Turgenev I. Croquet at Windsor

The queen is in Windsor park, having her session…
Her courtiers have started a game,
The game that’s recently come into fashion,
With ‘croquet’ being its name.
On hitting the balls, they’re into a hoop
Directing them, nimble and bold…
The queen – who is laughing, observing the group –
Falls silent, turning all cold.

She seems to see no turned balls on the lawn
That are with a bat swiftly steered –
The heads in the hundreds are rolling on
And are with black gore freshly smeared…
The women, the maidens and babies small
Have faces marked – by woes,
And bestial grudges, and bestial maul –
In all, by ghastly death throes.

And then, as it happens, the queen’s youngest girl –
A likeable lady – drives
One head – and away, and on – in a whirl,
At royal feet it arrives.
The flocculent curls on the child’s small head…
Reproofs the small mouth conveys…
The queen cries out – an absolute dread
Concurrently clouds her gaze –

“Physician! Come help me! at once!” – and to him
Confides the vision preceding…
He says: “No wonder; you’ve had such a whim,
Distressed with the prints you’ve been reading.
The ‘Times’ tells how the Bulgars, alas,
Have come to be victims of quelling…
Some drops for you… take them… it will all pass.”
The queen then retreats to her dwelling.

On coming back home, she lingers to brood…
Her eyes droop halfway down…
The horror! She sees that with blood is imbued
The edge of a royal gown.
“Be done with it! I’m unwilling to see!
To me, British streams, I say!”
_Your Majesty, no. Not ever shall be
That innocent blood washed away._

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«Кро'кет в Виндзоре», 19–20 июля 1876