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WHO CAN BE HAPPY AND FREE IN RUSSIA?
BY
NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV
Translated by Juliet M. Soskice
With an Introduction by Dr. David Soskice
1917
[Illustration: Nicholas Nekrassov]
NICHOLAS ALEXEIEVITCH NEKRASSOV
Born, near the town Vinitza, province of Podolia, November 22, 1821
Died, St. Petersburg, December 27, 1877.
_'Who can be Happy and Free in Russia?' was first published in Russia
in 1879. In 'The World's Classics' this translation was first published
in 1917._
CONTENTS:
NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE
PROLOGUE
PART I.
CHAP.
I. THE POPE
II. THE VILLAGE FAIR
III. THE DRUNKEN NIGHT
IV. THE HAPPY ONES
V. THE POMYÉSHCHICK
PART II.--THE LAST POMYÉSHCHICK
PROLOGUE
I. THE DIE-HARD
II. KLIM, THE ELDER
PART III.--THE PEASANT WOMAN
PROLOGUE
I. THE WEDDING
II. A SONG
III. SAVYÉLI
IV. DJÓMUSHKA
V. THE SHE-WOLF
VI. AN UNLUCKY YEAR
VII. THE GOVERNOR'S LADY
VIII. THE WOMAN'S LEGEND
PART IV.--A FEAST FOR THE WHOLE VILLAGE
PROLOGUE
I. BITTER TIMES--BITTER SONGS
II. PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS
III. OLD AND NEW
EPILOGUE
NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE
Western Europe has only lately begun to explore the rich domain of
Russian literature, and is not yet acquainted with all even of its
greatest figures. Treasures of untold beauty and priceless value, which
for many decades have been enlarging and elevating the Russian mind,
still await discovery here. Who in England, for instance, has heard the
names of Saltykov, Uspensky, or Nekrassov? Yet Saltykov is the greatest
of Russian satirists; Uspensky the greatest story-writer of the lives of
the Russian toiling masses; while Nekrassov, "the poet of the people's
sorrow," whose muse "of grief and vengeance" has supremely dominated the
minds of the Russian educated classes for the last half century, is the
sole and rightful heir of his two great predecessors, Pushkin and
Lermontov.
Russia is a country still largely mysterious to the denizen
of Western Europe, and the Russian peasant, the _moujik_, an
impenetrable riddle to him. Of all the great Russian writers not one has
contributed more to the interpretation of the enigmatical soul of the
_moujik_ than Russia's great poet, Nekrassov, in his life-work the
national epic, _Who can be Happy in Russia?_
There are few literate persons in Russia who do not know whole pages of
this poem by heart. It will live as long as Russian literature exists;
and its artistic value as an instrument for the depiction of Russian
nature and the soul of the Russian people can be compared only with that
of the great epics of Homer with regard to the legendary life of
ancient Greece.
Nekrassov seemed destined to dwell from his birth amid such surroundings
as are necessary for the creation of a great national poet.
Nicholas Alexeievitch Nekrassov was the descendant of a noble family,
which in former years had been very wealthy, but subsequently had lost
the greater part of its estates. His father was an officer in the army,
and in the course of his peregrinations from one end of the country to
the other in the fulfilment of his military duties he became acquainted
with a young Polish girl, the daughter of a wealthy Polish aristocrat.
She was seventeen, a type of rare Polish beauty, and the handsome,
dashing Russian officer at once fell madly in love with her. The parents
of the girl, however, were horrified at the notion of marrying their
daughter to a "Muscovite savage," and her father threatened her with his
curse if ever again she held communication with her lover. So the matter
was secretly arranged between the two, and during a ball which the young
Polish beauty was attending she suddenly disappeared. Outside the house
the lover waited with his sledge. They sped away, and were married at
the first church they reached.
The bride, with her father's curse upon her, passed straight from her
sheltered existence in her luxurious home to all the unsparing rigours
of Russian camp-life. Bred in an atmosphere of maternal tenderness and
Polish refinement she had now to share the life of her rough, uncultured
Russian husband, to content herself with the shallow society of the
wives of the camp officers, and soon to be crushed by the knowledge that
the man for whom she had sacrificed everything was not even faithful
to her.
During their travels, in 1821, Nicholas Nekrassov the future poet was
born, and three years later his father left military service and settled
in his estate in the Yaroslav Province, on the banks of the great river
Volga, and close to the Vladimirsky highway, famous in Russian history
as the road along which, for centuries, chained convicts had been driven
from European Russia to the mines in Siberia. The old park of the manor,
with its seven rippling brooklets and mysterious shadowy linden avenues
more than a century old, filled with a dreamy murmur at the slightest
stir of the breeze, stretched down to the mighty Volga, along the banks
of which, during the long summer days, were heard the piteous, panting
songs of the _burlaki_, the barge-towers, who drag the heavy, loaded
barges up and down the river.
The rattling of the convicts' chains as they passed; the songs of the
_burlaki_; the pale, sorrowful face of his mother as she walked alone in
the linden avenues of the garden, often shedding tears over a letter she
read, which was headed by a coronet and written in a fine, delicate
hand; the spreading green fields, the broad mighty river, the deep blue
skies of Russia,--such were the reminiscences which Nekrassov retained
from his earliest childhood. He loved his sad young mother with a
childish passion, and in after years he was wont to relate how jealous
he had been of that letter[1] she read so often, which always seemed to
fill her with a sorrow he could not understand, making her at moments
even forget that he was near her.
The sight and knowledge of deep human suffering, framed in the soft
voluptuous beauty of nature in central Russia, could not fail to sow the
seed of future poetical powers in the soul of an emotional child. His
mother, who had been bred on Shakespeare, Milton, and the other great
poets and writers of the West, devoted her solitary life to the
development of higher intellectual tendencies in her gifted little son.
And from an early age he made attempts at verse. His mother has
preserved for the world his first little poem, which he presented to her
when he was seven years of age, with a little heading, roughly to the
following effect:
My darling Mother, look at this,
I did the best I could in it,
Please read it through and tell me if
You think there's any good in it.
The early life of the little Nekrassov was passed amid a series of
contrasting pictures. His father, when he had abandoned his military
calling and settled upon his estate, became the Chief of the district
police. He would take his son Nicholas with him in his trap as he drove
from village to village in the fulfilment of his new duties. The
continual change of scenery during their frequent journeys along country
roads, through forests and valleys, past meadows and rivers, the various
types of people they met with, broadened and developed the mind of
little Nekrassov, just as the mind of the child Ruskin was formed and
expanded during his journeys with his father. But Ruskin's education
lacked features with which young Nekrassov on his journeys soon became
familiar. While acquiring knowledge of life and accumulating impressions
of the beauties of nature, Nekrassov listened, perforce, to the brutal,
blustering speeches addressed by his father to the helpless, trembling
peasants, and witnessed the cruel, degrading corporal punishments he
inflicted upon them, while his eyes were speedily opened to his father's
addiction to drinking, gambling, and debauchery. These experiences would
most certainly have demoralised and depraved his childish mind had it
not been for the powerful influence the refined and cultured mother had
from the first exercised upon her son. The contrast between his parents
was so startling that it could not fail to awaken the better side of the
child's nature, and to imbue him with pure and healthy notions of the
truer and higher ideals of humanity. In his poetical works of later
years Nekrassov repeatedly returns to and dwells upon the memory of the
sorrowful, sweet image of his mother. The gentle, beautiful lady, with
her wealth of golden hair, with an expression of divine tenderness in
her blue eyes and of infinite suffering upon her sensitive lips,
remained for ever her son's ideal of womanhood. Later on, during years
of manhood, in moments of the deepest moral suffering and despondency,
it was always of her that he thought, her tenderness and spiritual
consolation he recalled and for which he craved.
When Nekrassov was eleven years of age his father one day drove him to
the town nearest their estate and placed him in the local
grammar-school. Here he remained for six years, gradually, though
without distinction, passing upwards from one class to another, devoting
a moderate amount of time to school studies and much energy to the
writing of poetry, mostly of a satirical nature, in which his teachers
figured with unfortunate conspicuity.
One day a copy-book containing the most biting of these productions fell
into the hands of the headmaster, and young Nekrassov was summarily
ejected from the school.
His angry father, deciding in his own mind that the boy was good for
nothing, despatched him to St. Petersburg to embark upon a military
career. The seventeen-year-old boy arrived in the capital with a
copy-book of his poems and a few roubles in his pocket, and with a
letter of introduction to an influential general. He was filled with
good intentions and fully prepared to obey his father's orders, but
before he had taken the final step of entering the nobleman's regiment
he met a young student, a former school-mate, who captivated his
imagination by glowing descriptions of the marvellous sciences to be
studied in the university, and the surpassing interest of student life.
The impressionable boy decided to abandon the idea of his military
career, and to prepare for his matriculation in the university. He wrote
to his father to this effect, and received the stern and laconic reply:
"If you disobey me, not another farthing shall you receive from me."
The youth had made his mind up, however, and entered the university as
an unmatriculated student. And that was the beginning of his long
acquaintance with the hardships of poverty.
"For three years," said Nekrassov in after life, "I was hungry all day,
and every day. It was not only that I ate bad food and not enough of
that, but some days I did not eat at all. I often went to a certain
restaurant in the Morskaya, where one is allowed to read the paper
without ordering food. You can hold the paper in front of you and nibble
at a piece of bread behind it...."
While sunk in this state of poverty, however, Nekrassov got into touch
with some of the richest and most aristocratic families in St.
Petersburg; for at that time there existed a complete comradeship and
equality among the students, whether their budget consisted of a few
farthings or unlimited wealth. Thus here again Nekrassov was given the
opportunity of studying the contrasts of life.
For several years after his arrival in St. Petersburg the true gifts of
the poet were denied expression. The young man was confronted with a
terrible uphill fight to conquer the means of bare subsistence. He had
no time to devote to the working out of his poems, and it would not have
"paid" him. He was obliged to accept any literary job that was offered
him, and to execute it with a promptitude necessitated by the
requirements of his daily bill of fare. During the first years of his
literary career he wrote an amazing number of prose reviews, essays,
short stories, novels, comedies and tragedies, alphabets and children's
stories, which, put together, would fill thirty or forty volumes. He
also issued a volume of his early poems, but he was so ashamed of them
that he would not put his name upon the fly-leaf. Soon, however, his
poems, "On the Road" and "My Motherland," attracted the attention of
Byelinsky, when the young poet brought some of his work to show the
great critic. With tears in his eyes Byelinsky embraced Nekrassov and
said to him:
"Do you know that you are a poet, a true poet?"
This decree of Byelinsky brought fame to Nekrassov, for Byelinsky's word
was law in Russia then, and his judgement was never known to fail. His
approval gave Nekrassov the confidence he lacked, and he began to devote
most of his time to poetry.
The epoch in which Nekrassov began his literary career in St.
Petersburg, the early forties of last century, was one of a great
revival of idealism in Russia. The iron reaction of the then Emperor
Nicholas I. made independent political activity an impossibility. But
the horrible and degrading conditions of serfdom which existed at that
time, and which cast a blight upon the energy and dignity of the Russian
nation, nourished feelings of grief and indignation in the noblest minds
of the educated classes, and, unable to struggle for their principles in
the field of practical politics, they strove towards abstract idealism.
They devoted their energies to philosophy, literature, and art. It was
then that Tolstoy, Turgenieff, and Dostoyevsky embarked upon their
phenomenal careers in fiction. It was then that the impetuous essayist,
Byelinsky, with his fiery and eloquent pen, taught the true meaning and
objects of literature. Nekrassov soon joined the circles of literary
people dominated by the spirit of Byelinsky, and he too drank at the
fountain of idealism and imbibed the gospel of altruistic toil for his
country and its people, that gospel of perfect citizenship expounded by
Byelinsky, Granovsky, and their friends. It was at this period that his
poetry became impregnated with the sadness which, later on, was embodied
in the lines:
My verses! Living witnesses of tears Shed for the world, and born In
moments of the soul's dire agony, Unheeded and forlorn, Like waves that
beat against the rocks, You plead to hearts that scorn.
Nekrassov's material conditions meanwhile began to improve, and he
actually developed business capacities, and soon the greatest writers of
the time were contributing to the monthly review _Sovremenik_ (the
Contemporary) which Nekrassov bought in 1847. Turgenieff, Herzen,
Byelinsky, Dostoyevsky gladly sent their works to him, and Nekrassov
soon became the intellectual leader of his time. His influence became
enormous, but he had to cope with all the rigours of the censorship
which had become almost insupportable in Russia, as the effect of the
Tsar's fears aroused by the events of the French Revolution of 1848.
Byelinsky died in that year from consumption in the very presence of the
gendarmes who had come to arrest him for some literary offence.
Dostoyevsky was seized, condemned to death, and when already on the
scaffold, with the rope around his neck, reprieved and sent for life to
the Siberian mines. The rigours still increased during the Crimean War,
and it was only after the death of Nicholas I., the termination of the
war, and the accession of the liberal Tsar, Alexander II., that
Nekrassov and Russian literature in general began to breathe more
freely. The decade which followed upon 1855 was one of the bright
periods of Russian history. Serfdom was abolished and many great reforms
were passed. It was then that Nekrassov's activity was at its height.
His review _Sovremenik_ was a stupendous success, and brought him great
fame and wealth. During that year some of his finest poems appeared in
it: "The Peasant Children," "Orina, the Mother of a Soldier," "The
Gossips," "The Pedlars," "The Rail-way," and many others.
Nekrassov became the idol of Russia. The literary evenings at which he
used to read his poems aloud were besieged by fervent devotees, and the
most brilliant orations were addressed to him on all possible occasions.
His greatest work, however, the national epic, _Who can be Happy in
Russia?_ was written towards the latter end of his life, between
1873 and 1877.
Here he suffered from the censor more cruelly than ever. Long extracts
from the poem were altogether forbidden, and only after his death it was
allowed, in 1879, to appear in print more or less in its entirety.
When gripped in the throes of his last painful illness, and practically
on his deathbed, he would still have found consolation in work, in the
dictation of his poems. But even then his sufferings were aggravated by
the harassing coercions of the censor. His last great poem was written
on his deathbed, and the censor peremptorily forbade its publication.
Nekrassov one day greeted his doctor with the following remark:
"Now you see what our profession, literature, means. When I wrote my
first lines they were hacked to pieces by the censor's scissors--that
was thirty-seven years ago; and now, when I am dying, and have written
my last lines, I am again confronted by the scissors."
For many months he lay in appalling suffering. His disease was the
outcome, he declared, of the privations he had suffered in his youth.
The whole of Russia seemed to be standing at his bedside, watching with
anguish his terrible struggle with death. Hundreds of letters and
telegrams arrived daily from every corner of the immense empire, and the
dying poet, profoundly touched by these tokens of love and sympathy,
said to the literary friends who visited him:
"You see! We wonder all our lives what our readers think of us, whether
they love us and are our friends. We learn in moments like this...."
It was a bright, frosty December day when Nekrassov's coffin was carried
to the grave on the shoulders of friends who had loved and admired him.
The orations delivered above it were full of passionate emotion called
forth by the knowledge that the speakers were expressing not only their
own sentiments, but those of a whole nation.
Nekrassov is dead. But all over Russia young and old repeat and love his
poetry, so full of tenderness and grief and pity for the Russian people
and their endless woe. Quotations from the works of Nekrassov are as
abundant and widely known in Russia as those from Shakespeare in
England, and no work of his is so familiar and so widely quoted as the
national epic, now presented to the English public, _Who can be Happy
in Russia?_
DAVID SOSKICE.
PROLOGUE
The year doesn't matter,
The land's not important,
But seven good peasants
Once met on a high-road.
From Province "Hard-Battered,"
From District "Most Wretched,"
From "Destitute" Parish,
From neighbouring hamlets--
"Patched," "Barefoot," and "Shabby,"
"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry,"
From "Harvestless" also, 11
They met and disputed
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká said, "The pope," [2]
And Román, "The Pomyéshchick," [3]
Demyán, "The official,"
"The round-bellied merchant,"
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan. 20
Pakhóm, who'd been lost
In profoundest reflection,
Exclaimed, looking down
At the earth, "'Tis his Lordship,
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser,"
And Prov said, "The Tsar."
Like bulls are the peasants:
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it 30
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels:
They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them.
They raised such a clamour
That those who were passing
Thought, "Surely the fellows
Have found a great treasure
And share it amongst them!"
They all had set out 40
On particular errands:
The one to the blacksmith's,
Another in haste
To fetch Father Prokóffy
To christen his baby.
Pakhóm had some honey
To sell in the market;
The two brothers Goóbin
Were seeking a horse
Which had strayed from their herd. 50
Long since should the peasants
Have turned their steps homewards,
But still in a row
They are hurrying onwards
As quickly as though
The grey wolf were behind them.
Still further, still faster
They hasten, contending.
Each shouts, nothing hearing,
And time does not wait. 60
In quarrel they mark not
The fiery-red sunset
Which blazes in Heaven
As evening is falling,
And all through the night
They would surely have wandered
If not for the woman,
The pox-pitted "Blank-wits,"
Who met them and cried:
"Heh, God-fearing peasants, 70
Pray, what is your mission?
What seek ye abroad
In the blackness of midnight?"
So shrilled the hag, mocking,
And shrieking with laughter
She slashed at her horses
And galloped away.
The peasants are startled,
Stand still, in confusion,
Since long night has fallen, 80
The numberless stars
Cluster bright in the heavens,
The moon gliding onwards.
Black shadows are spread
On the road stretched before
The impetuous walkers.
Oh, shadows, black shadows,
Say, who can outrun you,
Or who can escape you?
Yet no one can catch you, 90
Entice, or embrace you!
Pakhóm, the old fellow,
Gazed long at the wood,
At the sky, at the roadway,
Gazed, silently searching
His brain for some counsel,
And then spake in this wise:
"Well, well, the wood-devil
Has finely bewitched us!
We've wandered at least 100
Thirty versts from our homes.
We all are too weary
To think of returning
To-night; we must wait
Till the sun rise to-morrow."
Thus, blaming the devil,
The peasants make ready
To sleep by the roadside.
They light a large fire,
And collecting some farthings 110
Send two of their number
To buy them some vodka,
The rest cutting cups
From the bark of a birch-tree.
The vodka's provided,
Black bread, too, besides,
And they all begin feasting:
Each munches some bread
And drinks three cups of vodka--
But then comes the question 120
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká cries, "The pope!"
And Román, "The Pomyéshchick!"
And Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"
And Demyán, "The official!"
"The round-bellied merchant!"
Bawl both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan.
Pakhóm shrieks, "His Lordship, 130
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"
The obstinate peasants
Grow more and more heated,
Cry louder and louder,
Swear hard at each other;
I really believe
They'll attack one another!
Look! now they are fighting!
Román and Pakhom close, 140
Demyán clouts Luká,
While the two brothers Goóbin
Are drubbing fat Prov,
And they all shout together.
Then wakes the clear echo,
Runs hither and thither,
Runs calling and mocking
As if to encourage
The wrath of the peasants.
The trees of the forest 150
Throw furious words back:
"The Tsar!" "The Pomyéshchick!"
"The pope!" "The official!"
Until the whole coppice
Awakes in confusion;
The birds and the insects,
The swift-footed beasts
And the low crawling reptiles
Are chattering and buzzing
And stirring all round. 160
The timid grey hare
Springing out of the bushes
Speeds startled away;
The hoarse little jackdaw
Flies off to the top
Of a birch-tree, and raises
A harsh, grating shriek,
A most horrible clamour.
A weak little peewit
Falls headlong in terror 170
From out of its nest,
And the mother comes flying
In search of her fledgeling.
She twitters in anguish.
Alas! she can't find it.
The crusty old cuckoo
Awakes and bethinks him
To call to a neighbour:
Ten times he commences
And gets out of tune, 180
But he won't give it up....
Call, call, little cuckoo,
For all the young cornfields
Will shoot into ear soon,
And then it will choke you--
The ripe golden grain,
And your day will be ended![4]
From out the dark forest
Fly seven brown owls,
And on seven tall pine-trees 190
They settle themselves
To enjoy the disturbance.
They laugh--birds of night--
And their huge yellow eyes gleam
Like fourteen wax candles.
The raven--the wise one--
Sits perched on a tree
In the light of the fire,
Praying hard to the devil
That one of the wranglers, 200
At least, should be beaten
To death in the tumult.
A cow with a bell
Which had strayed from its fellows
The evening before,
Upon hearing men's voices
Comes out of the forest
And into the firelight,
And fixing its eyes,
Large and sad, on the peasants, 210
Stands listening in silence
Some time to their raving,
And then begins mooing,
Most heartily moos.
The silly cow moos,
The jackdaw is screeching,
The turbulent peasants
Still shout, and the echo
Maliciously mocks them--
The impudent echo 220
Who cares but for mocking
And teasing good people,
For scaring old women
And innocent children:
Though no man has seen it
We've all of us heard it;
It lives--without body;
It speaks--without tongue.
The pretty white owl
Called the Duchess of Moscow 230
Comes plunging about
In the midst of the peasants,
Now circling above them,
Now striking the bushes
And earth with her body.
And even the fox, too,
The cunning old creature,
With woman's determined
And deep curiosity,
Creeps to the firelight 240
And stealthily listens;
At last, quite bewildered,
She goes; she is thinking,
"The devil himself
Would be puzzled, I know!"
And really the wranglers
Themselves have forgotten
The cause of the strife.
But after awhile
Having pummelled each other 250
Sufficiently soundly,
They come to their senses;
They drink from a rain-pool
And wash themselves also,
And then they feel sleepy.
And, meanwhile, the peewit,
The poor little fledgeling,
With short hops and flights
Had come fluttering towards them.
Pakhóm took it up 260
In his palm, held it gently
Stretched out to the firelight,
And looked at it, saying,
"You are but a mite,
Yet how sharp is your claw;
If I breathed on you once
You'd be blown to a distance,
And if I should sneeze
You would straightway be wafted
Right into the flames. 270
One flick from my finger
Would kill you entirely.
Yet you are more powerful,
More free than the peasant:
Your wings will grow stronger,
And then, little birdie,
You'll fly where it please you.
Come, give us your wings, now,
You frail little creature,
And we will go flying 280
All over the Empire,
To seek and inquire,
To search and discover
The man who in Russia--
Is happy and free."
"No wings would be needful
If we could be certain
Of bread every day;
For then we could travel
On foot at our leisure," 290
Said Prov, of a sudden
Grown weary and sad.
"But not without vodka,
A bucket each morning,"
Cried both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan,
Who dearly loved vodka.
"Salt cucumbers, also,
Each morning a dozen!"
The peasants cry, jesting. 300
"Sour qwass,[5] too, a jug
To refresh us at mid-day!"
"A can of hot tea
Every night!" they say, laughing.
But while they were talking
The little bird's mother
Was flying and wheeling
In circles above them;
She listened to all,
And descending just near them 310
She chirruped, and making
A brisk little movement
She said to Pakhóm
In a voice clear and human:
"Release my poor child,
I will pay a great ransom."
"And what is your offer?"
"A loaf each a day
And a bucket of vodka,
Salt cucumbers also, 320
Each morning a dozen.
At mid-day sour qwass
And hot tea in the evening."
"And where, little bird,"
Asked the two brothers Goóbin,
"And where will you find
Food and drink for all seven?"
"Yourselves you will find it,
But I will direct you
To where you will find it." 330
"Well, speak. We will listen."
"Go straight down the road,
Count the poles until thirty:
Then enter the forest
And walk for a verst.
By then you'll have come
To a smooth little lawn
With two pine-trees upon it.
Beneath these two pine-trees
Lies buried a casket 340
Which you must discover.
The casket is magic,
And in it there lies
An enchanted white napkin.
Whenever you wish it
This napkin will serve you
With food and with vodka:
You need but say softly,
'O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!' 350
At once, at your bidding,
Through my intercession
The napkin will serve you.
And now, free my child."
"But wait. We are poor,
And we're thinking of making
A very long journey,"
Pakhóm said. "I notice
That you are a bird
Of remarkable talent. 360
So charm our old clothing
To keep it upon us."
"Our coats, that they fall not
In tatters," Román said.
"Our laputs,[6] that they too
May last the whole journey,"
Demyan next demanded.
"Our shirts, that the fleas
May not breed and annoy us,"
Luká added lastly. 370
The little bird answered,
"The magic white napkin
Will mend, wash, and dry for you.
Now free my child."
Pakhóm then spread open
His palm, wide and spacious,
Releasing the fledgeling,
Which fluttered away
To a hole in a pine-tree.
The mother who followed it 380
Added, departing:
"But one thing remember:
Food, summon at pleasure
As much as you fancy,
But vodka, no more
Than a bucket a day.
If once, even twice
You neglect my injunction
Your wish shall be granted;
The third time, take warning: 390
Misfortune will follow."
The peasants set off
In a file, down the road,
Count the poles until thirty
And enter the forest,
And, silently counting
Each footstep, they measure
A verst as directed.
They find the smooth lawn
With the pine-trees upon it, 400
They dig all together
And soon reach the casket;
They open it--there lies
The magic white napkin!
They cry in a chorus,
"O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!"
Look, look! It's unfolding!
Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where; 410
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
"The cucumbers, tea,
And sour qwass--where are they then?"
At once they appear!
The peasants unloosen
Their waistbelts, and gather
Around the white napkin 420
To hold a great banquet.
In joy, they embrace
One another, and promise
That never again
Will they beat one another
Without sound reflection,
But settle their quarrels
In reason and honour
As God has commanded;
That nought shall persuade them 430
To turn their steps homewards
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
Until they have settled
For once and forever
The subject of discord:
Until they've discovered
The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free.
They swear to each other 440
To keep this, their promise,
And daybreak beholds them
Embosomed in slumber
As deep and as dreamless
As that of the dead.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
THE POPE[7]
The broad sandy high-road
With borders of birch-trees
Winds sadly and drearily
Into the distance;
On either hand running
Low hills and young cornfields,
Green pastures, and often--
More often than any--
Lands sterile and barren.
And near to the rivers 10
And ponds are the hamlets
And villages standing--
The old and the new ones.
The forests and meadows
And rivers of Russia
Are lovely in springtime,
But O you spring cornfields,
Your growth thin and scanty
Is painful to see.
"'Twas not without meaning 20
That daily the snow fell
Throughout the long winter,"
Said one to another
The journeying peasants:--
"The spring has now come
And the snow tells its story:
At first it is silent--
'Tis silent in falling,
Lies silently sleeping,
But when it is dying 30
Its voice is uplifted:
The fields are all covered
With loud, rushing waters,
No roads can be traversed
For bringing manure
To the aid of the cornfields;
The season is late
For the sweet month of May
Is already approaching."
The peasant is saddened 40
At sight of the dirty
And squalid old village;
But sadder the new ones:
The new huts are pretty,
But they are the token
Of heartbreaking ruin.[8]
As morning sets in
They begin to meet people,
But mostly small people:
Their brethren, the peasants, 50
And soldiers and waggoners,
Workmen and beggars.
The soldiers and beggars
They pass without speaking.
Not asking if happy
Or grievous their lot:
The soldier, we know,
Shaves his beard with a gimlet,
Has nothing but smoke
In the winter to warm him,-- 60
What joy can be his?
As evening is falling
Appears on the high-road
A pope in his cart.
The peasants uncover
Their heads, and draw up
In a line on the roadway,
Thus barring the passage
In front of the gelding.
The pope raised his head, 70
Looked inquiringly at them.
"Fear not, we won't harm you,"
Luká said in answer.
(Luká was thick-bearded,
Was heavy and stolid,
Was obstinate, stupid,
And talkative too;
He was like to the windmill
Which differs in one thing
Alone from an eagle: 80
No matter how boldly
It waves its broad pinions
It rises no higher.)
"We, orthodox peasants,
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From Province 'Hard Battered,'
From 'Destitute' Parish,
From neighbouring hamlets,
'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' 90
From 'Harvestless' also,
Are striving to settle
A thing of importance;
A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
From our wives and our children,
Away from our work,
Kills our appetites too.
Pray, give us your promise
To answer us truly, 100
Consulting your conscience
And searching your knowledge,
Not feigning nor mocking
The question we put you.
If not, we will go
Further on."
"I will promise
If you will but put me
A serious question
To answer it gravely, 110
With truth and with reason,
Not feigning nor mocking,
Amen!"
"We are grateful,
And this is our story:
We all had set out
On particular errands,
And met in the roadway.
Then one asked another:
Who is he,--the man 120
Free and happy in Russia?
And I said, 'The pope,'
And Román, 'The Pomyéshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'
And Demyán, 'The official';
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan;
Pakhóm said, 'His Lordship,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' 130
"Like bulls are the peasants;
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly
And nothing can move them.
We argued and argued,
While arguing quarrelled,
While quarrelling fought, 140
Till at last we decided
That never again
Would we turn our steps homeward
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
Until we have found
The reply to our question,
Until we've discovered
For once and forever
The man who, in Russia, 150
Is happy and free.
Then say, in God's truth,
Is the pope's life a sweet one?
Would you, honoured father,
Proclaim yourself happy?"
The pope in his cart
Cast his eyes on the roadway,
Fell thoughtful and answered:
"Then, Christians, come, hear me:
I will not complain 160
Of the cross that I carry,
But bear it in silence.
I'll tell you my story,
And you try to follow
As well as you can."
"Begin."
"But first tell me
The gifts you consider
As true earthly welfare;
Peace, honour, and riches,-- 170
Is that so, my children?"
They answer, "It is so."
"And now let us see, friends,
What peace does the pope get?
In truth, then, I ought
To begin from my childhood,
For how does the son
Of the pope gain his learning,
And what is the price
That he pays for the priesthood? 180
'Tis best to be silent." [9]
* * * * *
"Our roadways are poor
And our parishes large,
And the sick and the dying,
The new-born that call us,
Do not choose their season:
In harvest and hay-time,
In dark nights of autumn,
Through frosts in the winter,
Through floods in the springtime, 190
Go--where they may call you.
You go without murmur,
If only the body
Need suffer alone!
But no,--every moment
The heart's deepest feelings
Are strained and tormented.
Believe me, my children,
Some things on this earth
One can never get used to: 200
No heart there exists
That can bear without anguish
The rattle of death,
The lament for the lost one,
The sorrow of orphans,
Amen! Now you see, friends,
The peace that the pope gets."
Not long did the peasants
Stand thinking. They waited
To let the pope rest, 210
Then enquired with a bow:
"And what more will you tell us?"
"Well, now let us see
If the pope is much honoured;
And that, O my friends,
Is a delicate question--
I fear to offend you....
But answer me, Christians,
Whom call you, 'The cursed
Stallion breed?' Can you tell me?"
The peasants stand silent 221
In painful confusion;
The pope, too, is silent.
"Who is it you tremble
To meet in the roadway[10]
For fear of misfortune?"
The peasants stand shuffling
Their feet in confusion.
"Of whom do you make
Little scandalous stories? 230
Of whom do you sing
Rhymes and songs most indecent?
The pope's honoured wife,
And his innocent daughters,
Come, how do you treat them?
At whom do you shout
Ho, ho, ho, in derision
When once you are past him?"
The peasants cast downwards
Their eyes and keep silent. 240
The pope too is silent.
The peasants stand musing;
The pope fans his face
With his hat, high and broad-rimmed,
And looks at the heavens....
The cloudlets in springtime
Play round the great sun
Like small grandchildren frisking
Around a hale grandsire,
And now, on his right side 250
A bright little cloud
Has grown suddenly dismal,
Begins to shed tears.
The grey thread is hanging
In rows to the earth,
While the red sun is laughing
And beaming upon it
Through torn fleecy clouds,
Like a merry young girl
Peeping out from the corn. 260
The cloud has moved nearer,
The rain begins here,
And the pope puts his hat on.
But on the sun's right side
The joy and the brightness
Again are established.
The rain is now ceasing....
It stops altogether,
And God's wondrous miracle,
Long golden sunbeams, 270
Are streaming from Heaven
In radiant splendour.
* * * * *
"It isn't our own fault;
It comes from our parents,"
Say, after long silence,
The two brothers Goóbin.
The others approve him:
"It isn't our own fault,
It comes from our parents."
The pope said, "So be it! 280
But pardon me, Christians,
It is not my meaning
To censure my neighbours;
I spoke but desiring
To tell you the truth.
You see how the pope
Is revered by the peasants;
The gentry--"
"Pass over them,
Father--we know them." 290
"Then let us consider
From whence the pope's riches.
In times not far distant
The great Russian Empire
Was filled with estates
Of wealthy Pomyéshchicks.[11]
They lived and increased,
And they let us live too.
What weddings were feasted!
What numbers and numbers 300
Of children were born
In each rich, merry life-time!
Although they were haughty
And often oppressive,
What liberal masters!
They never deserted
The parish, they married,
Were baptized within it,
To us they confessed,
And by us they were buried. 310
And if a Pomyéshchick
Should chance for some reason
To live in a city,
He cherished one longing,
To die in his birthplace;
But did the Lord will it
That he should die suddenly
Far from the village,
An order was found
In his papers, most surely, 320
That he should be buried
At home with his fathers.
Then see--the black car
With the six mourning horses,--
The heirs are conveying
The dead to the graveyard;
And think--what a lift
For the pope, and what feasting
All over the village!
But now that is ended, 330
Pomyéshchicks are scattered
Like Jews over Russia
And all foreign countries.
They seek not the honour
Of lying with fathers
And mothers together.
How many estates
Have passed into the pockets
Of rich speculators!
O you, bones so pampered 340
Of great Russian gentry,
Where are you not buried,
What far foreign graveyard
Do you not repose in?
"Myself from dissenters[12]
(A source of pope's income)
I never take money,
I've never transgressed,
For I never had need to;
Because in my parish 350
Two-thirds of the people
Are Orthodox churchmen.
But districts there are
Where the whole population
Consists of dissenters--
Then how can the pope live?
"But all in this world
Is subjected to changes:
The laws which in old days
Applied to dissenters 360
Have now become milder;
And that in itself
Is a check to pope's income.
I've said the Pomyéshchicks
Are gone, and no longer
They seek to return
To the home of their childhood;
And then of their ladies
(Rich, pious old women),
How many have left us 370
To live near the convents!
And nobody now
Gives the pope a new cassock
Or church-work embroidered.
He lives on the peasants,
Collects their brass farthings,
Their cakes on the feast-days,
At Easter their eggs.
The peasants are needy
Or they would give freely-- 380
Themselves they have nothing;
And who can take gladly
The peasant's last farthing?
"Their lands are so poor,
They are sand, moss, or boggy,
Their cattle half-famished,
Their crops yield but twofold;
And should Mother Earth
Chance at times to be kinder,
That too is misfortune: 390
The market is crowded,
They sell for a trifle
To pay off the taxes.
Again comes a bad crop---
Then pay for your bread
Three times higher than ever,
And sell all your cattle!
Now, pray to God, Christians,
For this year again
A great misery threatens: 400
We ought to have sown
For a long time already;
But look you--the fields
Are all deluged and useless....
O God, have Thou pity
And send a round[13] rainbow
To shine in Thy heavens!"
Then taking his hat off
He crossed himself thrice,
And the peasants did likewise.
"Our village is poor 411
And the people are sickly,
The women are sad
And are scantily nourished,
But pious and laborious;
God give them courage!
Like slaves do they toil;
'Tis hard to lay hands
On the fruits of such labour.
"At times you are sent for 420
To pray by the dying,
But Death is not really
The awful thing present,
But rather the living--
The family losing
Their only support.
You pray by the dead.
Words of comfort you utter,
To calm the bereaved ones;
And then the old mother 430
Comes tottering towards you,
And stretching her bony
And toil-blistered hand out;
You feel your heart sicken,
For there in the palm
Lie the precious brass farthings!
Of course it is only
The price of your praying.
You take it, because
It is what you must live on; 440
Your words of condolence
Are frozen, and blindly,
Like one deep insulted,
You make your way homeward.
Amen...."
* * * * *
The pope finished
His speech, and touched lightly
The back of the gelding.
The peasants make way,
And they bow to him deeply. 450
The cart moves on slowly,
Then six of the comrades
As though by agreement
Attack poor Luká
With indignant reproaches.
"Now, what have you got?--
You great obstinate blockhead,
You log of the village!
You too must needs argue;
Pray what did you tell us? 460
'The popes live like princes,
The lords of the belfry,
Their palaces rising
As high as the heavens,
Their bells set a-chiming
All over God's world.
"'Three years,' you declared,
'Did I work as pope's servant.
It wasn't a life--
'Twas a strawberry, brethren; 470
Pope's kasha[14] is made
And served up with fresh butter.
Pope's stchee[14] made with fish,
And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;
The pope's wife is fat too,
And white the pope's daughter,
His horse like a barrel,
His bees are all swollen
And booming like church bells.'
"Well, there's your pope's life,-- 480
There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!
For that you've been shouting
And making us quarrel,
You limb of the Devil!
Pray is it because
Of your beard like a shovel
You think you're so clever?
If so, let me tell you
The goat walked in Eden
With just such another 490
Before Father Adam,
And yet down to our time
The goat is considered
The greatest of duffers!"
The culprit was silent,
Afraid of a beating;
And he would have got it
Had not the pope's face,
Turning sadly upon them,
Looked over a hedge 500
At a rise in the road.
CHAPTER II
THE VILLAGE FAIR
No wonder the peasants
Dislike a wet spring-tide:
The peasant needs greatly
A spring warm and early.
This year, though he howl
Like a wolf, I'm afraid
That the sun will not gladden
The earth with his brightness.
The clouds wander heavily,
Dropping the rain down 10
Like cows with full udders.
The snow has departed,
Yet no blade of grass,
Not a tiny green leaflet,
Is seen in the meadows.
The earth has not ventured
To don its new mantle
Of brightest green velvet,
But lies sad and bare
Like a corpse without grave-clothes
Beneath the dull heavens. 21
One pities the peasant;
Still more, though, his cattle:
For when they have eaten
The scanty reserves
Which remain from the winter,
Their master will drive them
To graze in the meadows,
And what will they find there
But bare, inky blackness? 30
Nor settled the weather
Until it was nearing
The feast of St. Nichol,
And then the poor cattle
Enjoyed the green pastures.
The day is a hot one,
The peasants are strolling
Along 'neath the birch-trees.
They say to each other,
"We passed through one village, 40
We passed through another,
And both were quite empty;
To-day is a feast-day,
But where are the people?"
They reach a large village;
The street is deserted
Except for small children,
And inside the houses
Sit only the oldest
Of all the old women. 50
The wickets are fastened
Securely with padlocks;
The padlock's a loyal
And vigilant watch-dog;
It barks not, it bites not,
But no one can pass it.
They walk through the village
And see a clear mirror
Beset with green framework--
A pond full of water; 60
And over its surface
Are hovering swallows
And all kinds of insects;
The gnats quick and meagre
Skip over the water
As though on dry land;
And in the laburnums
Which grow on the banksides
The landrails are squeaking.
A raft made of tree-trunks 70
Floats near, and upon it
The pope's heavy daughter
Is wielding her beetle,
She looks like a hay-stack,
Unsound and dishevelled,
Her skirts gathered round her.
Upon the raft, near her,
A duck and some ducklings
Are sleeping together.
And hark! from the water 80
The neigh of a horse comes;
The peasants are startled,
They turn all together:
Two heads they see, moving
Along through the water--
The one is a peasant's,
A black head and curly,
In one ear an ear-ring
Which gleams in the sunlight;
A horse's the other, 90
To which there is fastened
A rope of some yards length,
Held tight in the teeth
Of the peasant beside it.
The man swims, the horse swims;
The horse neighs, the man neighs;
They make a fine uproar!
The raft with the woman
And ducklings upon it
Is tossing and heaving. 100
The horse with the peasant
Astride has come panting
From out of the water,
The man with white body
And throat black with sunburn;
The water is streaming
From horse and from rider.
"Say, why is your village
So empty of people?
Are all dead and buried?" 110
"They've gone to Kousminsky;
A fair's being held there
Because it's a saint's day."
"How far is Kousminsky?"
"Three versts, I should fancy."
"We'll go to Kousminsky,"
The peasants decided,
And each to himself thought,
"Perhaps we shall find there
The happy, the free one." 120
The village Kousminsky
Is rich and commercial
And terribly dirty.
It's built on a hill-side,
And slopes down the valley,
Then climbs again upwards,--
So how could one ask of it
Not to be dirty?[15]
It boasts of two churches.
The one is "dissenting," 130
The other "Established."
The house with inscription,
"The School-House," is empty,
In ruins and deserted;
And near stands the barber's,
A hut with one window,
From which hangs the sign-board
Of "Barber and Bleeder."
A dirty inn also
There is, with its sign-board 140
Adorned by a picture:
A great nosy tea-pot
With plump little tea-cups
Held out by a waiter,
Suggesting a fat goose
Surrounded by goslings.
A row of small shops, too,
There is in the village.
The peasants go straight
To the market-place, find there 150
A large crowd of people
And goods in profusion.
How strange!--notwithstanding
There's no church procession
The men have no hats on,
Are standing bare-headed,
As though in the presence
Of some holy Image:
Look, how they're being swallowed--
The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160
The beer-shop and tavern
Are both overflowing;
All round are erected
Large tents by the roadside
For selling of vodka.
And though in each tent
There are five agile waiters,
All young and most active,
They find it quite hopeless
To try to get change right. 170
Just look how the peasants
Are stretching their hands out,
With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!
Oh, you, thirst of Russia,
Unquenchable, endless
You are! But the peasant,
When once he is sated,
Will soon get a new hood
At close of the fair....
The spring sun is playing 180
On heads hot and drunken,
On boisterous revels,
On bright mixing colours;
The men wear wide breeches
Of corduroy velvet,
With gaudy striped waistcoats
And shirts of all colours;
The women wear scarlet;
The girls' plaited tresses
Are decked with bright ribbons; 190
They glide about proudly,
Like swans on the water.
Some beauties are even
Attired in the fashion
Of Petersburg ladies;
Their dresses spread stiffly
On wide hoops around them;
But tread on their skirts--
They will turn and attack you,
Will gobble like turkeys! 200
Blame rather the fashion
Which fastens upon you
Great fishermen's baskets!
A woman dissenter
Looks darkly upon them,
And whispers with malice:
"A famine, a famine
Most surely will blight us.
The young growths are sodden,
The floods unabated; 210
Since women have taken
To red cotton dresses
The forests have withered,
And wheat--but no wonder!"
"But why, little Mother,
Are red cotton dresses
To blame for the trouble?
I don't understand you."
"The cotton is _French_,
And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220
D'you understand now?"
The peasants still linger
Some time in the market,
Then go further upward,
To where on the hill-side
Are piled ploughs and harrows,
With rakes, spades, and hatchets,
And all kinds of iron-ware,
And pliable wood
To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230
And, oh, what a hubbub
Of bargaining, swearing,
Of jesting and laughter!
And who could help laughing?
A limp little peasant
Is bending and testing
The wood for the wheel-rims.
One piece does not please him;
He takes up another
And bends it with effort; 240
It suddenly straightens,
And whack!--strikes his forehead.
The man begins roaring,
Abusing the bully,
The duffer, the block-head.
Another comes driving
A cart full of wood-ware,
As tipsy as can be;
He turns it all over!
The axle is broken, 250
And, trying to mend it,
He smashes the hatchet.
He gazes upon it,
Abusing, reproaching:
"A villain, a villain,
You are--not a hatchet.
You see, you can't do me
The least little service.
The whole of your life
You spend bowing before me, 260
And yet you insult me!"
Our peasants determine
To see the shop windows,
The handkerchiefs, ribbons,
And stuffs of bright colour;
And near to the boot-shop
Is fresh cause for laughter;
For here an old peasant
Most eagerly bargains
For small boots of goat-skin 270
To give to his grandchild.
He asks the price five times;
Again and again
He has turned them all over;
He finds they are faultless.
"Well, Uncle, pay up now,
Or else be off quickly,"
The seller says sharply.
But wait! The old fellow
Still gazes, and fondles 280
The tiny boots softly,
And then speaks in this wise:
"My daughter won't scold me,
Her husband I'll spit at,
My wife--let her grumble--
I'll spit at my wife too.
It's her that I pity--
My poor little grandchild.
She clung to my neck,
And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290
Buy me a present.'
Her soft little ringlets
Were tickling my cheek,
And she kissed the old Grand-dad.
You wait, little bare-foot,
Wee spinning-top, wait then,
Some boots I will buy you,
Some boots made of goat-skin."
And then must old Vavil
Begin to boast grandly, 300
To promise a present
To old and to young.
But now his last farthing
Is swallowed in vodka,
And how can he dare
Show his eyes in the village?
"My daughter won't scold me,
Her husband I'll spit at,
My wife--let her grumble--
I'll spit at my wife too. 310
It's her that I pity--
My poor little grandchild."
And then he commences
The story again
Of the poor little grandchild.
He's very dejected.
A crowd listens round him,
Not laughing, but troubled
At sight of his sorrow.
If they could have helped him 320
With bread or by labour
They soon would have done so,
But money is money,
And who has got tenpence
To spare? Then came forward
Pavlóosha Varénko,
The "gentleman" nicknamed.
(His origin, past life,
Or calling they knew not,
But called him the 'Barin'.) 330
He listened with pleasure
To talk and to jesting;
His blouse, coat, and top-boots
Were those of a peasant;
He sang Russian folk-songs,
Liked others to sing them,
And often was met with
At taverns and inns.
He now rescued Vavil,
And bought him the boots 340
To take home to his grandchild.
The old man fled blindly,
But clasping them tightly,
Forgetting to thank him,
Bewildered with joy.
The crowd was as pleased, too,
As if had been given
To each one a rouble.
The peasants next visit
The picture and book stall; 350
The pedlars are buying
Their stock of small pictures,
And books for their baskets
To sell on the road.
"'Tis generals, _you_ want!"
The merchant is saying.
"Well, give us some generals;
But look--on your conscience--
Now let them be real ones,
Be fat and ferocious." 360
"Your notions are funny,"
The merchant says, smiling;
"It isn't a question
Of looks...."
"Well, of what, then?
You want to deceive us,
To palm off your rubbish,
You swindling impostor!
D'you think that the peasants
Know one from another? 370
A shabby one--he wants
An expert to sell him,
But trust me to part with
The fat and the fierce."
"You don't want officials?"
"To Hell with officials!"
However they took one
Because he was cheap:
A minister, striking
In view of his stomach 380
As round as a barrel,
And seventeen medals.
The merchant is serving
With greatest politeness,
Displaying and praising,
With patience unyielding,--
A thief of the first-class
He is, come from Moscow.
Of Blücher he sells them
A hundred small pictures, 390
As many of Fótyi[17]
The archimandrite,
And of Sipko[17] the brigand;
A book of the sayings
Of droll Balakireff[17]
The "English Milord," too.
The books were put into
The packs of the pedlars;
The pictures will travel
All over great Russia, 400
Until they find rest
On the wall of some peasant--
The devil knows why!
