Sergey Esenin
Anna Snegina

To A. Voronsky

1

“A nice-sized village is Radovo,
I reckon, two hundred farms.
You don’t need more than a glance to know
It isn’t without its charms.
We’re well off for wood and water,
There’s pasture land too, and fields,
And poplars along the borders —
All specially planted trees.

“We don’t like to boast, but truly
At fortune we can’t feel sore—
There’s no farm without tin roofing,
An orchard, a threshing-floor,
And everyone has gay shutters,
On holidays — meat and kvass.
No wonder the district officer
Would always stop by for a glass.

“We’d never be late with quit-rent
But the head man — he wielded power —
Would always demand in addition
A measure of millet or flour.
And so to avert disaster
We’d pay up — for it’s no joke —
A master is always master
And we are just common folk.

“But people are all born sinners,
And some eyes are shaiper than tusks.
The men of the neighbouring village,
Kriusha, had eyes on us.
Their life was nothing to talk of —
For ploughing the most they could raise
Was a couple of clapped-out horses
And a plough that had seen better days.

“So how could they dream of plenty —
They were happy to stay alive.
Our forest with axes they’d enter
And chop trees down on the sly.
We caught them one day red-handed
With axes — we had ours too.
The clatter as axe on axe landed
Sent chills down your spine, right through.

“The fray bore a whiff of murder.
Neither side was quite free of guilt
When one of them without further
Ado our head man killed.
Our villagers met to settle
The details to tie up the case.
The judge sent ten men in fetters
To Siberia for a space.
Since then things have all gone to ruin,
Our fortune has slipped the rein.
For three years just trouble’s been brewing —
Fire, cattle pest, then fire again.”

With such dismal stories the driver
Regaled me along the night road:
In Radovo I had decided
To rest for a while and lie low.
The war had quite eaten my heart out.
For other men’s gain and delight
I’d shot at my own blood brothers
And killed them in hand-to-hand fight.
I’d been just a pawn the merchants
And nobles had fooled all along.
I swore not with guns but with verses
I’d wage battle from now on.
I threw down my rifle, provided
Myself with a set of false docs,
And there was I — ready for nineteen
Seventeen with its turmoil and shocks.

Up freedom sprang, furiously raging.
Through gun smoke streaked with fire
Upon a white horse like a caliph
Came riding Kerensky Esquire.
It was war “to the finish”, “to victory”.
And still the same peasant tribe
Were driven by scoundrels and lickspits
Into frontline trenches to die.
Well, I didn’t reach out for my sabre...
As mortar bombs burst into flame
I found other ways to show bravery —
The first to desert I became.

*

The road’s quite a good one, the tingling
Night air is agreeably chill.
The moon with gold powder is sprinkling
The village that clings to the hill.
“Well, here it is, this is Radovo,”
The driver announced.
“We’re there!
We’ve made it in good time, haven’t we?
I drove the horse hard for the fare.
You’ll not grudge a tip, will you, mister?
The miller’s, you said?
There it is!...
I’m not asking anything extra
For a journey as long as this.”

I paid forty roubles.
“You’re joking!”
Then twenty more.
“Still won’t do!”
Indeed, a repulsive fellow,
And barely turned thirty, too.
“Hey, have you no conscience?” I asked him.
“You’re wanting to fleece me, why?”
He said without shifting his carcass:
“We had a bad crop of rye.
And that’s why I tell you to give me
Ten more or, well, six, if you think —
And later tonight in raw spirit
Your very good health I’ll drink...”

*

Now I’m at the mill...
The fir grove
With glow-worms is candle-bright.
The old miller can’t get a word out,
He’s overcome with delight:
“Sergei, my dear fellow! Tea, maybe,
To thaw you out? What a surprise!
Come, wife, let’s have on the table
The samovar and some pies!”

It’s not a bone-freezer is April,
Especially at the month-end.
The fine pensive dusk resembled
The smiling face of a friend.
The miller had strong embraces —
A bear would howl in their squeeze.
But any friend is a comfort
In times as troubled as these.

“Where have you been? Are you staying
For long?” “For a year.”
“Fine!” he cried.
“The berries and mushrooms this summer
Could keep all Moscow supplied.
There’s wild fowl here in plenty,
No need to aim — birds flock past.
Come to think of it, it’s already
Four years
Since we saw you last...”

The talking was over...
Duly
We drank a whole samovar dry.
As of old with a sheepskin overcoat
To the hayloft I retired.
I passed through the overgrown orchard,
A lilac bough brushed against
My cheek, sweet memories were brought back
By the sight of the tumbledown fence.
It was here by that very gate standing
That a lad of sixteen or so
Heard a girl in a snow-white mantle
In accents caressing say no.
Those dear long-gone years! Her image is
As bright now as ever it was...
So much love we had then for others,
But others had little for us.

2

“Come on, Sergei! Time you were rising!
My missus was up before dawn
And fritters galore she’s been frying
The cockles of your heart to warm.
I’m off now to call on Snegina
The landowner...
Yesterday
I shot her a brace of splendid
Young snipe and I mustn’t delay.”

Hail to you, star of life’s dawning!
I rise, dress, and off I go.
A fine mist of dew in the orchard
Shrouds the apple-trees, white as snow.
I think to myself:
How splendid
Is the Earth
And her tenant — mankind!
And how many war-scarred wretches
Come home now crippled and blind!
How many in graves lie buried
And how many more shall die!
I felt my jaw tighten with fury
And a red fog cloud my eye.

No, no!
I shall never accept this—
That scum, condescendingly smug,
Shall throw me, a crippled war veteran,
A copper or two in the mud.

“Good morning to you there, good woman!
A little off colour?” She frowned
And, coughing, she commented dully:
“It’s work, son, that’s getting me down.
We’ve no peace here, all’s in disorder,
The men blowing hot and then cold,
The villages everywhere warring,
The peasants at each other’s throats.
There isn’t a day that passes
Without news of some attack:
Today Radovo goes and bashes them,

Tomorrow Kriusha hits back.
It adds up to lawlessness, doesn’t it?
They drove out the Tsar...
Now look there...
There isn’t a single misfortune
Our foolish folk have been spared.
They opened the jails for some reason
And let the wild criminals out.
Good folk cannot travel in peace on
The high road with such men about.
They freed that lot too... from Kriusha...
What they need is a good long stretch,
But that bunch of rogues, thieves and ruffians
Are now back at home like the rest.
There’s one of them called Pron Ogloblin,
A ruffian, a chap who has sunk
To endless brawling and squabbling,
And for weeks at a time he’s drunk.
Just three years ago, quite brazenly—
The great war had started too—
In full view of everyone, crazily
With an axe the head man he slew.
There are thousands like him, no better,
Who are free to commit abuse.
Russia has gone to the devil...
It’s done for, is old mother Russ...”

What the driver had said, I remembered,
So taking a stick and my hat
I went off to doff it to the peasants,
As a friend dropping in for a chat.

*

On down the blue footpath strolling
I saw someone coming full tilt —
My miller in his droshky bowling
Towards me across open fields.
“Sergei, my dear chap! Stop, it’s vital!
There’s something you simply must know.

Just wait while I sort out the bridle.
I’ll tell you and then you can go.
Why didn’t you warn me this morning
At Snegina’s to shut my trap?
‘I’ve got a young joker staying with me,’
I told them, ‘an odd sort of chap.’
(They’ve always been very agreeable
To me — why, I’ve known them ten years.)
And their daughter Anna, who’s married,
Asked:
‘Is it the poet who’s here?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied, ‘that’s the fellow.’
‘He’s fair-haired?’
‘As fair as they come!’
‘With locks running riot, all curly?’
‘Why, yes, he’s a funny one!’
‘When did he get here?’
‘Quite recently.’
I say, mummy dear, it’s him!
He was once in love so amusingly
With me —
How his eyes would swim!
He was young then, meek and innocent,
But now...
Can it really be true?
He’s a writer...
Of fame...
He’ll not visit us
Unless we first ask him to.’”

As if scoring a triumph, the miller
Slyly screwed up his eyes and observed:
“Very well! We’ll expect you for dinner.
And the rest I shall keep in reserve.”

I followed the road to Kriusha,
Took swipes at green corn by the verge.
At heart there was nothing stirring
And by nothing was I disturbed.
My thoughts reeled in a drunken stupour,
Such heady sweet scents filled the air...
How nice with a soldier’s grass widow
To start up a passionate affair!

*

Well, here is Kriusha...
For three years
These old roots I haven’t seen.
The lilac weather has dappled
With lilac the silent scene.
You can’t hear a barking dog here.
There’s nothing to guard, I suppose.
Each has just a tumbledown cottage,
A long oven fork and a stove.
On Pron’s porch there’s loud debating.
A peasant gathering I spy.
They’re talking of new legislation,
The price cattle fetch, and rye.
“Hello, friends!”
“Hello there, hunter!
Hello! How-d’ye-do!
Take a seat!
Come hear how we live in the country,
You lazybones, kicking your feet!
What’s the latest news in the capital?
You know a minister or two?
You surely must know what’s happening —
You mix with the well-to-do.
But we won’t hold that against you —
From our own village you hail.
You don’t go boasting you’re famous
And your heart isn’t up for sale.
You were ever a sharp-eyed fellow,
You know our life well...
So now say:
Will the land be turned over to us peasants
Without any fees to pay?
‘Keep your hands off!’ —
The government roar at us
And tell us to bide our time.
Then what were we fighting the war for
And perishing in the front line?”

And each of them smiling sullenly
Looked searchingly straight in my eye,
While I with a heavy heart wondered
And nothing could say in reply.
My head buzzed, the porch steps were trembling,
This question of theirs though
Came through:
“What sort of a person
Is Lenin?”
I softly replied:
“He is you!”

3

Rumours circulating furtively
Were debated in whispers low.
My old woman reported
As much as I wished to know.

One day I got back from hunting
And lay on the couch to doze.
I was chilled to the very marrow
By the mist that from marshes rose.
I began to shake in a fever
With limbs ice-cold or ablaze,
And in that accursed condition
I lay for a solid four days.

My miller went off his rocker.
Away to fetch someone
He drove...
I caught a glimpse of a pretty frock
In white and a turned-up nose.

Then later, when I felt better
And the state of high fever had passed
After five days in bed, one evening
I was rid of my chill at last.
I rose
And had just stepped warily
On the floorboards when what did I hear
But a voice calling out to me merrily:
“So there you are!
Greetings, my dear!
It’s quite a time since I saw you,
And girlhood I've long outgrown
To become a sedate married woman,
And you now a poet of renown.

“Let’s sit down.
It’s gone, has the fever?
What a different person you are!
I couldn’t help myself heaving
A sigh when I touched your arm.
Yes...
The past has indeed gone forever.
The years fly and time doesn’t wait.
Once nothing gave me more pleasure
Than sitting with you by the gate.
We dreamed of the fame life would offer us...
For you things have turned out fine,
But as for myself a young officer
Drove all that out of my mind...”

*

Listening, I couldn’t help noting
Her neat features, clearly defined.
I wanted to say:
“That’s enough of that!
Some other subject let’s find!”
But, feeling a little embarrassed,
I could do no more than repeat:
“Yes... yes...
Why, of course, I remember...
It’s a pleasure,
Do please take a seat.
I've some verses
I'd like to read you
About Russian tavern life...
They’re turned very neatly, with feeling —
Heart-breaking in gypsy style.”
“Sergei!
You behave so awfully!
It saddens me,
It’s a shame
That news of your drunken debaucheries
Is giving you such a bad name.
Why, tell me!”
“Don’t know what’s the matter.”
“Then nobody knows
On earth.”
“I guess the weather was wetter
Than it should have been at my birth.”
“You make it a joke...”
“Why not, Anna?”
“Is there someone you’re in love with?”
“No.”
“Then indeed I can’t understand why
You should work your own ruin so:
Such a splendid future beckons...”

