After long absence I return to my native land,
Finding no striking change there.
The same dead, senseless stagnation; crumbling houses, crumbling
walls,
And the same filth, dirt, poverty, and misery.
Unchanged the servile glance, now insolent, now dejected.
Free have our people become, and the free arm
Hangs as before like a whip unused.
All, all as before. In one thing only may we equal
Europe, Asia, and the World!
Never before has such a fearful sleep oppressed our land.
All are asleep, on all sides are they;
Through town and country, in carts and in sledges,
By day or night, sitting or standing,
The merchant and the official, and the sentinel at his post
In biting snow and burning heat—all sleep.
The judged ones doze, and the judge snores,
And peasants plough and reap like dead men,
Father, mother, children; all are asleep.
He who beats, and he who is beaten.
Alone the tavern of the tsar ne’er closes a relentless eye.
So, grasping tight in hand the bottle,
His brow at the Pole and his heel in the Caucasus,
Holy Russia, our fatherland, lies in eternal sleep.
I am sorry, Vladimir. I never meant to write you such a melancholy
letter without a few cheering words at the end. (You will no doubt
tumble across some defects in the lines!) When shall I write to you
again? Shall I ever write? But whatever happens to me I am sure you will
never forget,
Your devoted friend,