Eduard Bagritsky
Suvorov

A brisk little man in a grey three-cornered hat
And a dark-blue overcoat, the elbows worn right through,
He’d put on a pair of warm felt boots in winter
And swathe his throat in neckerchiefs, and mufflers too.

Mailcoaches still used to run on the highroads in those days;
The drivers wore long coats and felt hats with curving brims.
Inside the hotels of an evening, saucy girls sang romantic ballads,
And a fragrance of sweet fresh mint flowed through the low-ceilinged rooms.

When the sound of the post-horn was heard in the distance.
Green blinds in muddy windows were lifted curiously,
The amorous duets died away in the darkened rooms,
And the whisper went round: “Suvorov is on the way!”

Fine petticoats rustled on narrow stairs,
And lackeys opened the gates, bowing;
Ruddy-faced wayfarers politely pocketed their pipes
And burned their hands on dottle that was still glowing.

In the evening he sat by a dead fire,
And on the mantelpiece stood a Saxon clock and grotesques in porcelain.
He would read a French novel, opening it up in the middle:
“The sufferings of poor Juliette who loved an Italian nobleman”.

In the morning, when shepherds’ pipes were at their most tuneful,
And the fat maidservant clumped down the passage in heavy shoes,
He left to make a tour of his cold villages.
Drawing on down-at-heel boots that were shabby with use.

The shrivelled ears were plugged with yellowing cotton wool.
Coughing, he’d go down to the courtyard, holding the bannister rail.
The driver in a blue caftan would lash the chestnut horse.
The inn and the woods sped by so fast that the head would reel.

But when the cottages and the church with the peeling roof
Came floating up towards him out of the mist.
He’d tug the tall coachman by the skirts of his coat
And shout in his old man’s voice: “Don’t drive so fast!”

But there were times, at the first fall of snow.
When, standing upright in the drozhky and gripping the driver’s shoulder,
A courier came to visit him out in his village,
Bringing direct from our Mother the Empress a letter.

“Good Sir,” he would read, “Alexander Vassilicvlch!
It grieves me greatly to disturb your peaceful labours.
Like Cincinnatus of old, you have retired to your village
To multiply your possessions with peaceful toil and the sciences.”

He’d look for a long time at the scented paper
As if he were stringing the words on a thread, and then
Going to the wardrobe, he’d take out his sword and his medals,
And become Suvorov of the manuals and history books again.

Translated by Alex Miller