Just because the girl Nastas’ya
ran out barefoot in the rain
to provide another's pleasure
vodka for the aged man
she deserved a lovely god
in a palace drenched with sun
elegant and just and good
in a robe of old gold spun.
But to him where drunkards snore
where all round is poverty
the two blackened icons bore
little similarity.
Just for this the chicory flowered
suddenly the pearls were splendid:
like a church choir then was heard
the plain name of the intended.
He appeared above the fencing
offered her a yellow medal:
this way he was quite convincing
as a god in youthful fettle.
And her heart sang holy holy
for the dulcet light divine
for the blue shirt, for the jolly
concertina, for the wine.
And he lifted off her muslin
kerchief and (deceitful beast)
setting all the hayloft rustling
crumpled up her feeble breast...
And Nastas'ya combed her hair
took the kerchief by its corners
and Nastas'ya in despair
sang with gestures like a mourner’s:
«Oh, alas, you have undone me
you have wrought me many woes
Why oh why did you last Monday
offer me a white white rose!
Willow, willow, do not wither
wait, oh make me not bereft.
All my faith has gone — ah, whither?
Only this small cross is left.»
Through the sunlight laughed the rain
and the god laughed at the girl.
Nothing happened. All was vain.
And the god was not at all.
За то, что девочка Настасья
добро чужое стерегла,
босая бегала в ненастье
за водкою для старика, —
ей полагался бог красивый
в чертоге, солнцем залитом,
щеголеватый, справедливый,
в старинном платье золотом.
Но посреди хмельной икоты,
среди убожества всего
две почерневшие иконы
не походили на него.
За это вдруг расцвел цикорий,
порозовели жемчуга,
и раздалось, как хор церковный,
простое имя жениха.
Он разом вырос у забора,
поднес ей желтый медальон
и так вполне сошел за бога
в своем величье молодом.
И в сердце было свято-свято
от той гармошки гулевой,
от вин, от сладкогласья свата
и от рубашки голубой.
А он уже глядел обманно,
платочек газовый снимал
и у соседнего амбара
ей плечи слабые сминал...
А Настя волос причесала,
взяла платок за два конца,
а Настя пела, причитала,
держала руки у лица.
«Ах, что со мной ты понаделал,
какой беды понатворил!
Зачем ты в прошлый понедельник
мне белый розан подарил?
Ах, верба, верба, моя верба,
не вянь ты, верба, погоди!
Куда девалась моя вера —
остался крестик на груди».
А дождик солнышком сменялся,
и не случалось ничего,
и бог над девочкой смеялся,
и вовсе не было его.
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