Oh, may it come quickly
The time when the peasant
Will make some distinction
Between book and book,
Between picture and picture;
Will bring from the market,
Not picture of Blücher, 410
Not stupid "Milord,"
But Belinsky and Gógol!
Oh, say, Russian people,
These names--have you heard them?
They're great. They were borne
By your champions, who loved you,
Who strove in your cause,
'Tis _their_ little portraits
Should hang in your houses!
"I'd walk into Heaven 420
But can't find the doorway!"
Is suddenly shouted
By some merry blade.
"What door do you want, man?"
"The puppet-show, brothers!"
"I'll show you the way!"
The puppet-show tempted
The journeying peasants;
They go to inspect it.
A farce is being acted, 430
A goat for the drummer;
Real music is playing--
No common accordion.
The play is not too deep,
But not stupid, either.
A bullet shot deftly
Right into the eye
Of the hated policeman.
The tent is quite crowded,
The audience cracking 440
Their nuts, and exchanging
Remarks with each other.
And look--there's the vodka!
They're drinking and looking,
And looking and drinking,
Enjoying it highly,
With jubilant faces,
From time to time throwing
A right witty word
Into Peterkin's speeches, 450
Which _you'd_ never hit on,
Although you should swallow
Your pen and your pad!...
Some folk there are always
Who crowd on the platform
(The comedy ended),
To greet the performers,
To gossip and chat.
"How now, my fine fellows,
And where do you come from?" 460
"As serfs we used only
To play for the masters,[18]
But now we are free,
And the man who will treat us
Alone is our Master!"
"Well spoken, my brothers;
Enough time you've wasted
Amusing the nobles;
Now play for the peasants!
Here, waiter, bring vodka, 470
Sweet wine, tea, and syrup,
And see you make haste!"
The sweet sparkling river
Comes rolling to meet them;
They'll treat the musicians
More handsomely, far,
Than their masters of old.
It is not the rushing
Of furious whirlwinds,
Not Mother Earth shaking-- 480
'Tis shouting and singing
And swearing and fighting
And falling and kissing--
The people's carouse!
It seems to the peasants
That all in the village
Was reeling around them!
That even the church
With the very tall, steeple
Had swayed once or twice! 490
When things are in this state,
A man who is sober
Feels nearly as awkward
As one who is naked....
The peasants recrossing
The market-place, quitted
The turbulent village
At evening's approach.
CHAPTER III
THE DRUNKEN NIGHT
This village did not end,
As many in Russia,
In windmill or tavern,
In corn-loft or barn,
But in a large building
Of wood, with iron gratings
In small narrow windows.
The broad, sandy high-road,
With borders of birch-trees,
Spread out straight behind it-- 10
The grim étape--prison.[19]
On week-days deserted
It is, dull and silent,
But now it is not so.
All over the high-road,
In neighbouring pathways,
Wherever the eye falls,
Are lying and crawling,
Are driving and climbing,
The numberless drunkards; 20
Their shout fills the skies.
The cart-wheels are screeching,
And like slaughtered calves' heads
Are nodding and wagging
The pates limp and helpless
Of peasants asleep.
They're dropping on all sides,
As if from some ambush
An enemy firing
Is shooting them wholesale. 30
The quiet night is falling,
The moon is in Heaven,
And God is commencing
To write His great letter
Of gold on blue velvet;
Mysterious message,
Which neither the wise man
Nor foolish can read.
The high-road is humming
Just like a great bee-hive; 40
The people's loud clamour
Is swelling and falling
Like waves in the ocean.
"We paid him a rouble--
The clerk, and he gave us
A written petition
To send to the Governor."
"Hi, you with the waggon,
Look after your corn!"
"But where are you off to, 50
Olyénushka? Wait now--
I've still got some cakes.
You're like a black flea, girl,
You eat all you want to
And hop away quickly
Before one can stroke you!"
"It's all very fine talk,
This Tsar's precious Charter,
It's not writ for us!"
"Give way there, you people!" 60
The exciseman dashes
Amongst them, his brass plate
Attached to his coat-front,
And bells all a-jangle.
"God save us, Parasha,
Don't go to St. Petersburg!
_I_ know the gentry:
By day you're a maid,
And by night you're a mistress.
You spit at it, love...." 70
"Now, where are you running?"
The pope bellows loudly
To busy Pavloósha,
The village policeman.
"An accident's happened
Down here, and a man's killed."
"God pardon our sins!"
"How thin you've got, Dashka!"
"The spinning-wheel fattens
By turning forever; 80
I work just as hard,
But I never get fatter."
"Heh, you, silly fellow,
Come hither and love me!
The dirty, dishevelled,
And tipsy old woman.
The f--i--ilthy o--l--d woman!"
Our peasants, observing,
Are still walking onwards.
They see just before them 90
A meek little fellow
Most busily digging
A hole in the road.
"Now, what are you doing?"
"A grave I am digging
To bury my mother!"
"You fool!--Where's your mother?
Your new coat you've buried!
Roll into the ditch,
Dip your snout in the water. 100
'Twill cool you, perhaps."
"Let's see who'll pull hardest!"
Two peasants are squatting,
And, feet to feet pressing,
Are straining and groaning,
And tugging away
At a stick held between them.
This soon fails to please them:
"Let's try with our beards!"
And each man then clutches 110
The jaw of the other,
And tugs at his beard!
Red, panting, and writhing,
And gasping and yelping,
But pulling and pulling!
"Enough there, you madmen!"...
Cold water won't part them!
And in the ditch near them
Two women are squabbling;
One cries, "To go home now 120
Were worse than to prison!"
The other, "You braggart!
In my house, I tell you,
It's worse than in yours.
One son-in-law punched me
And left a rib broken;
The second made off
With my big ball of cotton;
The cotton don't matter,
But in it was hidden 130
My rouble in silver.
The youngest--he always
Is up with his knife out.
He'll kill me for sure!"
"Enough, enough, darling!
Now don't you be angry!"
Is heard not far distant
From over a hillock--
"Come on, I'm all right!"
A mischievous night, this; 140
On right hand, on left hand,
Wherever the eye falls,
Are sauntering couples.
The wood seems to please them;
They all stroll towards it,
The wood--which is thrilling
With nightingales' voices.
And later, the high-road
Gets more and more ugly,
And more and more often 150
The people are falling,
Are staggering, crawling,
Or lying like corpses.
As always it happens
On feast days in Russia--
No word can be uttered
Without a great oath.
And near to the tavern
Is quite a commotion;
Some wheels get entangled 160
And terrified horses
Rush off without drivers.
Here children are crying,
And sad wives and mothers
Are anxiously waiting;
And is the task easy
Of getting the peasant
Away from his drink?
Just near to the sign-post
A voice that's familiar 170
Is heard by the peasants;
They see there the Barin
(The same that helped Vavil,
And bought him the boots
To take home to his grandchild).
He chats with the men.
The peasants all open
Their hearts to the Barin;
If some song should please him
They'll sing it through five times; 180
"Just write the song down, sir!"
If some saying strike him;
"Take note of the words!"
And when he has written
Enough, he says quietly,
"The peasants are clever,
But one thing is bad:
They drink till they're helpless
And lie about tipsy,
It's painful to see." 190
They listen in silence.
The Barin commences
To write something down
In the little black note-book
When, all of a sudden,
A small, tipsy peasant,
Who up to that moment
Has lain on his stomach
And gazed at the speaker,
Springs up straight before him 200
And snatches his pencil
Right out of his hand:
"Wait, wait!" cries the fellow,
"Stop writing your stories,
Dishonest and heartless,
About the poor peasant.
Say, what's your complaint?
That sometimes the heart
Of the peasant rejoices?
At times we drink hard, 210
But we work ten times harder;
Among us are drunkards,
But many more sober.
Go, take through a village
A pailful of vodka;
Go into the huts--
In one, in another,
They'll swallow it gladly.
But go to a third
And you'll find they won't touch it!
One family drinks, 221
While another drinks nothing,
Drinks nothing--and suffers
As much as the drunkards:
They, wisely or foolishly,
Follow their conscience;
And see how misfortune,
The peasants' misfortune,
Will swallow that household
Hard-working and sober! 230
Pray, have you seen ever
The time of the harvest
In some Russian village?
Well, where were the people?
At work in the tavern?
Our fields may be broad,
But they don't give too freely.
Who robes them in spring-time,
And strips them in autumn?
You've met with a peasant 240
At nightfall, perchance,
When the work has been finished?
He's piled up great mountains
Of corn in the meadows,
He'll sup off a pea!
Hey, you mighty monster!
You builder of mountains,
I'll knock you flat down
With the stroke of a feather!
"Sweet food is the peasant's! 250
But stomachs aren't mirrors,
And so we don't whimper
To see what we've eaten.
"We work single-handed,
But when we have finished
Three partners[20] are waiting
To share in the profits;
A fourth[21] one there is, too,
Who eats like a Tartar--
Leaves nothing behind. 260
The other day, only,
A mean little fellow
Like you, came from Moscow
And clung to our backs.
'Oh, please sing him folk-songs'
And 'tell him some proverbs,'
'Some riddles and rhymes.'
And then came another
To put us his questions:
How much do we work for? 270
How much and how little
We stuff in our bellies?
To count all the people
That live in the village
Upon his five fingers.
He did not _ask how much
The fire feeds the wind with
Of peasants' hard work_.
Our drunkenness, maybe,
Can never be measured, 280
But look at our labour--
Can that then be measured?
Our cares or our woes?
"The vodka prostrates us;
But does not our labour,
Our trouble, prostrate us?
The peasant won't grumble
At each of his burdens,
He'll set out to meet it,
And struggle to bear it; 290
The peasant does not flinch
At life-wasting labour,
And tremble for fear
That his health may be injured.
Then why should he number
Each cupful of vodka
For fear that an odd one
May topple him over?
You say that it's painful
To see him lie tipsy?-- 300
Then go to the bog;
You'll see how the peasant
Is squeezing the corn out,
Is wading and crawling
Where no horse or rider,
No man, though unloaded,
Would venture to tread.
You'll see how the army
Of profligate peasants
Is toiling in danger, 310
Is springing from one clod
Of earth to another,
Is pushing through bog-slime
With backs nearly breaking!
The sun's beating down
On the peasants' bare heads,
They are sweating and covered
With mud to the eyebrows,
Their limbs torn and bleeding
By sharp, prickly bog-grass! 320
"Does this picture please you?
You say that you suffer;
At least suffer wisely.
Don't use for a peasant
A gentleman's judgement;
We are not white-handed
And tender-skinned creatures,
But men rough and lusty
In work and in play.
"The heart of each peasant 330
Is black as a storm-cloud,
Its thunder should peal
And its blood rain in torrents;
But all ends in drink--
For after one cupful
The soul of the peasant
Is kindly and smiling;
But don't let that hurt you!
Look round and be joyful!
Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens! 340
You know how to foot it!
Their bones may be aching,
Their limbs have grown weary,
But youth's joy and daring
Is not quite extinguished,
It lives in them yet!"
The peasant is standing
On top of a hillock,
And stamping his feet,
And after being silent 350
A moment, and gazing
With glee at the masses
Of holiday people,
He roars to them hoarsely.
"Hey you, peasant kingdom!
You, hatless and drunken!
More racket! More noise!"
"Come, what's your name, uncle?"
"To write in the note-book?
Why not? Write it down: 360
'In Barefoot the village
Lives old Jacob Naked,
He'll work till he's taken,
He drinks till he's crazed.'"
The peasants are laughing,
And telling the Barin
The old fellow's story:
How shabby old Jacob
Had lived once in Peter,[22]
And got into prison 370
Because he bethought him
To get him to law
With a very rich merchant;
How after the prison
He'd come back amongst them
All stripped, like a linden,
And taken to ploughing.
For thirty years since
On his narrow allotment
He'd worked in all weathers, 380
The harrow his shelter
From sunshine and storm.
He lived with the sokha,[23]
And when God would take him
He'd drop from beneath it
Just like a black clod.
An accident happened
One year to old Jacob:
He bought some small pictures
To hang in the cottage 390
For his little son;
The old man himself, too,
Was fond of the pictures.
God's curse had then fallen;
The village was burnt,
And the old fellow's money,
The fruit of a life-time
(Some thirty-five roubles),[24]
Was lost in the flames.
He ought to have saved it, 400
But, to his misfortune,
He thought of the pictures
And seized them instead.
His wife in the meantime
Was saving the icons.[25]
And so, when the cottage
Fell in, all the roubles
Were melted together
In one lump of silver.
Old Jacob was offered 410
Eleven such roubles
For that silver lump.
"O old brother Jacob,
You paid for them dearly,
The little chap's pictures!
I warrant you've hung them
Again in the new hut."
"I've hung them--and more,"
He replied, and was silent.
The Barin was looking, 420
Examining Jacob,
The toiler, the earth-worm,
His chest thin and meagre,
His stomach as shrunk
As though something had crushed it,
His eyes and mouth circled
By numberless wrinkles,
Like drought-shrivelled earth.
And he altogether
Resembled the earth, 430
Thought the Barin, while noting
His throat, like a dry lump
Of clay, brown and hardened;
His brick-coloured face;
His hands--black and horny,
Like bark on the tree-trunk;
His hair--stiff and sandy....
The peasants, remarking
That old Jacob's speech
Had not angered the Barin, 440
Themselves took his words up:
"Yes, yes, he speaks truly,
We must drink, it saves us,
It makes us feel strong.
Why, if we did not drink
Black gloom would engulf us.
If work does not kill us
Or trouble destroy us,
We shan't die from drink!"
"That's so. Is it not, sir?" 450
"Yes, God will protect us!"
"Come, drink with us, Barin!"
They go to buy vodka
And drink it together.
To Jacob the Barin
Has offered two cups.
"Ah, Barin," says Jacob,
"I see you're not angry.
A wise little head, yours,
And how could a wise head 460
Judge falsely of peasants?
Why, only the pig
Glues his nose to the garbage
And never sees Heaven!"
Then suddenly singing
Is heard in a chorus
Harmonious and bold.
A row of young fellows,
Half drunk, but not falling,
Come staggering onwards, 470
All lustily singing;
They sing of the Volga,
The daring of youths
And the beauty of maidens ...
A hush falls all over
The road, and it listens;
And only the singing
Is heard, broadly rolling
In waves, sweet and tuneful,
Like wind-ruffled corn. 480
The hearts of the peasants
Are touched with wild anguish,
And one little woman
Grows pensive and mournful,
And then begins weeping
And sobs forth her grief:
"My life is like day-time
With no sun to warm it!
My life is like night
With no glimmer of moon! 490
And I--the young woman--
Am like the swift steed
On the curb, like the swallow
With wings crushed and broken;
My jealous old husband
Is drunken and snoring,
But even while snoring
He keeps one eye open,
And watches me always,
Me--poor little wife!" 500
And so she lamented,
The sad little woman;
Then all of a sudden
Springs down from the waggon!
"Where now?" cries her husband,
The jealous old man.
And just as one lifts
By the tail a plump radish,
He clutches her pig-tail,
And pulls her towards him. 510
O night wild and drunken,
Not bright--and yet star-lit,
Not hot--but fanned softly
By tender spring breezes,
You've not left our peasants
Untouched by your sweetness;
They're thinking and longing
For their little women.
And they are quite right too;
Still sweeter 'twould be 520
With a nice little wife!
Cries Ívan, "I love you,"
And Mariushka, "I you!"
Cries Ívan, "Press closer!"
And Mariushka, "Kiss me!"
Cries Ívan, "The night's cold,"
And Mariushka, "Warm me!"
They think of this song now,
And all make their minds up
To shorten the journey. 530
A birch-tree is growing
Alone by the roadside,
God knows why so lonely!
And under it spreading
The magic white napkin,
The peasants sit round it:
"Hey! Napkin enchanted!
