"A singer, my brothers, 310 A born Little Russian, The Barin once brought him Away from his home, With a promise to send him To Italy later. But long the Pomyeshchick Has been in strange parts And forgotten his promise; And now the poor fellow Would be but too glad 320 To get back to his village. There's nothing to do here, He hasn't a farthing, There's nothing before him And nothing behind him Excepting his voice. You have not really heard it; You will if you stay here Till sunrise to-morrow: Some three versts away 330 There is living a deacon, And he has a voice too. They greet one another: Each morning at sunrise Will our little singer Climb up to the watch-tower, And call to the other, 'Good-morrow to Father Ipat, and how fares he?' (The windows all shake 340 At the sound.) From the distance The deacon will answer, 'Good-morrow, good-morrow, To our little sweet-throat! I go to drink vodka, I'm going ... I'm going....' The voice on the air Will hang quivering around us For more than an hour, 350 Like the neigh of a stallion." The cattle are now Coming home, and the evening Is filled with the fragrance Of milk; and the woman, The mother of Mityenka, Sighs; she is thinking, "If only one cow Would turn into the courtyard!" But hark! In the distance 360 Some voices in chorus! "Good-bye, you poor mourners, May God send you comfort! The people are coming, We're going to meet them." The peasants are filled With relief; because after The whining old servants The people who meet them Returning from work 370 In the fields seem such healthy And beautiful people. The men and the women And pretty young girls Are all singing together. "Good health to you! Which is Among you the woman Matrona Korchagin?" The peasants demand. "And what do you want 380 With Matrona Korchagin?" The woman Matrona Is tall, finely moulded, Majestic in bearing, And strikingly handsome. Of thirty-eight years She appears, and her black hair Is mingled with grey. Her complexion is swarthy, Her eyes large and dark 390 And severe, with rich lashes. A white shirt, and short Sarafan[44] she is wearing, She walks with a hay-fork Slung over her shoulder. "Well, what do you want With Matrona Korchagin?" The peasants are silent; They wait till the others Have gone in advance, 400 And then, bowing, they answer: