My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [52]
But to himself he bitterly did say:
'It is not I who do this wicked deed;
I go because my master I must heed.'
His sharp word he hid lest it should betray
The evil designs in his mind that day.
The Monk he salutes with dissembling voice:
'To see you in health I greatly rejoice!
Your blessing, my Father! And God bless you!'
The Monk laughed abrutly, his words were few:
'Enough, Ivan! Your lies do not deceive.
That God knows all, I hope you do believe.
Against His will, nor good nor ill is done.
I know, you see, why you to me have come.'
In shame before the Monk Ivan stood still;
In fear of this man he had come to kill.
From leathern sheath his sword he proudly drew;
The shining blade he rubbed till it looked new.
T meant to take you unawares,' he said;
'To kill you prayerless; now I am afraid.
To God you now shall have some time to pray.
I 'll give you time for all you want to say,
For me, for you, for all, born and unborn,
And then I 'll send you where your prayers have gone.'
The Hermit knelt; above him spread an oak
Which bowed its head before him. Then he spoke,
In archness smiling. 'Oh, Ivan, think well!
How long my prayer will take I cannot tell.
Had you not better kill me straight away
Lest waiting tire you, furious at delay?'
Ivan in anger frowned, and said in boast,
'My word is given, and though at my post
You keep me a century, I will wait.
So pray in peace, nor your ardor abate.'
The shadows of even fell on the Monk,
And all through the night in prayer he was sunk;
From dawn till sunset, through another night;
From golden summer days to winter's blight
So ran on, year by year, old Miron's prayer.
And to disturb him Ivan did not dare.
The sapling oak its lofty branches reared
Into the sky, while all around appeared
Its offshoots, into a thick forest grown.
And all the time the holy prayer went on,
And still continues to this very day.
The old man softly to his God doth pray,
And to Our Lady, the mother of all,
To help men and women who faint and fall,
To succor the weak, to the sad give joy.
Ivanushka, Warrior, stands close by,
His bright sword long has been covered with dust.
Corroded his armor by biting rust,
Long fallen to pieces his brave attire.
His body is naked and covered with mire.
The heat does but sear, no warmth does impart;
Such fate as his would freeze the stoutest heart.
Fierce wolves and savage bears from him do flee,
From snowstorm and from frost alike he 's free;
No strength has he to move from that dread spot
Or lift his hands. To speak is not his lot.
Let us be warned by his terrible fate,
Nor of meek obedience let us prate.
If we are ordered to do something wrong,
Our duty is then to stand firm and be strong.
But for us sinners still the Hermit prays,
Still flows his prayer to God, e'en in these days--
A dear, bright river, flowing to the sea."
* *****#a
Before grandmother had reached the end of her story, I had noticed that "Good-business" was, for some reason, agitated; he was fidgeting restlessly with his hands, taking off his spectacles and putting them on again', or waving them to keep time with the rhythm of the words, nodding his head, putting his fingers into his eyes, or rubbing them energetically, and passing the palms of his hands over his forehead and cheeks, as if he were perspiring freely. When any one of the others moved, coughed, or scraped his feet on the floor, the boarder hissed: "Ssh!"; and when grandmother ceased speaking, and sat rubbing her perspiring face with the sleeve of her blouse, he jumped up noisily, and putting out his hands as if he felt giddy, he babbled:
"I say! That's wonderful! It ought to be written down; really, it ought. It is terribly true too. . . . Our . . ."
Every one could see now that he was crying; his eyes were full of tears, which flowed so copiously that his eyes were bathed in them--it was a strange and pitiful sight. He looked so comical as he ran about the kitchen, or rather clumsily hopped about--swinging his glasses before his nose; desirous