So how can I paint it
To you? O'er the Mother
Insulted and outraged,
The blood of her first-born
As o'er a crushed worm
Has been poured; and unanswered
The deadly offences 60
That many have dealt her;
The knout has been raised
Unopposed o'er her body.
But one thing I never
Have suffered: I told you
That Sitnikov died,
That the last, irreparable
Shame had been spared me.
You ask me for happiness?
Brothers, you mock me! 70
Go, ask the official,
The Minister mighty,
The Tsar--Little Father,
But never a woman!
God knows--among women
Your search will be endless,
Will lead to your graves.

"A pious old woman
Once asked us for shelter;
The whole of her lifetime 80
The Flesh she had conquered
By penance and fasting;