Night shadows began to fall...
I don’t know why, but I gently
Fingered her gloves and shawl.
. . .
Like a clown the moon was guffawing.
And though my heart had changed, I started to feel
Myself strangely caught in the vortex
I’d known as a lad of sixteen.

We parted at dawn—every movement
And glance was mysterious...

There is something fine about summer
That brings out the best in us.

*

That miller of mine...
Oh, that miller!
He’s up to some tricks, I’ll be bound.
The scoundrel is driving me silly.
Like a postman, he’s running around.
Today he appears with a message
Of the kind lovers dote upon:
“Please come,
There’s no dearer fellow
Than you,
                Love, Ogloblin Pron.”
I set off on foot,
Reach Kriusha.
Ogloblin stands there by the gate,
In a frenzy, with scathing fury
The beggarly folk he berates.
“Come on,
You cockroach progeny,
All to Snegina’s...
Without more fuss!
We’ll tell her: ‘Hand over your property
With no compensation from us!’ ”
He saw me and straightaway abating
The torrent of hearty abuse
Remarked with unfeigned indignation:
“The peasants still need to be pushed.”

“Why, Pron, did you want to see me?”
“Not to reap or mow, of course.
Let’s go to Snegina’s... together...
And talk to her...
I’ll get a horse.”
An old jade was put into harness—
Skin and bones between the shafts.
You must give extra into the bargain
To get such a hack off your hands.
At a slow pace we proceeded
And the laugh was on us from the start—
There wasn’t an incline but we did
Ourselves have to pull the cart.

We arrived.
A house with an attic
Slightly sagging from subsidence,
And a strong heady scent of jasmine
From behind the high wattle fence.
We got down,
Made for the terrace
And, shaking the dust off our backs,
Heard a voice indoor referring
To someone who’d breathed his last:
“There’s no point endlessly mourning...
He’s dead now, as chill as can be...
There’s someone knocking at the door there...
So powder your nose...
I’ll go see...”

A corpulent sad-looking lady
Had drawn back the solid door-bolt.
My companion Pron spoke straightaway
Of the land
With a rasp in his throat.
“Hand it over!...”
He kept on muttering,
“I won’t bend my knees to you!”

She took in the words he uttered
As if they’d no meaning she knew,
Then turned to me, making normal
Conversation, though rigid with fear,

Said:
“And you wish to see my daughter?
Be seated...
I’ll tell her you’re here...”

I still now distinctly remember
The fatal coil of those days.
But it wasn’t by any means easy
For me to observe her face.
I gathered
Woe had befallen her.
I wished to help if I might.
“They killed him, they killed my Boris...
Don’t touch me!
Get out of my sight!
You’re a mean, contemptible coward.
He’s dead...
Why aren’t you out there...”

Now that, making all allowances,
Is more than a fellow can bear.
From her slap in the face I was smarting
And to Pron I said: “It’s no use!
Today they’re in no mood for talking...
Come on, Pron, let’s go on a booze...”

4

I spent the whole summer hunting.
Her name and her face dim had grown.
The plaintive snipe
Out in the marshes
Lamented the snub I had known.

How humble our dear poor land is,
Even when all blossoms in sight!
How swiftly each summer passes,
Like a warm snug May-month night!
The dawns are cooler and redder,
The mist lies close to the ground,
In the oak groves, already shedding
Their leaves, the tomtits resound.

