The lengthy passage on prosody with which A Little House in Kolomna begins was originally followed by even lengthier drafts of literary polemic which Pushkin cut from the poem when preparing it for publication, giving the whole a less serious character, though a rising note of personal sadness sounds through stanzas IX–XII and again, offset, in the digression (stanzas XXI–XXIV) on the mysterious countess; at both moments the narrator vigorously shakes himself out of the mood to return to the light-hearted level of the tale he is supposed to be telling.
The tardiness of first publication in a St Petersburg almanac in 1833 reflected critical hostility to Pushkin’s writing from the beginning of that decade. In a piece probably intended for his journal The Contemporary but not published until well after his death, he claimed the poet’s right to compose non-seriously. ‘There are people who won’t accept any poetry that is not passionate or exalted,’ he wrote, contrasting these with ‘those who love poetry not only in lyrical upsurge or melancholic elegiac inspiration […] but also in humorous play, entertainments of the mind inspired by pure pleasure’ (quoted in A. S. Pushkin, vol. 3, p. 515, note).
I
How bored I am with the tetrameter,
Used by everyone, every schoolboy rhymer.
I’ve long been drawn to the pentameter,
And thinking I would try ottava rima.
I’m confident, I’m not an amateur,
In triple harmony I need no primer;
I see a rhyme in almost every word,
Two come at once – they bring along a third.
II
To free a way to them I’ll rhyme on verbs;
10That more than anything will ease my task …
I know we have been taught to be averse
To rhyming verbal endings. Why, I ask?
Even the monk Shikhmatov wrote no worse
For using verbal rhymes. I wear no mask –
I use these rhymes myself … Our tongue is bare,
We need them all the time. I’ll leave it there.
III
I shall reject no rhyme-words out of hand,
Like, say, recruits with grave disfigurements,
Or mounts that make an unimpressive stand –
20I’ll rhyme connectives – ‘but’ and ‘hence’;
Fall in, you riff-raff, under my command!
I’ll sign on any rhyme I find – at once,
All syllables are suitable for muster:
The lot, the young, the old, however rusty.
IV
Now, all you masculine and feminine
Endings! Cross yourselves, let’s have a try!
No bent knees, stand up and keep in line!
Into the octave now, in ranks of three!
Fear not, we’ll not be hard on you this time;
30Stand at ease! I don’t mean all awry!
We’ll soon get used to it, and then, thank God,
We’ll have our feet down firmly on the road.
V
How satisfying it feels to lead my stanzas
Rank upon rank in Roman-numbered order,
Allowing none of them the slightest chances
Of straying like scattered units after slaughter!
Each syllable stands up, no backward glances,
Each line’s a hero and will never falter.
What of the poet, though? … He’s Tamerlane,
40He’s – let’s be up to date – Napoleon.
VI
Dear reader, now we’ll take a moment’s pause.
Drop out or go for broke? Which would be surer? …
I’ll just say: in a five-foot line of verse
I like to have a second-foot caesura;
I lose my sense of balance otherwise,
Even on my divan I seem to endure a
Journey full-tilt, and pitifully jarred,
Across hard-frozen ploughland in a cart.
VII
So then? We cannot always stroll, of course,
50Along the Neva’s granite shore, or step
On freshly polished parquet ballroom floors,
Or gallop freely on the Kirghiz steppe.
I only ask a ride on my good horse –
Like that eccentric Muscovite who kept
A thoroughbred and rode it to the Neva
Without a feed until he reached the river.
VIII
My steed! The beast that’s always celebrated
Couldn’t have caught him. Now though, Pegasus
Has lost his teeth. The spring that he created
60Is dry. Nettles have overgrown Parnassus;
Phoebus is long retired, the Muses’ jaded
Choral dance has no appeal for us.
Our camp has moved from Classic heights to where
The traders jostle on the market square.
IX
Sit down, my muse, and get yourself in order:
Don’t stick your feet out! Don’t look round, you tomboy!
It’s high time we began. There lived a widow
About eight years ago, a poor old woman,
And with her in their little house her daughter,
70Quietly, by St Mary’s in Kolomna
Behind the sentry-box. I see it now:
Attic, three windows, front door, portico.
X
I passed that spot again three days ago,
Off in the evening somewhere to carouse.
