimechka or The Servant
Prologue.
ON a Sunday, very early,
When fields were clad with mist
A woman's form was bending
'Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed.
Something to her heart she pressed,
In accents low the clouds addressed.
"Oh, you mist and raindrops fine,
Pity this ragged luck of mine.
Hide me here in grassy meadows,
Bury me beneath thy shadows.
Why must I 'mid sorrows stray?
Pray take them with my life away.
In gloomy death would be relief,
Where none might know or see my grief.
Yet not alone my life was spent,
A father and mother my sin lament.
Nor yet alone is my course to run
For in my arms is my little son.
Shall I, then, give to him christian name,
To poverty bind, with his mother's shame?
This, brother mist, I shall not do.
I alone my fault must rue.
Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen,
Thy mother's eyes with teardrops glisten.
Thy very name I may not know
As on through life I lonely go.
I, by my sin, rich fortune lost,
With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed.
Yet curse me not,
for evils past.
My prayers to heaven
shall reach at last.
The skies above
to my tears shall bend,
Another fortune to thee I'll send."
Through the fields she sobbing went.
The gentle mist
its shelter lent.
Her tears were falling
the path along,
As she softly sang
the widows song:
"Oh, in the field there is a grave
Where the shining grasses wave;
There the widow walked apart,
Bitter sorrow in her heart.
Poison herbs in vain she sought,
Whereby evil spells are wrought
Two little sons
in arms she bore
Wrapped around in
dress she wore;
Her children to the river carried,
In converse with the water tarried;
'Oh, river Dunai, gentle river,
I my sons to thee deliver,
Thou'lt swaddle them
and wrap them,
Thy little waves
will lap them,
Thy yellow sands
will cherish them,
Thy flowing waters
nourish them.'
I.
ALL by themselves lived
an old couple fond
In a nice little grove
just by a millpond.
Like birds of a feather
Just always together,
From childhood the two of them
fed sheep together,
Got married, got wealthy,
got houses and lands,
Got a beautiful garden
just where the mill stands,
An apiary full
of behives like boulders.
Yet no children were theirs,
and death at their shoulders.
Who will cheer their passing years?
Who will soothe their mortal fears?
Who will guard their gathered treasure,
In loyal service find his pleasure?
Who will be their faithful son
When low their sands of life do run?
Hard it is a child to rear,
In roofless house 'mid want and fear.
Yet just as hard 'mid gathered wealth,
When death creeps on with crafty stealth,
And one's treasures good
At end of life's wandering,
Are for strangers rude
For mocking and squandering.
II.
ONE fine Sunday,
in the bright sunlight,
All dressed up
in blouses white,
The old folks sat
on the bench by the door;
No cloud in sky,
What could they ask more?
All peace and love
it seemed like Eden.
Yet angels above
their hearts might read in.
A hidden sorrow,
a gloomy mood
Like lurking beast
in darksome wood.
In such a heaven
Oh, do you see
Whatever could
the trouble be?
I wonder now
what ancient sorrow
Suddenly sprang
into their morrow.
Was it quarrel
of yesterday
Choked off, then
revived today,
Or yet some newly sprouted ire
Arisen to set their heaven on fire?
Perchance they're called to go to God,
Nor longer dwell on earth's green sod.
Then who for them on that far way
Horses and chariot shall array?
"Anastasia, wife of mine,
Soon will come our fatal day,
Who will lay our bones away?"
"God only knows.
With me always was that thought
Which gloom into my heart has brought.
Together in years and failing health,
For what have we gathered
all this wealth?"
"Hold a minute,
Hearest thou? Something cries
Beyond the gate—'tis like a child.
Let's run! See'st ought?
I thought something was there."
Together they sprang
And to the gate running;
Then stopped in silence wondering.
Before the stile
a swaddled child,
Not bound tightly,
just wrapped lightly,
For it was
in summer mild.
And the mother
with fond caress
Had covered it
with her own last dress.
In wondering prayer
stood our fond old pair.
The little thing
just seemed to plead.
In little arms
stretched out you'ld read
Its prayer,—
in silence all.
No crying—just a little breath its call.
"See, 'Stasia!
What did I tell thee?
Here is fortune and fate for us;
No longer dwell we in loneliness.
Take it
and dress it.
Look at it!
Bless it!
Quick, bear it inside.
To the village I'll ride.
Its ours to baptize,
God-parents we need for our prize."
In this world
things strangely run.
There's a fellow
that curses his son,
Chases him away from home,
Into lonely lands to roam.
While other poor creatures,
With sorrowful features,
With sweat of their toiling
Must much money earn;
The wage of their moiling
Candles to burn.
Prayers to repeat,
The saints to entreat;
For children are none.
This world is no fun
The way things run.
III.
THEIR joys do now such numbers reach
God fathers and mothers
'Mid lots of others
Behold they have gathered
Three pairs of each.
At even they christen him,
And Mark is the name of him.
So Mark grows,
And so it goes.
For the dear old folk it is no joke,
For they don't know where to go,
Where to set him, when to pet him.
But the year goes and still Mark grows.
Yet they care for him, you'd scarce tell how,
Just as he were a good milk-cow.
And now a woman young and bright,
With eyebrows dark and skin so white,
Comes into this blessed place,
For servant's task she asks with grace.
"What, what—
say we'll take her 'Stasia."
"We'll take her, Trophimus.
We are old and little wearies us;
He's almost grown within a year,
But yet he'll need more care, I fear."
"Truly he'll need care,
And now, praise God, I've done my share.
My knees are failing, so now
You poor thing, tell us your wage,
It is by the year or how?"
"What ever you like to give."
"No, no, it's needful to know,
It's needful, my daughter,
to count one's wage.
This you must learn, count what you earn.
This is the proverb—
Who counts not his money
Hasn't got any.
But, child, how will this do?
You don't know us,
We don't know you.
You'll stay with us a few days.
Get acquainted with our ways;
We'll see you day by day,
Bye and bye we'll talk of pay.
Is it so, daughter?"
"Very good, uncle."
"We invite you into the house."
And so they to agreement came.
The young woman seemed always the same.
Cheerful and happy as she'd married a lord
Who'd buy up villages just at her word.
She in the house and out doth work
From morning light to evening's mirk.
And yet the child is her special care;
Whatever befalls, she's the mother there.
Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother misses
To give its bath and its white dresses.
She plays and sings, makes waggons and things,
And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.
Wondering, the old folks gaze,
But to God they give the praise.
So the servant never rests,
But the night her spirit tests.
In her chamber then, I ween,
Many a tear she sheds unseen.
Yet none knows nor sees it all
But the little Mark so small.
Nor knows he why in hours of night
His tossings break her slumbers light.
So from her couch she quickly leaps,
The coverings o'er his limbs she keeps.
With sign of cross the child she blesses,
Her gentle care her love confesses.
Each morning Mark spreads out his hands
To the Servant as she stands;
Accepts, unknowing, a mother's care.
Only to grow is his affair.
IV.
MEANTIME many a year has rolled,
Many waters to the sea have flowed,
Trouble to the home has come,
Many a tear down the cheek has run.
Poor old 'Stasia in earth they laid.
Hardly old Trophim' from death they saved.
The cursed trouble roared so loud.
And then it went to sleep, I trow.
From the dark woods where she frightened lay
Peace came back in the home to stay.
The little Mark is farmer now.
With ox-teams great in the fall must go
To far Crimea to barter there
Skins for salt and goods more rare.
The Servant and Trophimus
in counsel wise
Plans for his marriage
now devise.
Dared she her thoughts utter
For the Czar's daughter
She'd send in a trice.
But the most she could say
While thinking this way
Was, "Ask Mark's advice."
"My daughter, we'll ask him.
And then we'll affiance him."
So they gave him sage advice,
And they made decision nice.
Soon his grave friends about him stand.
He sends them to woo, a stately band.
Back they come with towels on shoulder
Ere the day is many hours older.
The sacred bread they have exchanged,
The bargain now is all arranged.