Give food to the peasants!"
Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where, 540
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread,
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
The peasants feel strengthened,
And leaving Román there
On guard near the vodka,
They mix with the people,
To try to discover
The one who is happy. 550
They're all in a hurry
To turn towards home.
CHAPTER IV
THE HAPPY ONES
In crowds gay and noisy
Our peasants are mixing,
Proclaiming their mission:
"Let any man here
Who esteems himself happy
Stand forth! If he prove it
A pailful of vodka
Is at his disposal;
As much as he wishes
So much he shall have!" 10
This fabulous promise
Sets sober folk smiling;
The tipsy and wise ones
Are ready to spit
In the beards of the pushing
Impertinent strangers!
But many are willing
To drink without payment,
And so when our peasants
Go back to the birch-tree 20
A crowd presses round them.
The first to come forward,
A lean discharged deacon,
With legs like two matches,
Lets forth a great mouthful
Of indistinct maxims:
That happiness lies not
In broad lands, in jewels,
In gold, and in sables--
"In what, then?" 30
A peaceful
And undisturbed conscience.
That all the dominions
Of land-owners, nobles,
And Tsars are but earthly
And limited treasures;
But he who is godly
Has part in Christ's kingdom
Of boundless extent:
"When warm in the sun, 40
With a cupful of vodka,
I'm perfectly happy,
I ask nothing more!"
"And who'll give you vodka?"
"Why, you! You have promised."
"Be off, you lean scamp!"
A one-eyed old woman
Comes next, bent and pock-marked,
And bowing before them
She says she is happy; 50
That in her allotment
A thousand fine turnips
Have grown, this last autumn.
"Such turnips, I tell you!
Such monsters! and tasty!
In such a small plot, too,
In length only one yard,
And three yards in width!"
They laugh at the woman,
But give her no vodka; 60
"Go, get you home, Mother!
You've vodka enough there
To flavour the turnips!"
A soldier with medals,
Quite drunk but still thirsty,
Says firmly, "I'm happy!"
"Then tell us, old fellow,
In what he is happy--
The soldier? Take care, though,
To keep nothing back!" 70
"Well, firstly, I've been
Through at least twenty battles,
And yet I'm alive.
And, secondly, mark you
(It's far more important),
In times of peace, too,
Though I'm always half-famished,
Death never has conquered!
And, third, though they flogged me
For every offence, 80
Great or small, I've survived it!"
"Here, drink, little soldier!
With you one can't argue;
You're happy indeed!"
Then comes a young mason,
A huge, weighty hammer
Swung over his shoulder:
"I live in content,"
He declares, "with my wife
And beloved old mother; 90
We've nought to complain of."
"In what are you happy?"
"In this!"--like a feather
He swings the great hammer.
"Beginning at sunrise
And setting my back straight
As midnight draws near,
I can shatter a mountain!
Before now, it's happened
That, working one day, 100
I've piled enough stones up
To earn my five roubles!"
Pakhóm tries to lift it--
The "happiness." After
Prodigiously straining
And cracking all over,
He sets it down, gladly,
And pours out some vodka.
"Well, weighty it is, man!
But will you be able 110
To bear in old age
Such a 'happiness,' think you?"
"Don't boast of your strength!"
Gasped a wheezing old peasant,
Half stifled with asthma.
(His nose pinched and shrivelled
Like that of a dead man,
His eyes bright and sunken,
His hands like a rake--
Stiffened, scraggy, and bony, 120
His legs long and narrow
Like spokes of a wheel,
A human mosquito.)
"I was not a worse man
Than he, the young mason,
And boasted of _my_ strength.
God punished me for it!
The manager knew
I was simple--the villain!
He flattered and praised me. 130
I was but a youngster,
And pleased at his notice
I laboured like four men.
One day I had mounted
Some bricks to my shoulder,
When, just then, the devil
Must bring him in sight.
"'What's that!' he said laughing,
'Tis surely not Trifon
With such a light burden? 140
Ho, does it not shame
Such a strapping young fellow?'
'Then put some more bricks on,
I'll carry them, master,'
Said I, sore offended.
For full half an hour
I stood while he piled them,
He piled them--the dog!
I felt my back breaking,
But would not give way, 150
And that devilish burden
I carried right up
To the high second story!
He stood and looked on,
He himself was astounded,
And cried from beneath me:
'Well done, my brave fellow!
You don't know yourself, man,
What you have been doing!
It's forty stone, Trifon, 160
You've carried up there!'
"I _did_ know; my heart
Struck my breast like a hammer,
The blood stood in circles
Round both of my eyeballs;
My back felt disjointed,
My legs weak and trembling ...
'Twas then that I withered.
Come, treat me, my friends!"
"But why should we treat you?
In what are you happy? 171
In what you have told us?"
"No, listen--that's coming,
It's this: I have also,
Like each of us peasants,
Besought God to let me
Return to the village
To die. And when coming
From Petersburg, after
The illness I suffered 180
Through what I have told you,
Exhausted and weakened,
Half-dazed, half-unconscious,
I got to the station.
And all in the carriage
Were workmen, as I was,
And ill of the fever;
And all yearned for one thing:
To reach their own homes
Before death overcame them. 190
'Twas then I was lucky;
The heat then was stifling,
And so many sick heads
Made Hell of the waggon.
Here one man was groaning,
There, rolling all over
The floor, like a lunatic,
Shouting and raving
Of wife or of mother.
And many such fellows 200
Were put out and left
At the stations we came to.
I looked at them, thinking,
Shall I be left too?
I was burning and shaking,
The blood began starting
All over my eyeballs,
And I, in my fever,
Half-waking, was dreaming
Of cutting of cocks' throats 210
(We once were cock-farmers,
And one year it happened
We fattened a thousand).
They came to my thoughts, now,
The damnable creatures,
I tried to start praying,
But no!--it was useless.
And, would you believe me?
I saw the whole party
In that hellish waggon 220
Come quivering round me,
Their throats cut, and spurting
With blood, and still crowing,
And I, with the knife, shrieked:
'Enough of your noise!'
And yet, by God's mercy,
Made no sound at all.
I sat there and struggled
To keep myself silent.
At last the day ended, 230
And with it the journey,
And God had had pity
Upon His poor orphan;
I crawled to the village.
And now, by His mercy,
I'm better again."
"Is that what you boast of--
Your happiness, peasant?"
Exclaims an old lackey
With legs weak and gouty. 240
"Treat me, little brothers,
I'm happy, God sees it!
For I was the chief serf
Of Prince Pereméteff,
A rich prince, and mighty,
My wife, the most favoured
By him, of the women;
My daughter, together
With his, the young lady,
Was taught foreign languages, 250
French and some others;
And she was permitted
To _sit_, and not stand,
In her mistress's presence.
Good Lord! How it bites!"
(He stoops down to rub it,
The gouty right knee-cap.)
The peasants laugh loudly!
"What laugh you at, stupids?"
He cries, getting angry, 260
"I'm ill, I thank God,
And at waking and sleeping
I pray, 'Leave me ever
My honoured complaint, Lord!
For that makes me noble!'
I've none of your low things,
Your peasants' diseases,
My illness is lofty,
And only acquired
By the most elevated, 270
The first in the Empire;
I suffer, you villains,
From gout, gout its name is!
It's only brought on
By the drinking of claret,
Of Burgundy, champagne,
Hungarian syrup,
By thirty years' drinking!
For forty years, peasants,
I've stood up behind it-- 280
The chair of His Highness,
The Prince Pereméteff,
And swallowed the leavings
In plates and in glasses,
The finest French truffles,
The dregs of the liquors.
Come, treat me, you peasants!"
"Excuse us, your Lordship,
Our wine is but simple,
The drink of the peasants! 290
It wouldn't suit _you_!"
A bent, yellow-haired man
Steals up to the peasants,
A man from White Russia.
He yearns for the vodka.
"Oh, give me a taste!"
He implores, "I am happy!"
"But wait! You must tell us
In what you are happy."
"In bread I am happy; 300
At home, in White Russia,
The bread is of barley,
All gritty and weedy.
At times, I can tell you,
I've howled out aloud,
Like a woman in labour,
With pains in my stomach!
But now, by God's mercy,
I work for Gubónine,
And there they give rye-bread, 310
I'm happy in that."
A dark-looking peasant,
With jaw turned and twisted,
Which makes him look sideways,
Says next, "I am happy.
A bear-hunter I am,
And six of my comrades
Were killed by old Mishka;[26]
On me God has mercy."
"Look round to the left side." 320
He tries to, but cannot,
For all his grimaces!
"A bear knocked my jaw round,
A savage young female."
"Go, look for another,
And give her the left cheek,
She'll soon put it straight!"
They laugh, but, however,
They give him some vodka.
Some ragged old beggars 330
Come up to the peasants,
Drawn near by the smell
Of the froth on the vodka;
They say they are happy.
"Why, right on his threshold
The shopman will meet us!
We go to a house-door,
From there they conduct us
Right back to the gate!
When we begin singing 340
The housewife runs quickly
And brings to the window
A loaf and a knife.
And then we sing loudly,
'Oh, give us the whole loaf,
It cannot be cut
And it cannot be crumbled,
For you it is quicker,
For us it is better!'"
The peasants observe 350
That their vodka is wasted,
The pail's nearly empty.
They say to the people,
"Enough of your chatter,
You, shabby and ragged,
You, humpbacked and corny,
Go, get you all home!"
"In your place, good strangers,"
The peasant, Fedócy,
From "Swallow-Smoke" village, 360
Said, sitting beside them,
"I'd ask Érmil Gírin.
If he will not suit you,
If he is not happy,
Then no one can help you."
"But who is this Érmil,
A noble--a prince?"
"No prince--not a noble,
But simply a peasant."
"Well, tell us about him." 370
"I'll tell you; he rented
The mill of an orphan,
Until the Court settled
To sell it at auction.
Then Érmil, with others,
Went into the sale-room.
The small buyers quickly
Dropped out of the bidding;
Till Érmil alone,
With a merchant, Altérnikoff, 380
Kept up the fight.
The merchant outbid him,
Each time by a farthing,
Till Érmil grew angry
And added five roubles;
The merchant a farthing
And Érmil a rouble.
The merchant gave in then,
When suddenly something
Unlooked for occurred: 390
The sellers demanded
A third of the money
Paid down on the spot;
'Twas one thousand roubles,
And Érmil had not brought
So much money with him;
'Twas either his error,
Or else they deceived him.
The merchant said gaily,
'The mill comes to me, then?' 400
'Not so,' replied Érmil;
He went to the sellers;
'Good sirs, will you wait
Thirty minutes?' he asked.
"'But how will that help you?'
'I'll bring you the money.'
"'But where will you find it?
You're out of your senses!
It's thirty-five versts
To the mill; in an hour now 410
The sales will be finished.'
"'You'll wait half an hour, sirs?'
'An hour, if you wish.'
Then Érmil departed,
The sellers exchanging
Sly looks with the merchant,
And grinning--the foxes!
But Érmil went out
And made haste to the market-place
Crowded with people 420
('Twas market-day, then),
And he mounted a waggon,
And there he stood crossing
Himself, and low bowing
In all four directions.
He cried to the people,
'Be silent a moment,
I've something to ask you!'
The place became still
And he told them the story: 430
"'Since long has the merchant
Been wooing the mill,
But I'm not such a dullard.
Five times have I been here
To ask if there _would_ be
A second day's bidding,
They answered, 'There will.'
You know that the peasant
Won't carry his money
All over the by-ways 440
Without a good reason,
So I have none with me;
And look--now they tell me
There's no second bidding
And ask for the money!
The cunning ones tricked me
And laughed--the base heathens!
And said to me sneering:
'But, what can you do
In an hour? Where find money?' 450
"'They're crafty and strong,
But the people are stronger!
The merchant is rich--
But the people are richer!
Hey! What is _his_ worth
To _their_ treasury, think you?
Like fish in the ocean
The wealth of the people;
You'll draw it and draw it--
But not see its end! 460
Now, brother, God hears me,
Come, give me this money!
Next Friday I'll pay you
The very last farthing.
It's not that I care
For the mill--it's the insult!
Whoever knows Érmil,
Whoever believes him,
Will give what he can.'
"A miracle happened; 470
The coat of each peasant
Flew up on the left
As though blown by a wind!
The peasants are bringing
Their money to Érmil,
Each gives what he can.
Though Érmil's well lettered
He writes nothing down;
It's well he can count it
So great is his hurry. 480
They gather his hat full
Of all kinds of money,
From farthings to bank-notes,
The notes of the peasant
All crumpled and torn.
He has the whole sum now,
But still the good people
Are bringing him more.
"'Here, take this, too, Érmil,
You'll pay it back later!' 490
"He bows to the people
In all four directions,
Gets down from the waggon,
And pressing the hat
Full of money against him,
Runs back to the sale-room
As fast as he can.
"The sellers are speechless
And stare in amazement,
The merchant turns green 500
As the money is counted
And laid on the table.
"The sellers come round him
All craftily praising
His excellent bargain.
But Érmil sees through them;
He gives not a farthing,
He speaks not a word.
"The whole town assembles
At market next Friday, 510
When Érmil is paying
His debt to the people.
How can he remember
To whom he must pay it?
No murmur arises,
No sound of discussion,
As each man tells quietly
The sum to be paid him.
"And Érmil himself said,
That when it was finished 520
A rouble was lying
With no one to claim it;
And though till the evening
He went, with purse open,
Demanding the owner,
It still was unclaimed.
The sun was just setting
When Érmil, the last one
To go from the market,
Assembled the beggars 530
And gave them the rouble." ...
"'Tis strange!" say the peasants,
"By what kind of magic
Can one single peasant
Gain such a dominion
All over the country?"
"No magic he uses
Save truthfulness, brothers!
But say, have you ever
Heard tell of Prince Yurloff's 540
Estate, Adovshina?"
"We have. What about it?"
"The manager there
Was a Colonel, with stars,
Of the Corps of Gendarmes.
He had six or seven
Assistants beneath him,
And Érmil was chosen
As principal clerk.
He was but a boy, then, 550
Of nineteen or twenty;
And though 'tis no fine post,
The clerk's--to the peasants
The clerk is a great man;
To him they will go
For advice and with questions.
Though Érmil had power to,
He asked nothing from them;
And if they should offer
He never accepted. 560
(He bears a poor conscience,
The peasant who covets
The mite of his brother!)
Well, five years went by,
And they trusted in Érmil,
When all of a sudden
The master dismissed him
For sake of another.
And sadly they felt it.
The new clerk was grasping; 570
He moved not a finger
Unless it was paid for;
A letter--three farthings!
A question--five farthings!
Well, he was a pope's son
And God placed him rightly!
But still, by God's mercy,
He did not stay long:
"The old Prince soon died,
And the young Prince was master. 580
He came and dismissed them--
The manager-colonel,
The clerk and assistants,
And summoned the peasants
To choose them an Elder.
They weren't long about it!
And eight thousand voices
Cried out, 'Érmil Gírin!'
As though they were one.
Then Érmil was sent for 590
To speak with the Barin,
And after some minutes
The Barin came out
On the balcony, standing
In face of the people;
He cried, 'Well, my brothers,
Your choice is elected
With my princely sanction!
But answer me this:
Don't you think he's too youthful?' 600
"'No, no, little Father!
He's young, but he's wise!'
"So Érmil was Elder,
For seven years ruled
In the Prince's dominion.
Not once in that time
Did a coin of the peasants
Come under his nail,
Did the innocent suffer,
The guilty escape him, 610
He followed his conscience."
"But stop!" exclaimed hoarsely
A shrivelled grey pope,
Interrupting the speaker,
"The harrow went smoothly
Enough, till it happened
To strike on a stone,
Then it swerved of a sudden.
In telling a story
Don't leave an odd word out 620
And alter the rhythm!
Now, if you knew Érmil
You knew his young brother,
Knew Mítyenka, did you?"
The speaker considered,
Then said, "I'd forgotten,
I'll tell you about it:
It happened that once
Even Érmil the peasant
Did wrong: his young brother, 630
Unjustly exempted
From serving his time,
On the day of recruiting;
And we were all silent,
And how could we argue
When even the Barin
Himself would not order
The Elder's own brother
To unwilling service?
And only one woman, 640
Old Vlásevna, shedding
Wild tears for her son,
Went bewailing and screaming:
'It wasn't our turn!'
Well, of course she'd be certain
To scream for a time,
Then leave off and be silent.
But what happened then?
The recruiting was finished,
But Érmil had changed; 650
He was mournful and gloomy;
He ate not, he drank not,
Till one day his father
Went into the stable
And found him there holding
A rope in his hands.
Then at last he unbosomed
His heart to his father:
'Since Vlásevna's son
Has been sent to the service, 660
I'm weary of living,
I wish but to die!'
His brothers came also,
And they with the father
Besought him to hear them,
To listen to reason.
But he only answered:
'A villain I am,
And a criminal; bind me,
And bring me to justice!' 670
And they, fearing worse things,
Obeyed him and bound him.
The commune assembled,
Exclaiming and shouting;
They'd never been summoned
To witness or judge
Such peculiar proceedings.
"And Érmil's relations
Did not beg for mercy
And lenient treatment, 680
But rather for firmness:
'Bring Vlásevna's son back
Or Érmil will hang himself,
Nothing will save him!'
And then appeared Érmil
Himself, pale and bare-foot,
With ropes bound and handcuffed,
And bowing his head
He spoke low to the people:
'The time was when I was 690
Your judge; and I judged you,
In all things obeying
My conscience. But I now
Am guiltier far
Than were you. Be my judges!'
He bowed to our feet,
The demented one, sighing,
Then stood up and crossed himself,
Trembling all over;
It pained us to witness 700
How he, of a sudden,
Fell down on his knees there
At Vlásevna's feet.
Well, all was put right soon,
The nobles have fingers
In every small corner,
The lad was brought back
And young Mítyenka started;
They say that his service
Did not weigh too heavy, 710
The prince saw to that.
And we, as a penance,
Imposed upon Érmil
A fine, and to Vlásevna
One part was given,
To Mítya another,
The rest to the village
For vodka. However,
Not quickly did Érmil
Get over his sorrow: 720
He went like a lost one
For full a year after,
And--though the whole district
Implored him to keep it--
He left his position.
He rented the mill, then,
And more than of old
Was beloved by the people.
He took for his grinding
No more than was honest, 730
His customers never
Kept waiting a moment,
And all men alike:
The rich landlord, the workman.
The master and servant,
The poorest of peasants
Were served as their turn came;
Strict order he kept.
Myself, I have not been
Since long in that district, 740
But often the people
Have told me about him.
And never could praise him
Enough. So in your place
I'd go and ask Érmil."
"Your time would be wasted,"
The grey-headed pope,
Who'd before interrupted,
Remarked to the peasants,
"I knew Érmil Gírin, 750
I chanced in that district
Some five years ago.
I have often been shifted,
Our bishop loved vastly
To keep us all moving,
So I was his neighbour.
Yes, he was a peasant
Unique, I bear witness,
And all things he owned
That can make a man happy: 760
Peace, riches, and honour,
And that kind of honour
Most valued and precious,
Which cannot be purchased
By might or by money,
But only by righteousness,
Wisdom and kindness.
But still, I repeat it,
Your time will be wasted
In going to Érmil: 770
In prison he lies."
"How's that?"
"God so willed it.
You've heard how the peasants
Of 'Log' the Pomyéshchick
Of Province 'Affrighted,'
Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'
Of village 'Dumbfounded,'
Revolted 'for causes
Entirely unknown,' 780
As they say in the papers.
(I once used to read them.)
And so, too, in this case,
The local Ispravnik,[27]
The Tsar's high officials,
And even the peasants,
'Dumbfounded' themselves.
Never fathomed the reason
Of all the disturbance.
But things became bad, 790
And the soldiers were sent for,
The Tsar packed a messenger
Off in a hurry
To speak to the people.
His epaulettes rose
To his ears as he coaxed them
And cursed them together.
But curses they're used to,
And coaxing was lost,
For they don't understand it: 800
'Brave orthodox peasants!'
'The Tsar--Little Father!'
'Our dear Mother Russia!'
He bellowed and shouted
Until he was hoarse,
While the peasants stood round him
And listened in wonder.
"But when he was tired
Of these peaceable measures
Of calming the riots, 810
At length he decided
On giving the order
Of 'Fire' to the soldiers;
When all of a sudden
A bright thought occurred
To the clerk of the Volost:[28]
'The people trust Gírin,
The people will hear him!'
"'Then let him be brought!'" [29]
* * * * *
A cry has arisen 820
"Have mercy! Have mercy!"
A check to the story;
They hurry off quickly
To see what has happened;
And there on a bank
Of a ditch near the roadside,
Some peasants are birching
A drunken old lackey,
Just taken in thieving.
A court had been summoned, 830
The judges deciding
To birch the offender,
That each of the jury
(About three and twenty)
Should give him a stroke
Turn in turn of the rod....
The lackey was up
And made off, in a twinkling,
He took to his heels
Without stopping to argue, 840
On two scraggy legs.
"How he trips it--the dandy!"
The peasants cry, laughing;
They've soon recognized him;
The boaster who prated
So much of his illness
From drinking strange liquors.
"Ho! where has it gone to,
Your noble complaint?
Look how nimble he's getting!" 850
"Well, well, Little Father,
Now finish the story!"
"It's time to go home now,
My children,--God willing,
We'll meet again some day
And finish it then...."
The people disperse
As the dawn is approaching.
Our peasants begin
To bethink them of sleeping, 860
When all of a sudden
A "troika" [30] comes flying
From no one sees where,
With its silver bells ringing.
Within it is sitting
A plump little Barin,
His little mouth smoking
A little cigar.
The peasants draw up
In a line on the roadway, 870
Thus barring the passage
In front of the horses;
And, standing bareheaded,
Bow low to the Barin.
CHAPTER V
THE POMYÉSHCHICK
The "troika" is drawing
The local Pomyéshchick--
Gavríl Afanásich
Obólt-Oboldoóeff.
A portly Pomyéshchick,
With long grey moustaches,
Some sixty years old.
His bearing is stately,
His cheeks very rosy,
He wears a short top-coat, 10
Tight-fitting and braided,
Hungarian fashion;
And very wide trousers.
Gavríl Afanásich
Was probably startled
At seeing the peasants
Unflinchingly barring
The way to his horses;
He promptly produces
A loaded revolver 20
As bulky and round
As himself; and directs it
Upon the intruders:
"You brigands! You cut-throats!
Don't move, or I shoot!"
"How can we be brigands?"
The peasants say, laughing,
"No knives and no pitchforks,
No hatchets have we!"
"Who are you? And what 30
Do you want?" said the Barin.
"A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
From our wives, from our children,
Away from our work,
Kills our appetites too,
Do give us your promise
To answer us truly,
Consulting your conscience
And searching your knowledge, 40
Not sneering, nor feigning
The question we put you,
And then we will tell you
The cause of our trouble."
"I promise. I give you
The oath of a noble."
"No, don't give us that--
Not the oath of a noble!
We're better content
With the word of a Christian. 50
The nobleman's oaths--
They are given with curses,
With kicks and with blows!
We are better without them!"
"Eh-heh, that's a new creed!
Well, let it be so, then.
And what is your trouble?"
"But put up the pistol!
That's right! Now we'll tell you:
We are not assassins, 60
But peaceable peasants,
From Government 'Hard-pressed,'
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From 'Destitute' Parish,
From neighbouring hamlets,--
'Patched,' 'Bare-Foot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-out,' and 'Hungry.'
From 'Harvestless,' too.
We met in the roadway,
And one asked another, 70
Who is he--the man
Free and happy in Russia?
Luká said, 'The pope,'
And Roman, 'The Pomyéshchick,'
Demyán, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan;
Pakhóm said, 'His Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser,' 80
And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'
"Like bulls are the peasants;
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it,
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them!
We argued and argued,
While arguing quarrelled, 90
While quarrelling fought,
Till at last we decided
That never again
Would we turn our steps homeward
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
Until we have settled
The subject of discord;
Until we have found
The reply to our question-- 100
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
"Now tell us, Pomyéshchick,
Is your life a sweet one?
And is the Pomyéshchick
Both happy and free?"
Gavríl Afanásich
Springs out of the "troika"
And comes to the peasants.
He takes--like a doctor-- 110
The hand of each one,
And carefully feeling
The pulse gazes searchingly
Into their faces,
Then clasps his plump sides
And stands shaking with laughter.
The clear, hearty laugh
Of the healthy Pomyéshchick
Peals out in the pleasant
Cool air of the morning: 120
"Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!"
Till he stops from exhaustion.
And then he addresses
The wondering peasants:
"Put on your hats, _gentlemen_,
Please to be seated!"
(He speaks with a bitter[31]
And mocking politeness.)
"But we are not gentry;
We'd rather stand up 130
In your presence, your worship."
"Sit down, worthy _citizens_,
Here on the bank."
The peasants protest,
But, on seeing it useless,
Sit down on the bank.
"May I sit beside you?
Hey, Proshka! Some sherry,
My rug and a cushion!"
He sits on the rug. 140
Having finished the sherry,
Thus speaks the Pomyéshchick:
"I gave you my promise
To answer your question....
The task is not easy,
For though you are highly
Respectable people,
You're not very learned.
Well, firstly, I'll try
To explain you the meaning 150
Of Lord, or Pomyéshchick.
Have you, by some chance,
Ever heard the expression
The 'Family Tree'?
Do you know what it means?"
"The woods are not closed to us.
We have seen all kinds
Of trees," say the peasants.
"Your shot has miscarried!
I'll try to speak clearly; 160
I come of an ancient,
Illustrious family;
One, Oboldoóeff,
My ancestor, is
Amongst those who were mentioned
In old Russian chronicles
Written for certain
Two hundred and fifty
Years back. It is written,
''Twas given the Tartar, 170
Obólt-Oboldoóeff,
A piece of cloth, value
Two roubles, for having
Amused the Tsaritsa
Upon the Tsar's birthday
By fights of wild beasts,
Wolves and foxes. He also
Permitted his own bear
To fight with a wild one,
Which mauled Oboldoóeff, 180
And hurt him severely.'
And now, gentle peasants,
Did you understand?"
"Why not? To this day
One can see them--the loafers
Who stroll about leading
A bear!"
"Be it so, then!
But now, please be silent,
And hark to what follows: 190
From this Oboldoóeff
My family sprang;
And this incident happened
Two hundred and fifty
Years back, as I told you,
But still, on my mother's side,
Even more ancient
The family is:
Says another old writing:
'Prince Schépin, and one 200
Vaska Goóseff, attempted
To burn down the city
Of Moscow. They wanted
To plunder the Treasury.
They were beheaded.'
And this was, good peasants,
Full three hundred years back!
From these roots it was
That our Family Tree sprang."
"And you are the ... as one 210
Might say ... little apple
Which hangs on a branch
Of the tree," say the peasants.
"Well, apple, then, call it,
So long as it please you.
At least you appear
To have got at my meaning.
And now, you yourselves
Understand--the more ancient
A family is 220
The more noble its members.
Is that so, good peasants?"
"That's so," say the peasants.
"The black bone and white bone
Are different, and they must
Be differently honoured."
"Exactly. I see, friends,
You quite understand me."
The Barin continued:
"In past times we lived, 230
As they say, 'in the bosom
Of Christ,' and we knew
What it meant to be honoured!
Not only the people
Obeyed and revered us,
But even the earth
And the waters of Russia....
You knew what it was
To be One, in the centre
Of vast, spreading lands, 240
Like the sun in the heavens:
The clustering villages
Yours, yours the meadows,
And yours the black depths
Of the great virgin forests!
You pass through a village;
The people will meet you,
Will fall at your feet;
Or you stroll in the forest;
The mighty old trees 250
Bend their branches before you.
Through meadows you saunter;
The slim golden corn-stems
Rejoicing, will curtsey
With winning caresses,
Will hail you as Master.
The little fish sports
In the cool little river;
Get fat, little fish,
At the will of the Master! 260
The little hare speeds
Through the green little meadow;
Speed, speed, little hare,
Till the coming of autumn,
The season of hunting,
The sport of the Master.
And all things exist
But to gladden the Master.
Each wee blade of grass
Whispers lovingly to him, 270
'I live but for thee....'
"The joy and the beauty,
The pride of all Russia--
The Lord's holy churches--
Which brighten the hill-sides
And gleam like great jewels
On the slopes of the valleys,
Were rivalled by one thing
In glory, and that
Was the nobleman's manor. 280
Adjoining the manor
Were glass-houses sparkling,
And bright Chinese arbours,
While parks spread around it.
On each of the buildings
Gay banners displaying
Their radiant colours,
And beckoning softly,
Invited the guest
To partake of the pleasures 290
Of rich hospitality.
Never did Frenchmen
In dreams even picture
Such sumptuous revels
As we used to hold.
Not only for one-day,
Or two, did they last--
But for whole months together!
We fattened great turkeys,
We brewed our own liquors, 300
We kept our own actors,
And troupes of musicians,
And legions of servants!
Why, I kept five cooks,
Besides pastry-cooks, working,
Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,
Eighteen musicians,
And twenty-two huntsmen....
My God!"...
The afflicted 310
Pomyéshchick broke down here,
And hastened to bury
His face in the cushion....
"Hey, Proshka!" he cried,
And then quickly the lackey
Poured out and presented
A glassful of brandy.
The glass was soon empty,
And when the Pomyéshchick
Had rested awhile, 320
He again began speaking:
"Ah, then, Mother Russia,
How gladly in autumn
Your forests awoke
To the horn of the huntsman!
Their dark, gloomy depths,
Which had saddened and faded,
Were pierced by the clear
Ringing blast, and they listened,
Revived and rejoiced, 330
To the laugh of the echo.
The hounds and the huntsmen
Are gathered together,
And wait on the skirts
Of the forest; and with them
The Master; and farther
Within the deep forest
The dog-keepers, roaring
And shouting like madmen,
The hounds all a-bubble 340
Like fast-boiling water.
Hark! There's the horn calling!
You hear the pack yelling?
They're crowding together!
And where's the red beast?
Hoo-loo-loo! Hoo-loo-loo!
And the sly fox is ready;
Fat, furry old Reynard
Is flying before us,
His bushy tail waving! 350
The knowing hounds crouch,
And each lithe body quivers,
Suppressing the fire
That is blazing within it:
'Dear guests of our hearts,
_Do_ come nearer and greet us,
We're panting to meet you,
We, hale little fellows!
Come nearer to us
And away from the bushes!' 360
"They're off! Now, my horse,
Let your swiftness not fail me!
My hounds, you are staunch
And you will not betray me!
Hoo-loo! Faster, faster!
Now, _at him_, my children!"...
Gavríl Afanásich
Springs up, wildly shouting,
His arms waving madly,
He dances around them! 370
He's certainly after
A fox in the forest!
The peasants observe him
In silent enjoyment,
They smile in their beards....
"Eh ... you, mad, merry hunters!
Although he forgets
Many things--the Pomyéshchick--
Those hunts in the autumn
Will not be forgotten. 380
'Tis not for our own loss
We grieve, Mother Russia,
But you that we pity;
For you, with the hunting
Have lost the last traces
Of days bold and warlike
That made you majestic....
"At times, in the autumn,
A party of fifty
Would start on a hunting tour; 390
Then each Pomyéshchick
Brought with him a hundred
Fine dogs, and twelve keepers,
And cooks in abundance.