I looked to see the little house – but no,
There stood a newly built three-storey house.
I called to mind those two I used to know,
Sitting beneath a window there for hours,
The widow and her girl – how were they both?
80Were they alive still? – and my days of youth.
XI
I looked askance at that tall house, and felt
Sadness. If only a fire had suddenly
Swallowed it up – a sight that would have held
True happiness for my embittered eye.
From time to time, it seems, one’s head is filled
With unfamiliar thoughts and fantasy;
We find all kinds of nonsense in our mind
Out for a walk alone or with a friend.
XII
Blessed is he who can maintain his purpose
90And keep his meditations on a lead,
He who can calm his heart, or crush the serpent
That rises with no warning at his feet;
But he who is loquacious is quite certain
To court contempt … Let Lethe be my mead,
My doctor has forbidden melancholy:
And so let’s drop all this, by all that’s holy!
XIII
That old woman (ah, her aged face
I recognise from many a Rembrandt painting,
In spectacles and bonnet of black lace)
100Had for a daughter a most lovely maiden,
Her eyes and eyebrows dark as night, her gaze
Soft as a dove’s, her skin like whitest satin;
Of cultivated taste, she was determined
To get through all the works of Fyodor Emin.
XIV
She was accomplished too on the guitar,
And she would sing ‘Now mourns the little grey dove’,
‘Shall I go forth?’, and ditties old and rare,
All that is sung in winter round the stove,
In tedious autumns round the samovar,
110In springtime, walking through a green oak grove –
All that a maid may sing in Russian style;
The Russian muse performs without a smile.
XV
In figurative or literal sense, our whole
Family, our driver to our premier poet,
We all sing mournfully. That dismal wail
When Russians sing a song, how well we know it!
We start with toasting, then we never fail
To toast eternal rest, we’re always li
stening for it.
The harmonies of Russian maid and muse
120Are drawn from depths of sadness, yet they please.
XVI
Our pretty heroine, by name Parasha,
Could wash and iron, weave, mend worn-out frills;
In household matters she was all but pasha –
She saw to settlement of household bills
And preparation of the buckwheat kasha
(Helped in the exercise of kitchen skills
By Fyokla, dear long-standing cook, a pearl,
Who’d lost her hearing and her sense of smell).
XVII
The aged mother spent the daylight hours
130Knitting beside the window, while at night
She’d sit and practise her divining powers,
With cards set out before her as her guide.
Her daughter meanwhile flitted round the house,
Now at the window, now she’d slip outside
Just to make sure (the sex’s ready eye!)
That she’d be seen by every passer-by.
XVIII
On winter nights they’d close the shutters early,
In summer they were open to the breeze
Till well into the night, Diana palely
140Fixing the maiden with her leisured gaze
(And by-the-by, we’d all think very poorly
Of any narrative omitting this!).
The mother passed the whole night soundly snoring,
Her daughter staring at the moon till morning
XIX
And listening to the yowls of garret cats,
Stark signals of an amatory encounter,
The chiming hours, the calling of the watch,
And that was all. In undisturbed Kolomna
Night reigned supreme. Sometimes the eye would catch
150Paired shadows in the doorways. Half in slumber
And half aroused, upon the yielding sheet
Our heroine would feel her own heart beat.
XX
In summer and in winter, every Sunday,
Attendance at St Mary’s was their wont;
They’d take their stand in front of all and sundry
Beside the rood screen on the left. I don’t
Live in that quarter now, but love to wander
In dream or daydream to my erstwhile haunt,
Kolomna, on a Sunday, to St Mary’s,
160And join that couple at a Russian matins.
XXI
There without fail I always used to see
A countess; she was young, and she was rich …
I can’t recall her name. With dignity,
With pomp she’d make her entry into church;
She prayed with equal pride and piety.
I, sinner that I was, tried hard to catch
A view of her; Parasha there before her,
Already poor, appeared to me still poorer.
XXII
Although the countess, with a casual eye,
170Would chance upon Parasha, it was prayer
That filled her mind; low-voiced and fervent, she
Was not to be distracted by the pair.
Hers was an air of quiet humility;
But truth to tell, she had no further care
Than for herself, the effect of her couture,
Her own rare beauty, haughty and austere.
