Ivan Turgenev

That brave handsome face, always distant, like the stars...

A single kind word or gesture from his father

Startles the little lad into incoherent babbling,

A grateful sinner in the presence of God.

Just for a moment, the idol is a friend,

Loved and trusted without restraint,

Then suddenly, inexplicably, that magisterial hand

Brushes him aside like a bothersome fly,

But with such terrifying courtesy-and then he is gone.


Once, only once, did his father caress him-

So tenderly, so unexpectedly, that the boy

Thought he would burst into sobs like a ninny,

Shocked by the possibility of love.

Be decisive, be determined! If only!

If only he could please his idol thus.

To be a hero...but what kind of hero?

Something like that forbear, Peter the Great’s jester,

Who enlightened shaggy boyars with a barber’s shears?


The big house, swarming with gossip and intrigue;

The serfs in the fields, carrying the world on their backs,

Tensed for the next blow to fall...

The gentle boy’s greyblue eyes are always watching:

Registering his mother’s cruel caprice

As she sends a domestic out to be flogged.

This is the miniature state she has ordained,

Her lackeys given courtly titles and ministerial dignity,

And her own police force at her beck and call.

Expert at inflicting humiliation and distress,

She guards her own almighty serenity at all costs,

Checking her reflection in the glass.


From a Parisian window, Turgenev trains his telescope

On the East, and rolls superb Russian syllables

On his tongue, wondering at his countrymen’s folly:

How could the possessors of such enchanted speech

Not themselves be beautiful, just and free?

Surrounded by vivacious blasé French chatter,

The courtly Russian bulks in his own slow timezone,

Maintaining stately balance and control...

But sometimes a wind blows in from the East,

Carrying the sound of quarrelling voices,

And he yearns for the motherland’s dark earth.