They've found a maiden in noble dress,
A princess true, you well may guess.
Such a queen is in this affiance
As with a general might make alliance.
"Hail, and well done," the old man says,
And now let's have no more delays.
When the marriage, where the priest,
What about the wedding feast?
Who shall take the mother's place?
How we'll miss my 'Stasia's face."
The tears along his cheeks do fall,
Yet a word does the Servant's heart appall
Hastily rushing from the room,
In chamber near she falls in swoon.
The house is silent, the light is dim,
The sorrowing Servant thinks of him
And whispers: "Mother, mother, mother."
V.
ALL the week at the wedding cake
Young women in crowds both mix and bake.
The old man is in wondrous glee,
With all the young women dances he.
At sweeping the yard
He labors hard.
All passers-by on foot and horseback
He hales to the court where is no lack
Of good home-brew.
All comers he asks to the marriage
And yet 'tis true
He runs around so
You'd not guess from his carriage
Though his joy is such a wonderful gift,
His old legs are 'most too heavy to lift.
Everywhere is disorder and laughter
Within the house and in the yard.
From store-room keg upon keg follows after,
Workers' voices everywhere heard.
They bake, they boil,
At sweeping toil,
Tables and floors they wash them all.
And where is the Servant
who cares not for wage?
To Kiev she is gone
on pilgrimage.
Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,
Mark almost wept for her to stay,
As mother sit, to see him wed.
Her call of duty elsewhere lay.
"No, Mark, such honor must I not take
To sit while you your homage make
To parents dear.
My mind is clear.
A servant must not thy mother be
Lest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.
Now may God's mercy with thee stay,
To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.
But yet again shall I return
Unto your house, if you do not spurn
My strength and toil."
With pure heart
she blessed her Mark
And weeping, passed
beyond the gate.
Then the wedding blossomed out;
Work for musicians and the joyous rout
Of dancing feet;
While mead so sweet
Of fermented honey with spices dashed
Over the benches and tables splashed,
Meanwhile the Servant limps along
Hastening on the weary road to Kiev.
To the city come, she does not rest,
Hires to a woman of the town;
For wages carries water.
You see she money, money needs
For prayers to Holy Barbara.
She water carries, never tarries,
And mighty store of pennies saves,
Then in the Lavra's awesome caves
She seeks the blessed wealth she craves.
From St. John she buys a magic cap,
For Mark she bears it;
And when he wears it,
For never a headache need he give e'er a rap
And then St. Barbara gives her a ring.
To her new daughter back to bring.
'Fore all the saints
she makes prostrations,
Then home returns
having paid her oblations.
She has come back.
Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,
Far beyond the gate they greet her,
Then into the house they bring her,
Draw her to the table there
Quickly spread with choicest fare.
Her news of Kiev they now request,
While Kate arranges her couch for rest.
"Why do they love me,
Why this respect?
Dear God above me,
Do they suspect?
Nay, that's not so,
'Tis just goodness, I know."
And still the Servant her secret kept,
Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.
VI.
THREE times have the waters frozen
Thrice thawed at the touch of spring
Three times did the Servant
From Kiev her store of blessings bring.
And each time gentle Katherine,
As daughter, set her on her way,
A fourth time led her by the mounds
Where many dear departed lay.
Then prayed to God for her safe return
For whom in absence her heart would yearn.
It was the Sunday of the Virgin,
Old Trophimus sat in garments white,
On the bench, in wide straw hat,
All amid the sunshine bright.
Before him with a little dog
His frolicsome grandson played,
The while his little granddaughter
Was in her mother's garb arrayed.
Smiling he welcomed her as matron;
For so at "visitors" they played.
"But what did you do with the visitor's cake?
Did somebody steal it in the wood,
Or perhaps you've simply forgotten to bake?"
For so they talked in lightsome mood.
But see,—Who comes?
'Tis their Anna at the door!
Run old and young! Who'll come before?
Anna waits not their welcome wordy.
"Is Mark at home, or still on journey?"
"He's off on journey long enough,"
Says the old man in accents gruff.