XXIII
At first she struck me as the cold ideal
Of vanity, for all to recognise.
Through this hauteur I then began to feel
180Another history, beyond surmise –
Of sadness and long-suffering; more real
It grew by all the signs before my eyes …
The countess, unaware I knew of this,
No doubt soon had me on her conquests list.
XXIV
In all her youth and beauty she was martyred;
Although her life was spent in luxury
And leisure unalloyed, although she laughed at
Fortune, the incense of felicity
Wreathing about her – she was heavy-hearted.
190How many, many times more blest than she,
Dear reader, let me say with greatest pleasure,
Was our new friend, the simple good Parasha.
XXV
Her braided hair coiled round a comb of horn
And copious light-brown ringlets all about
Her ears, bright wax bead necklace, kerchief worn
Crosswise or tied upon her slender throat –
Such was the style in which, each day from dawn,
She made black-whiskered officers who rode
Before her house be sure to notice her –
200She had no need of fashionable attire.
XXVI
Among those guardsmen, who had touched her heart?
Or was she wholly unappreciative
Of all of them? We’ll see. Let’s make a start.
She led a private and secluded life;
In balls, or life in Paris or at court
She took no interest (though I do believe
The life led by an elder cousin, Vera
XXVII
One day the house was visited with grief:
210Returning from her bath, Cook caught a chill.
They gave her tea, and wine, with no relief,
And vinegar and mint infusion – still
No better. Then, at night on Christmas Eve,
There came the moment for the last farewell.
Next morning, at the appointed hour, the dray
Bore off the coffin to the cemetery.
XXVIII
Now there was mourning in the house, and none
Mourned more than Vasochka, the household cat.
The widow thought she might just let things run
220Up to three days without a cook, but that
Was it. They mustn’t trust to God alone
For meals. ‘Parasha, come – put on your hat!
Where can we get a cook now? On your way!
Find out! Cheap cooks are hard to get today.’
XXIX
‘I’ll try to, mother.’ Out Parasha went,
Well muffled up; for there stood grizzled winter –
Snow crunched, a cloudless heaven’s dark blue tent
Was lit by sparkling frozen stars. The widow
Sat up till late, and when her head was bent
230In sleep, there came a tapping at the window.
Parasha gently woke her mother. ‘Look!’
She proudly said to her, ‘I’ve found a cook.’
XXX
Behind the daughter, stepping timidly,
But wearing a short skirt to make a show,
With not bad looks, though tall as a young tree,
A girl came in; she made a waist-deep bow,
Sat down, and smoothed her apron carefully.
The widow turned to her: ‘Now let me know,
What is your rate?’ – ‘Whatever you think best’;
240She seemed, this girl, demure but self-possessed.
XXXI
The widow was delighted when she spoke.
‘And what’s your name?’ – ‘I’m Mavra.’ – ‘Well, Mavrusha,
You’re young, my pet, you come and share our nook;
Keep well away from men. My old Feklusha,
I had her here ten years, my faithful cook,
She’d never give the men a chance to touch her.
Look after me, my daughter too, don’t shirk,
You must be neat and honest in your work.’
XXXII
That day goes by, and then the next. The cook’s
250Success is nil; she’s constantly at fault;
She drops a tray of china, overcooks
In pot and pan and uses too much salt,
Attempts to sew but draws despairing looks,
She won�
��t respond however much they scold;
She makes a mess of everything she does;
Parasha’s perturbation grows and grows.
XXXIII
One fine Sunday morning saw the two,
Mother and daughter, early as ever, out
To church. Mavrusha stayed at home; all through
260The night her tooth had ached, she dragged about
Half dead although she had some jobs to do –
A cake to bake, cinnamon to be ground.
Now that she wasn’t with them there in church,
The widow’s heart went through a sudden lurch.
XXXIV
Thought she: ‘Why does Mavrusha want to bake
A cake? The cake might be a cunning ruse –
The girl might be a scheming sort – a fake!
She might have even thought of robbing us
And running off! Whatever might she take?
270And New Year’s Eve – just think what we could lose!’
With this new worry flashing through her head,
The widow nearly fainted. Then she said:
XXXV
‘Stay here, Parasha. I must hurry home,
Some awful thing …’ Her daughter had no clue
What could have caused this unexpected tone.