The boys would repay them By all in their power, By work, or by doing Their little commissions In town. Though the deacon Was proud of his children, He never had given Much thought to their feeding. 90 Himself, the poor deacon, Was endlessly hungry, His principal thought Was the manner of getting The next piece of food. He was rather light-minded And vexed himself little; But Dyómna, his wife, Had been different entirely: She worried and counted, 100 So God took her soon. The whole of her life She by salt[62] had been troubled: If bread has run short One can ask of the neighbours; But salt, which means money, Is hard to obtain. The village with Dyómna Had shared its bread freely; And long, long ago 110 Would her two little children Have lain in the churchyard If not for the peasants.
And Dyómna was ready To work without ceasing For all who had helped her; But salt was her trouble, Her thought, ever present. She dreamt of it, sang of it, Sleeping and waking, 120 While washing, while spinning, At work in the fields, While rocking her darling Her favourite, Grísha. And many years after The death of his mother, His heart would grow heavy And sad, when the peasants Remembered one song, And would sing it together 130 As Dyómna had sung it; They called it "The Salt Song."
Now none but God Can save my son: He's dying fast, My little one....
I give him bread--- He looks at it, He cries to me, "Put salt on it." 140 I have no salt-- No tiny grain; "Take flour," God whispers, "Try again...."
He tastes it once, Once more he tries; "That's not enough, More salt!" he cries.
The flour again.... My tears fall fast 150 Upon the bread,-- He eats at last!
The mother smiles In pride and joy: Her tears so salt Have saved the boy.
Young Grísha remembered This song; he would sing it Quite low to himself In the clerical college. 160 The college was cheerless, And singing this song He would yearn for his mother, For home, for the peasants, His friends and protectors. And soon, with the love Which he bore to his mother, His love for the people Grew wider and stronger.... At fifteen years old 170 He was firmly decided To spend his whole life In promoting their welfare, In striving to succour The poor and afflicted. The demon of malice Too long over Russia Has scattered its hate; The shadow of serfdom Has hidden all paths 180 Save corruption and lying. Another song now Will arise throughout Russia; The angel of freedom And mercy is flying Unseen o'er our heads, And is calling strong spirits To follow the road Which is honest and clean.