With pain the Servant sadly saith,
"Home have I come with failing breath;
Nor 'mid strangers would I wait for death.
May I but live my Mark to see,
For something grievously weighs on me."
From little bag the children's gifts
She takes. There's crosses and amulets.
For Irene is of beads a string,
And pictures too, and for Karpon
A nightingale to sweetly sing,
Toy horses and a wagon.
A fourth time she brings a ring
From St. Barbara to Katherine.
Next the old man's gift she handles,
It's just three holy waxen candles.
For Mark and herself
she nothing brought;
For want of money
she nothing bought.
For want of strength
more funds to earn,
Half a bun was her wealth
on her return.
As to how to divide it
Let the babes decide it.
VII.
SHE enters now the house so sweet,
And daughter Katherine bathes her feet
Then sets her down to dine in state,
But my Anna nor drank nor ate.
"Katherine!
When is our Sunday?"
"After tomorrow's the day."
"Prayers for the dead soon will we need
Such as St. Nicholas may heed.
Then we must an offering pay,
For Mark tarries on the way.
Perchance somewhere,
from our vision hid,
Sickness has ta'en him
which God forbid."
The tears dropped down
from the sad old eyes,
So wearily did she
from the table rise.
"Katherina,
My race is run,
All my earthly tasks are done.
My powers no longer I command
Nor on my feet have strength to stand.
And yet, my Kate, how can I die
While in this dear warm home I lie?"
The sickness harder grows amain,
For her the sacred host's appointed,
She's been with holy oils anointed,
Yet nought relieves her pain.
Old Trophim' in courtyard walks a-ring
Moving like a stricken thing.
Katherine, for the suff'rers sake
Doth never rest for her eyelids take,
And even the owls upon the roof
Of coming evil tell the proof.
The suff'rer now, each day, each hour,
Whispers the question, with waning power:
"Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?
So struggle I with doubt and fear,
Did I but know I'd see him for sure
Through all my pain I might endure."
VIII.
NOW Mark comes on with the caravan
Singing blithely as he can.
To the inns he makes no speed,
Quietly lets the oxen feed.
Mark brings home for Katherine
Precious cloth of substance rich;
For father dear, a girdle sewn
Of silk so red.
For Servant Anne
a gold cloth bonnet
To deck her head,
And kerchief, too
with white lace on it.
For the children are shoes
with figs and grapes.
There's gifts for all,
there's none escapes.
For all he brings
red wine, so fine,
From great old city
of Constantine.
There's buckets three
in each barrel put on,
And caviar
from the river Don.
Such gifts he has
in his wagon there,
Nor knows the sorrow
his loved ones bear.
On comes Mark,
knows not of worry;
But he's come
Give God the glory!
The gate he opens,
Praising God.
"Hear'st thou, Katherine?
Run to meet him!
Already he's come,
Haste to greet him!
Quickly bring him in to me.
Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,
All the strength has come from Thee."
And she "Our Father" softly said
Just as if in dream she read.
The old man the team unyokes,
Lays away the carven yokes.
Kate at her husband strangely looks.
"Where's Anna, Katherine?
I've been careless!
She's not dead?"
"No, not dead,
But very sick and calls for thee."
On the threshold Mark appears,
Standing there as torn by fears.
But Anna whispers, "Be not afraid,
Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.
Go forth, Katherine,
though I love you well,
I've something to ask him,
something to tell."
From the place
fair Katherine went;
While Mark his head
o'er the Servant bent.
"Mark, look at me,
Look at me well!
A secret now I have to tell.
On this faded form
set no longer store,
No servant, I, nor Anna more,
I am"
Came silence dumb,
Nor yet guessed Mark
What was to come.
Yet once again her eyelids raised
Into his eyes she deeply gazed
'Mid gathering tears.
"I from thee forgiveness pray;
I've penance offered day by day
All my life to serve another.
Forgive me, son, of me,
For I—am thy mother."
She ceased to speak.
A sudden faintness
Mark did take:
It seemed the earth
itself did shake.
He roused—
and to his mother crept,
But the mother
forever slept.