And after the cooks
Came a long line of waggons
Containing provisions.
And as we went forward
With music and singing,
You might have mistaken 400
Our band for a fine troop
Of cavalry, moving!
The time flew for us
Like a falcon." How lightly
The breast of the nobleman
Rose, while his spirit
Went back to the days
Of Old Russia, and greeted
The gallant Boyárin.[32] ...
"No whim was denied us. 410
To whom I desire
I show mercy and favour;
And whom I dislike
I strike dead on the spot.
The law is my wish,
And my fist is my hangman!
My blow makes the sparks crowd,
My blow smashes jaw-bones,
My blow scatters teeth!"...
Like a string that is broken, 420
The voice of the nobleman
Suddenly ceases;
He lowers his eyes
To the ground, darkly frowning ...
And then, in a low voice,
He says:
"You yourselves know
That strictness is needful;
But I, with love, punished.
The chain has been broken, 430
The links burst asunder;
And though we do not beat
The peasant, no longer
We look now upon him
With fatherly feelings.
Yes, I was severe too
At times, but more often
I turned hearts towards me
With patience and mildness.
"Upon Easter Sunday 440
I kissed all the peasants
Within my domain.
A great table, loaded
With 'Paska' and 'Koólich'[33]
And eggs of all colours,
Was spread in the manor.
My wife, my old mother,
My sons, too, and even
My daughters did not scorn
To kiss[34] the last peasant: 450
'Now Christ has arisen!'
'Indeed He has risen!'
The peasants broke fast then,
Drank vodka and wine.
Before each great holiday,
In my best staterooms
The All-Night Thanksgiving
Was held by the pope.
My serfs were invited
With every inducement: 460
'Pray hard now, my children,
Make use of the chance,
Though you crack all your foreheads!'[35]
The nose suffered somewhat,
But still at the finish
We brought all the women-folk
Out of a village
To scrub down the floors.
You see 'twas a cleansing
Of souls, and a strengthening 470
Of spiritual union;
Now, isn't that so?"
"That's so," say the peasants,
But each to himself thinks,
"They needed persuading
With sticks though, I warrant,
To get them to pray
In your Lordship's fine manor!"
"I'll say, without boasting,
They loved me--my peasants. 480
In my large Surminsky
Estate, where the peasants
Were mostly odd-jobbers,
Or very small tradesmen,
It happened that they
Would get weary of staying
At home, and would ask
My permission to travel,
To visit strange parts
At the coming of spring. 490
They'd often be absent
Through summer and autumn.
My wife and the children
Would argue while guessing
The gifts that the peasants
Would bring on returning.
And really, besides
Lawful dues of the 'Barin'
In cloth, eggs, and live stock,
The peasants would gladly 500
Bring gifts to the family:
Jam, say, from Kiev,
From Astrakhan fish,
And the richer among them
Some silk for the lady.
You see!--as he kisses
Her hand he presents her
A neat little packet!
And then for the children
Are sweetmeats and toys; 510
For me, the old toper,
Is wine from St. Petersburg--
Mark you, the rascal
Won't go to the Russian
For that! He knows better--
He runs to the Frenchman!
And when we have finished
Admiring the presents
I go for a stroll
And a chat with the peasants; 520
They talk with me freely.
My wife fills their glasses,
My little ones gather
Around us and listen,
While sucking their sweets,
To the tales of the peasants:
Of difficult trading,
Of places far distant,
Of Petersburg, Astrakhan,
Kazan, and Kiev.... 530
On such terms it was
That I lived with my peasants.
Now, wasn't that nice?"
"Yes," answer the peasants;
"Yes, well might one envy
The noble Pomyéshchick!
His life was so sweet
There was no need to leave it."
"And now it is past....
It has vanished for ever! 540
Hark! There's the bell tolling!"
They listen in silence:
In truth, through the stillness
Which settles around them,
The slow, solemn sound
On the breeze of the morning
Is borne from Kusminsky....
"Sweet peace to the peasant!
God greet him in Heaven!"
The peasants say softly, 550
And cross themselves thrice;
And the mournful Pomyéshchick
Uncovers his head,
As he piously crosses
Himself, and he answers:
"'Tis not for the peasant
The knell is now tolling,
It tolls the lost life
Of the stricken Pomyéshchick.
Farewell to the past, 560
And farewell to thee, Russia,
The Russia who cradled
The happy Pomyéshchick,
Thy place has been stolen
And filled by another!...
Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy
Is given, and quickly
He empties the glass.)
"Oh, it isn't consoling
To witness the change 570
In thy face, oh, my Motherland!
Truly one fancies
The whole race of nobles
Has suddenly vanished!
Wherever one goes, now,
One falls over peasants
Who lie about, tipsy,
One meets not a creature
But excise official,
Or stupid 'Posrédnik,'[36] 580
Or Poles who've been banished.
One sees the troops passing,
And then one can guess
That a village has somewhere
Revolted, 'in thankful
And dutiful spirit....'
In old days, these roads
Were made gay by the passing
Of carriage, 'dormeuse,'
And of six-in-hand coaches, 590
And pretty, light troikas;
And in them were sitting
The family troop
Of the jolly Pomyéshchick:
The stout, buxom mother,
The fine, roguish sons,
And the pretty young daughters;
One heard with enjoyment
The chiming of large bells,
The tinkling of small bells, 600
Which hung from the harness.
And now?... What distraction
Has life? And what joy
Does it bring the Pomyéshchick?
At each step, you meet
Something new to revolt you;
And when in the air
You can smell a rank graveyard,
You know you are passing
A nobleman's manor! 610
My Lord!... They have pillaged
The beautiful dwelling!
They've pulled it all down,
Brick by brick, and have fashioned
The bricks into hideously
Accurate columns!
The broad shady park
Of the outraged Pomyéshchick,
The fruit of a hundred years'
Careful attention, 620
Is falling away
'Neath the axe of a peasant!
The peasant works gladly,
And greedily reckons
The number of logs
Which his labour will bring him.
His dark soul is closed
To refinement of feeling,
And what would it matter
To him, if you told him 630
That this stately oak
Which his hatchet is felling
My grandfather's hand
Had once planted and tended;
That under this ash-tree
My dear little children,
My Vera and Gánushka,
Echoed my voice
As they played by my side;
That under this linden 640
My young wife confessed me
That little Gavrióushka,
Our best-beloved first-born,
Lay under her heart,
As she nestled against me
And bashfully hid
Her sweet face in my bosom
As red as a cherry....
It is to his profit
To ravish the park, 650
And his mission delights him.
It makes one ashamed now
To pass through a village;
The peasant sits still
And he dreams not of bowing.
One feels in one's breast
Not the pride of a noble
But wrath and resentment.
The axe of the robber
Resounds in the forest, 660
It maddens your heart,
But you cannot prevent it,
For who can you summon
To rescue your forest?
The fields are half-laboured,
The seeds are half-wasted,
No trace left of order....
O Mother, my country,
We do not complain
For ourselves--of our sorrows, 670
Our hearts bleed for thee:
Like a widow thou standest
In helpless affliction
With tresses dishevelled
And grief-stricken face....
They have blighted the forest,
The noisy low taverns
Have risen and flourished.
They've picked the most worthless
And loose of the people, 680
And given them power
In the posts of the Zemstvos;
They've seized on the peasant
And taught him his letters--
Much good may it do him!
Your brow they have branded,
As felons are branded,
As cattle are branded,
With these words they've stamped it:
'To take away with you 690
Or drink on the premises.'
Was it worth while, pray,
To weary the peasant
With learning his letters
In order to read them?
The land that we keep
Is our mother no longer,
Our stepmother rather.
And then to improve things,
These pert good-for-nothings, 700
These impudent writers
Must needs shout in chorus:
'But whose fault, then, is it,
That you thus exhausted
And wasted your country?'
But I say--you duffers!
Who _could_ foresee this?
They babble, 'Enough
Of your lordly pretensions!
It's time that you learnt something, 710
Lazy Pomyéshchicks!
Get up, now, and work!'
"Work! To whom, in God's name,
Do you think you are speaking?
I am not a peasant
In 'laputs,' good madman!
I am--by God's mercy--
A Noble of Russia.
You take us for Germans!
We nobles have tender 720
And delicate feelings,
Our pride is inborn,
And in Russia our classes
Are not taught to work.
Why, the meanest official
Will not raise a finger
To clear his own table,
Or light his own stove!
I can say, without boasting,
That though I have lived 730
Forty years in the country,
And scarcely have left it,
I could not distinguish
Between rye and barley.
And they sing of 'work' to me!
"If we Pomyéshchicks
Have really mistaken
Our duty and calling,
If really our mission
Is not, as in old days, 740
To keep up the hunting,
To revel in luxury,
Live on forced labour,
Why did they not tell us
Before? Could I learn it?
For what do I see?
I've worn the Tsar's livery,
'Sullied the Heavens,'
And 'squandered the treasury
Gained by the people,' 750
And fully imagined
To do so for ever,
And now ... God in Heaven!"...
The Barin is sobbing!...
The kind-hearted peasants
Can hardly help crying
Themselves, and they think:
"Yes, the chain has been broken,
The strong links have snapped,
And the one end recoiling 760
Has struck the Pomyéshchick,
The other--the peasant."
PART II.
THE LAST POMYÉSHCHICK
PROLOGUE
The day of St. Peter--
And very hot weather;
The mowers are all
At their work in the meadows.
The peasants are passing
A tumble-down village,
Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"
Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"
Of Government "Know-Nothing.'
They are approaching 10
The banks of the Volga.
They come to the river,
The sea-gulls are wheeling
And flashing above it;
The sea-hens are walking
About on the sand-banks;
And in the bare hayfields,
Which look just as naked
As any youth's cheek
After yesterday's shaving, 20
The Princes Volkonsky[37]
Are haughtily standing,
And round them their children,
Who (unlike all others)
Are born at an earlier
Date than their sires.
"The fields are enormous,"
Remarks old Pakhóm,
"Why, the folk must be giants."
The two brothers Goóbin 30
Are smiling at something:
For some time they've noticed
A very tall peasant
Who stands with a pitcher
On top of a haystack;
He drinks, and a woman
Below, with a hay-fork,
Is looking at him
With her head leaning back.
The peasants walk on 40
Till they come to the haystack;
The man is still drinking;
They pass it quite slowly,
Go fifty steps farther,
Then all turn together
And look at the haystack.
Not much has been altered:
The peasant is standing
With body bent back
As before,--but the pitcher 50
Has turned bottom upwards....
The strangers go farther.
The camps are thrown out
On the banks of the river;
And there the old people
And children are gathered,
And horses are waiting
With big empty waggons;
And then, in the fields
Behind those that are finished, 60
The distance is filled
By the army of workers,
The white shirts of women,
The men's brightly coloured,
And voices and laughter,
With all intermingled
The hum of the scythes....
"God help you, good fellows!"
"Our thanks to you, brothers!"
The peasants stand noting 70
The long line of mowers,
The poise of the scythes
And their sweep through the sunshine.
The rhythmical swell
Of melodious murmur.
The timid grass stands
For a moment, and trembles,
Then falls with a sigh....
On the banks of the Volga
The grass has grown high 80
And the mowers work gladly.
The peasants soon feel
That they cannot resist it.
"It's long since we've stretched ourselves,
Come, let us help you!"
And now seven women
Have yielded their places.
The spirit of work
Is devouring our peasants;
Like teeth in a ravenous 90
Mouth they are working--
The muscular arms,
And the long grass is falling
To songs that are strange
To this part of the country,
To songs that are taught
By the blizzards and snow-storms,
The wild savage winds
Of the peasants' own homelands:
"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100
"Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"
And "Harvestless," too....
And when the strong craving
For work is appeased
They sit down by a haystack.
"From whence have you come?"
A grey-headed old peasant
(The one whom the women
Call Vlásuchka) asks them,
"And where are you going?" 110
"We are--" say the peasants,
Then suddenly stop,
There's some music approaching!
"Oh, that's the Pomyéshchick
Returning from boating!"
Says Vlásuchka, running
To busy the mowers:
"Wake up! Look alive there!
And mind--above all things,
Don't heat the Pomyéshchick 120
And don't make him angry!
And if he abuse you,
Bow low and say nothing,
And if he should praise you,
Start lustily cheering.
You women, stop cackling!
And get to your forks!"
A big burly peasant
With beard long and bushy
Bestirs himself also 130
To busy them all,
Then puts on his "kaftan," [38]
And runs away quickly
To meet the Pomyéshchick.
And now to the bank-side
Three boats are approaching.
In one sit the servants
And band of musicians,
Most busily playing;
The second one groans 140
'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse,
Who dandles a baby,
A withered old dry-nurse,
A motionless body
Of ancient retainers.
And then in the third
There are sitting the gentry:
Two beautiful ladies
(One slender and fair-haired,
One heavy and black-browed) 150
And two moustached Barins
And three little Barins,
And last--the Pomyéshchick,
A very old man
Wearing long white moustaches
(He seems to be all white);
His cap, broad and high-crowned,
Is white, with a peak,
In the front, of red satin.
His body is lean 160
As a hare's in the winter,
His nose like a hawk's beak,
His eyes--well, they differ:
The one sharp and shining,
The other--the left eye--
Is sightless and blank,
Like a dull leaden farthing.
Some woolly white poodles
With tufts on their ankles
Are in the boat too. 170
The old man alighting
Has mounted the bank,
Where for long he reposes
Upon a red carpet
Spread out by the servants.
And then he arises
To visit the mowers,
To pass through the fields
On a tour of inspection.
He leans on the arm-- 180
Now of one of the Barins,
And now upon those
Of the beautiful ladies.
And so with his suite--
With the three little Barins,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
The ancient retainers,
The woolly white poodles,--
Along through the hayfields
Proceeds the Pomyéshchick. 190
The peasants on all sides
Bow down to the ground;
And the big, burly peasant
(The Elder he is
As the peasants have noticed)
Is cringing and bending
Before the Pomyéshchick,
Just like the Big Devil
Before the high altar:
"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200
It's done, at your bidding!"
I think he will soon fall
Before the Pomyéshchick
And roll in the dust....
So moves the procession,
Until it stops short
In the front of a haystack
Of wonderful size,
Only this day erected.
The old man is poking 210
His forefinger in it,
He thinks it is damp,
And he blazes with fury:
"Is this how you rot
The best goods of your master?
I'll rot you with barschin,[39]
I'll make you repent it!
Undo it--at once!"
The Elder is writhing
In great agitation: 220
"I was not quite careful
Enough, and it _is_ damp.
It's my fault, Your Highness!"
He summons the peasants,
Who run with their pitchforks
To punish the monster.
And soon they have spread it
In small heaps around,
At the feet of the master;
His wrath is appeased. 230
(In the meantime the strangers
Examine the hay--It's
like tinder--so dry!)
A lackey comes flying
Along, with a napkin;
He's lame--the poor man!
"Please, the luncheon is served."
And then the procession,
The three little Barins,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse, 240
The ancient retainers,
The woolly white poodles,
Moves onward to lunch.
The peasants stand watching;
From one of the boats
Comes an outburst of music
To greet the Pomyéshchick.
The table is shining
All dazzlingly white
On the bank of the river. 250
The strangers, astonished,
Draw near to old Vlásuchka;
"Pray, little Uncle,"
They say, "what's the meaning
Of all these strange doings?
And who is that curious
Old man?"
"Our Pomyéshchick,
The great Prince Yutiátin."
"But why is he fussing 260
About in that manner?
For things are all changed now,
And he seems to think
They are still as of old.
The hay is quite dry,
Yet he told you to dry it!"
"But funnier still
That the hay and the hayfields
Are not his at all."
"Then whose are they?" 270
"The Commune's."
"Then why is he poking
His nose into matters
Which do not concern him?
For are you not free?"
