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 beehives 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