All smiles my miller is every day,
He’s seething with merriment.
“Come, dear Sergei, let’s blaze away
At hares to our heart’s content!”
I’ll gladly hunt too...
When there’s nothing
To drive sleep and heartache away.
Like a full moon Pron came rolling
Round to my place at dusk today.
“My dear friend,
Congratulations!
At long last the hour has struck!
There’s a new administration!
We can now mop the lot of them up.
Without any compensation
We’re taking the land—it’s ours.
There are Soviets now in Russia
And Lenin’s the chief commissar.
Just think of that, chum,
It’s happening!
We’re off on our way, we’ll advance!
I came near to dying of happiness
And my brother he pissed in his pants.
Did you ever see anything matching it?
So be of good cheer, bless the day!
Yes, I’ll be the first to establish
Our own commune here rightaway!”

Now Pron had a brother, Labútya,
As much good as your fifth ace:
If ever some danger threatened
He’d be first to make himself scarce.
You surely have seen such people.
They jabber a lot, they’re a bore.
Labútya had won two white medals
In the Russo-Japanese war.
In a drunken voice, whenever
He entered a pub, he sang:
“Won’t you stand a drink to a fellow
Who distinguished himself at Liaoyang.”
And later, when he'd grown maudlin
With booze, he would lean across
To impress upon his companion,
How sad was Port Arthur’s loss.
“Dear fellow,”
He’d say,
“It’s breaking
My heart... No, don’t think I’m drunk.
Liaoyang alone knows how bravely
I fought on the Japanese front.”

Such folk, whom you can’t help noticing,
Laze about, but manage quite well.
Now. of course, he has a seat in the Soviet,
In a locked box his medals dwell.
But with just the same proud deportment
Of a grey-haired war veteran
He wheezes over a bottle
About Nerchinsk and Turukhan
“Yes. brother,
We showed our mettle.
By nothing were we deterred...
. . . . . . . . . .
The jingle, jingle of medals
You’d hear ringing in every word.
He got on Pron’s nerves intensely
And Pron would his brother berate.
Yet he it was went to inventory
The Snegina house and estate.

All seizures are hasty: “Let’s have it!
In due course we ll sort out what s what!”
To the district centre they carted
The chattels, the women, the stock.
While the miller...
. . . .
My old friend, the miller,
Took the women to live at his place.
Thereby, lazy bastard, inducing
Me to rummage in other folk’s fates.
Again strange sensations caught me...
And there was I gazing upon
Full sensitive lips, now contorted
With worry, the whole night long.

“Forgive me...
I spoke in error...”
She said over and over again.
“I loved my husband terribly.
Even thinking of it... gives me pain...
But you
I was rude to by accident...
A feeling of guilt troubled me.
Folk call it a ‘criminal' passion...
And hence my severity.
Of course,
Up until this autumn
A happy life could have been mine...
But then you would have discarded me
Like a wine bottle drained of wine...
And that’s why there had to be nothing
Between us... No more seeing you...
Because, too, I could have hurt mother
With all her old-fashioned views.”

But I switched away from that topic
And a long close look I threw
At her young and shapely body,
She quivered as away she drew.
“Tell me, Anna,
Doesn’t it pain you —
The ruin of your estate?”
With a curious air of confusion
And sorrow she lowered her gaze.
. . . . . . . . . .
“Look it’s growing lighter.
The sunrise
Is like a fire in the snow...
It all reminds me of something...
But of what?
I do not know...
Oh, yes...
In childhood... Daybreak...
But i t wasn’t an autumn scene...
You and I were sitting together...
We had barely turned sixteen...”

Then with a long look of tenderness,
Her swanlike arm outstretched,
She said with seeming casualness:
“Well, that’s that...
It’s time for bed...”
. . . . . . . . .
Late that afternoon they left us.
For where?
I have no idea.
It’s easy to find your direction
In plains where the landmarks are clear.

What happened next, I don’t remember.
What Pron did, I do not know.
I was off like a shot to Petrograd
To dispel my heartache and sloth.

5

How grim and severe those years were!
A time no account can span.
To soldiers’ full-blooded curses
The vaults of palaces rang.

High spirits!
The country in flower!
Not for nothing the unwashed mob
Would play to their cows on grand pianos
The latest Tambov foxtrot.
The peasant got hold of a gramophone
For his oats, potatoes or bread,
And listened to a tango, smoking
A cheap fag he lick-rolled himself.
To a fistful of profit clinging,
At taxes he loudly protests
And drives himself crazy, thinking
Of what’s dangling between his legs.

Years raced along
At full throttle...
The peasant’s fortunes ran low
And rotting, hidden in bottles,
Were many old-currency notes.
Country bumpkin! Breadwinner! Rustic!
The owner of land and stock
Would permit himself for a couple
Of dirty old notes — to be flogged.

Well, that’s enough moaning!
Mere phrases
And scoffing won’t help us along!
Today I had word from the miller
About what had happened to Pron:
“Sergei, bosom friend! Warm greetings
To you, brother, warm and sincere!
You haven’t been back to Kriusha
A long time now—fully six years.
You know well
You’ll always be welcome.
In spring come and see us, my dear.
I can’t put it all in a letter,
So much has been happening here.

The storm has blown over. In general
Life here has calmed down a lot.
I must tell you, in 1920
Ogloblin Pron was shot.

“In Russia...
Anything can happen.
You never know where and when.
One day the village was raided
By a bunch of Denikin’s men.
The fun then really started—
The fun of the slaughterhouse.
With gritting of teeth and coarse laughter
The Cossack whips lashed out.
They snuffed out Pron. His brother
In a straw pile hid, and lay
There dithering
Till the last of
The Cossacks had galloped away.
And still now, when drunk, he’s telling
Any villager he can waylay:
“I merit a Bolshevik medal
For the bravery I displayed.”
The stormclouds are well out of sight now...
And though it’s not Paradise here
All the same come pay us a visit,
Bring into my life some cheer...”

*

So here am I back on the road now.
It’s a clear black night in June.
It’s rattling, the cart, as we go along
The same way it used to do.
The road’s quite a good one, the tingle
Of country air comes as a thrill.
The moon with gold powder is sprinkling
The village that clings to the hill.
Country chapels and wells, wattle fencing
And boundaries past us fly
And again my heart starts throbbing
As it did in days gone by.

I’m back at the mill...
The fir grove
With glow-worms is candlebright.
As always, he splutters the words out,
The miller does, in delight:
“Sergei, what a pleasure! Tea, maybe,
To thaw out? A sight for sore eyes!
Come, wife, let’s have on the table
The samovar and some pies!
Sergei, my fine fellow! Now listen!
. . . . . . . .
“You’re getting no younger, I fear...
Well, I have a present to give you
That I’ve been safe-keeping here.”
“A present?”
“Not really...
A letter.
But no need to rush—I suppose
It’s nearly two months since I went to
Collect it for you at the post.”

I opened... and read it... Why, naturally,
Who else could have written me here?
So casual too is the handwriting
And the London postmark is clear.

“Are you there still?... Why, that’s wonderful!...
Like you, I keep going and, well,
Quite often I dream of the wattle fence,
The gate and of what you said...
It’s April in Russia now
And the birches and the fir-trees
Are seemingly in a blue shroud.
Now, as I commit to paper
The bitter grief that I feel,
You’re out with the miller, maybe,
Hearing grouse call across the field.
I often come down to the quayside
And with maybe joy, maybe fear,
I look at the ships and stare keenly
If a Soviet red flag’s flying here.
Over there things are getting better.
I see a clear road opening...
You are dear tome now, just as ever,
Dear as my native land and the spring...”

A letter.
For no special reason.
The sort I would never write.

With a sheepskin coat, as previously,
To the hayloft I go for the night,
Through! the overgrown orchard wending
My way, lilac brushes my face.
So dear is the tumbledown fencing
To my suddenly excited gaze.
It was there by that very gate standing
That a lad of sixteen or so
Heard a girl in a snow-white mantle
In accents caressing say no.

Those dear, long gone years! Her image is
As bright now as ever it was.

So much love we had then for others,
And others too
Also loved us.

Translated by Peter Tempest