"Why, yes, by God's mercy
The order is changed now
For us as for others;
But ours is a special case."
"Tell us about it." 280
The old man lay down
At the foot of the haystack
And answered them--nothing.
The peasants producing
The magic white napkin
Sit down and say softly,
"O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!"
The napkin unfolds,
And two hands, which come floating
From no one sees where, 291
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away....
The peasants, still wishing
To question old Vlásuchka,
Wisely present him
A cupful of vodka:
"Now come, little Uncle, 300
Be gracious to strangers,
And tell us your story."
"There's nothing to tell you.
You haven't told me yet
Who _you_ are and whence
You have journeyed to these parts,
And whither you go."
"We will not be surly
Like you. We will tell you.
We've come a great distance, 310
And seek to discover
A thing of importance.
A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
From our work, from our homes,
From the love of our food...."
The peasants then tell him
About their chance meeting,
Their argument, quarrel,
Their vow, and decision; 320
Of how they had sought
In the Government "Tight-Squeeze"
And Government "Shot-Strewn"
The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free....
Old Vlásuchka listens,
Observing them keenly.
"I see," he remarks,
When the story is finished,
"I see you are very 330
Peculiar people.
We're said to be strange here,
But you are still stranger."
"Well, drink some more vodka
And tell us your tale."
And when by the vodka
His tongue becomes loosened,
Old Vlásuchka tells them
The following story.
I
THE DIE-HARD
"The great prince, Yutiátin,
The ancient Pomyéshchick,
Is very eccentric.
His wealth is untold,
And his titles exalted,
His family ranks
With the first in the Empire.
The whole of his life
He has spent in amusement,
Has known no control 10
Save his own will and pleasure.
When we were set free
He refused to believe it:
'They lie! the low scoundrels!'
There came the posrédnik
And Chief of Police,
But he would not admit them,
He ordered them out
And went on as before,
And only became 20
Full of hate and suspicion:
'Bow low, or I'll flog you
To death, without mercy!'
The Governor himself came
To try to explain things,
And long they disputed
And argued together;
The furious voice
Of the prince was heard raging
All over the house, 30
And he got so excited
That on the same evening
A stroke fell upon him:
His left side went dead,
Black as earth, so they tell us,
And all over nothing!
It wasn't his pocket
That pinched, but his pride
That was touched and enraged him.
He lost but a mite 40
And would never have missed it."
"Ah, that's what it means, friends,
To be a Pomyéshchick,
The habit gets into
The blood," says Mitródor,
"And not the Pomyéshchick's
Alone, for the habit
Is strong in the peasant
As well," old Pakhóm said.
"I once on suspicion 50
Was put into prison,
And met there a peasant
Called Sédor, a strange man,
Arrested for horse-stealing,
If I remember;
And he from the prison
Would send to the Barin
His taxes. (The prisoner's
Income is scanty,
He gets what he begs 60
Or a trifle for working.)
The others all laughed at him;
'Why should you send them
And you off for life
To hard labour?' they asked him.
But he only said,
'All the same ... it is better.'"
"Well, now, little Uncle,
Go on with the story."
"A mite is a small thing, 70
Except when it happens
To be in the eye!
The Pomyéshchick lay senseless,
And many were sure
That he'd never recover.
His children were sent for,
Those black-moustached footguards
(You saw them just now
With their wives, the fine ladies),
The eldest of them 80
Was to settle all matters
Concerning his father.
He called the posrédnik
To draw up the papers
And sign the agreement,
When suddenly--there
Stands the old man before them!
He springs on them straight
Like a wounded old tiger,
He bellows like thunder. 90
It was but a short time
Ago, and it happened
That I was then Elder,
And chanced to have entered
The house on some errand,
And I heard myself
How he cursed the Pomyéshchicks;
The words that he spoke
I have never forgotten:
'The Jews are reproached 100
For betraying their Master;
But what are _you_ doing?
The rights of the nobles
By centuries sanctioned
You fling to the beggars!'
He said to his sons,
'Oh, you dastardly cowards!
My children no longer!
It is for small reptiles--
The pope's crawling breed-- 110
To take bribes from vile traitors,
To purchase base peasants,
And they may be pardoned!
But you!--you have sprung
From the house of Yutiátin,
The Princes Yu-tiá-tin
You are! Go!... Go, leave me!
You pitiful puppies!'
The heirs were alarmed;
How to tide matters over 120
Until he should die?
For they are not small items,
The forests and lands
That belong to our father;
His money-bags are not
So light as to make it
A question of nothing
Whose shoulders shall bear them;
We know that our father
Has three 'private' daughters 130
In Petersburg living,
To Generals married,
So how do we know
That they may not inherit
His wealth?... The Pomyéshchick
Once more is prostrated,
His death is a question
Of time, and to make it
Run smoothly till then
An agreement was come to, 140
A plan to deceive him:
So one of the ladies
(The fair one, I fancy,
She used at that time
To attend the old master
And rub his left side
With a brush), well, she told him
That orders had come
From the Government lately
That peasants set free 150
Should return to their bondage.
And he quite believed it.
(You see, since his illness
The Prince had become
Like a child.) When he heard it
He cried with delight;
And the household was summoned
To prayer round the icons;[40]
And Thanksgiving Service
Was held by his orders 160
In every small village,
And bells were set ringing.
And little by little
His strength returned partly.
And then as before
It was hunting and music,
The servants were caned
And the peasants were punished.
The heirs had, of course,
Set things right with the servants, 170
A good understanding
They came to, and one man
(You saw him go running
Just now with the napkin)
Did not need persuading---
He so loved his Barin.
His name is Ipát,
And when we were made free
He refused to believe it;
'The great Prince Yutiátin 180
Be left without peasants!
What pranks are you playing?'
At last, when the 'Order
Of Freedom' was shown him,
Ipát said, 'Well, well,
Get you gone to your pleasures,
But I am the slave
Of the Princes Yutiátin!'
He cannot get over
The old Prince's kindness 190
To him, and he's told us
Some curious stories
Of things that had happened
To him in his childhood,
His youth and old age.
(You see, I had often
To go to the Prince
On some matter or other
Concerning the peasants,
And waited and waited 200
For hours in the kitchens,
And so I have heard them
A hundred times over.)
'When I was a young man
Our gracious young Prince
Spent his holidays sometimes
At home, and would dip me
(His meanest slave, mind you)
Right under the ice
In the depths of the Winter. 210
He did it in such
A remarkable way, too!
He first made two holes
In the ice of the river,
In one he would lower
Me down in a net--
Pull me up through the other!'
And when I began
To grow old, it would happen
That sometimes I drove 220
With the Prince in the Winter;
The snow would block up
Half the road, and we used
To drive five-in-a-file.
Then the fancy would strike him
(How whimsical, mark you!)
To set me astride
On the horse which was leading,
Me--last of his slaves!
Well, he dearly loved music, 230
And so he would throw me
A fiddle: 'Here! play now,
Ipát.' Then the driver
Would shout to the horses,
And urge them to gallop.
The snow would half-blind me,
My hands with the music
Were occupied both;
So what with the jolting,
The snow, and the fiddle, 240
Ipát, like a silly
Old noodle, would tumble.
Of course, if he landed
Right under the horses
The sledge must go over
His ribs,--who could help it?
But that was a trifle;
The cold was the worst thing,
It bites you, and you
Can do nothing against it! 250
The snow lay all round
On the vast empty desert,
I lay looking up
At the stars and confessing
My sins. But--my friends,
This is true as the Gospel--
I heard before long
How the sledge-bells came ringing,
Drew nearer and nearer:
The Prince had remembered, 260
And come back to fetch me!'
"(The tears began falling
And rolled down his face
At this part of the story.
Whenever he told it
He always would cry
Upon coming to this!)
'He covered me up
With some rugs, and he warmed me,
He lifted me up, 270
And he placed me beside him,
Me--last of his slaves--
Beside his Princely Person!
And so we came home.'"
They're amused at the story.
Old Vlásuchka, when
He has emptied his fourth cup,
Continues: "The heirs came
And called us together--
The peasants and servants; 280
They said, 'We're distressed
On account of our father.
These changes will kill him,
He cannot sustain them.
So humour his weakness:
Keep silent, and act still
As if all this trouble
Had never existed;
Give way to him, bow to him
Just as in old days. 290
For each stroke of barschin,
For all needless labour,
For every rough word
We will richly reward you.
He cannot live long now,
The doctors have told us
That two or three months
Is the most we may hope for.
Act kindly towards us,
And do as we ask you, 300
And we as the price
Of your silence will give you
The hayfields which lie
On the banks of the Volga.
Think well of our offer,
And let the posrédnik
Be sent for to witness
And settle the matter.'
"Then gathered the commune
To argue and clamour; 310
The thought of the hayfields
(In which we are sitting),
With promises boundless
And plenty of vodka,
Decided the question:
The commune would wait
For the death of the Barin.
"Then came the posrédnik,
And laughing, he said:
'It's a capital notion! 320
The hayfields are fine, too,
You lose nothing by it;
You just play the fool
And the Lord will forgive you.
You know, it's forbidden
To no one in Russia
To bow and be silent.'
"But I was against it:
I said to the peasants,
'For you it is easy, 330
But how about me?
Whatever may happen
The Elder must come
To accounts with the Barin,
And how can I answer
His babyish questions?
And how can I do
His nonsensical bidding?'
"'Just take off your hat
And bow low, and say nothing, 340
And then you walk out
And the thing's at an end.
The old man is ill,
He is weak and forgetful,
And nothing will stay
In his head for an instant.'
"Perhaps they were right;
To deceive an old madman
Is not very hard.
But for my part, I don't want 350
To play at buffoon.
For how many years
Have I stood on the threshold
And bowed to the Barin?
Enough for my pleasure!
I said, 'If the commune
Is pleased to be ruled
By a crazy Pomyéshchick
To ease his last moments
I don't disagree, 360
I have nothing against it;
But then, set me free
From my duties as Elder.'
"The whole matter nearly
Fell through at that moment,
But then Klímka Lávin said,
'Let _me_ be Elder,
I'll please you on both sides,
The master and you.
The Lord will soon take him, 370
And then the fine hayfields
Will come to the commune.
I swear I'll establish
Such order amongst you
You'll die of the fun!'
"The commune took long
To consider this offer:
A desperate fellow
Is Klímka the peasant,
A drunkard, a rover, 380
And not very honest,
No lover of work,
And acquainted with gipsies;
A vagabond, knowing
A lot about horses.
A scoffer at those
Who work hard, he will tell you:
'At work you will never
Get rich, my fine fellow;
You'll never get rich,-- 390
But you're sure to get crippled!'
But he, all the same,
Is well up in his letters;
Has been to St. Petersburg.
Yes, and to Moscow,
And once to Siberia, too,
With the merchants.
A pity it was
That he ever returned!
He's clever enough, 400
But he can't keep a farthing;
He's sharp--but he's always
In some kind of trouble.
He's picked some fine words up
From out of his travels:
'Our Fatherland dear,'
And 'The soul of great Russia,'
And 'Moscow, the mighty,
Illustrious city!'
'And I,' he will shout, 410
'Am a plain Russian peasant!'
And striking his forehead
He'll swallow the vodka.
A bottle at once
He'll consume, like a mouthful.
He'll fall at your feet
For a bottle of vodka.
But if he has money
He'll share with you, freely;
The first man he meets 420
May partake of his drink.
He's clever at shouting
And cheating and fooling,
At showing the best side
Of goods which are rotten,
At boasting and lying;
And when he is caught
He'll slip out through a cranny,
And throw you a jest,
Or his favourite saying: 430
'A crack in the jaw
Will your honesty bring you!'
"Well, after much thinking
The commune decided
That I must remain
The responsible Elder;
But Klímka might act
In my stead to the Barin
As though he were Elder.
Why, then, let him do it! 440
The right kind of Elder
He is for his Barin,
They make a fine pair!
Like putty his conscience;
Like Meenin's[41] his beard,
So that looking upon him
You'd think a sedater,
More dutiful peasant
Could never be found.
The heirs made his kaftan, 450
And he put it on,
And from Klímka the 'scapegrace'
He suddenly changed
Into Klím, Son-of-Jacob,[42]
Most worthy of Elders.
So that's how it is;--
And to our great misfortune
The Barin is ordered
A carriage-drive daily.
Each day through the village 460
He drives in a carriage
That's built upon springs.
Then up you jump, quickly,
And whip off your hat,
And, God knows for what reason,
He'll jump down your throat,
He'll upbraid and abuse you;
But you must keep silent.
He watches a peasant
At work in the fields, 470
And he swears we are lazy
And lie-abed sluggards
(Though never worked peasant
With half such a will
In the time of the Barin).
He has not a notion
That they are not _his_ fields,
But ours. When we gather
We laugh, for each peasant
Has something to tell 480
Of the crazy Pomyéshchick;
His ears burn, I warrant,
When we come together!
And Klím, Son-of-Jacob,
Will run, with the manner
Of bearing the commune
Some news of importance
(The pig has got proud
Since he's taken to scratching
His sides on the steps 490
Of the nobleman's manor).
He runs and he shouts:
'A command to the commune!
I told the Pomyèshchick
That Widow Teréntevna's
Cottage had fallen.
And that she is begging
Her bread. He commands you
To marry the widow
To Gabriel Jóckoff; 500
To rebuild the cottage,
And let them reside there
And multiply freely.'
"The bride will be seventy,
Seven the bridegroom!
Well, who could help laughing?
Another command:
'The dull-witted cows,
Driven out before sunrise,
Awoke the Pomyéshchick 510
By foolishly mooing
While passing his courtyard.
The cow-herd is ordered
To see that the cows
Do not moo in that manner!'"
The peasants laugh loudly.
"But why do you laugh so?
We all have our fancies.
Yakútsk was once governed,
I heard, by a General; 520
He had a liking
For sticking live cows
Upon spikes round the city,
And every free spot
Was adorned in that manner,
As Petersburg is,
So they say, with its statues,
Before it had entered
The heads of the people
That he was a madman. 530
"Another strict order
Was sent to the commune:
'The dog which belongs
To Sofrónoff the watchman
Does not behave nicely,
It barked at the Barin.
Be therefore Sofrónoff
Dismissed. Let Evrémka
Be watchman to guard
The estate of the Barin.' 540
(Another loud laugh,
For Evremka, the 'simple,'
Is known as the deaf-mute
And fool of the village).
But Klímka's delighted:
At last he's found something
That suits him exactly.
He bustles about
And in everything meddles,
And even drinks less. 550
There's a sharp little woman
Whose name is Orévna,
And she is Klím's gossip,
And finely she helps him
To fool the old Barin.
And as to the women,
They're living in clover:
They run to the manor
With linen and mushrooms
And strawberries, knowing 560
The ladies will buy them
And pay what they ask them
And feed them besides.
We laughed and made game
Till we fell into danger
And nearly were lost:
There was one man among us,
Petrov, an ungracious
And bitter-tongued peasant;
He never forgave us 570
Because we'd consented
To humour the Barin.
'The Tsar,' he would say,
'Has had mercy upon you,
And now, you, yourselves
Lift the load to your backs.
To Hell with the hayfields!
We want no more masters!'
We only could stop him
By giving him vodka 580
(His weakness was vodka).
The devil must needs
Fling him straight at the Barin.
One morning Petrov
Had set out to the forest
To pilfer some logs
(For the night would not serve him,
It seems, for his thieving,
He must go and do it
In broadest white daylight), 590
And there comes the carriage,
On springs, with the Barin!
"'From whence, little peasant,
That beautiful tree-trunk?
From whence has it come?'
He knew, the old fellow,
From whence it had come.
Petrov stood there silent,
And what could he answer?
He'd taken the tree 600
From the Barin's own forest.
"The Barin already
Is bursting with anger;
He nags and reproaches,
He can't stop recalling
The rights of the nobles.
The rank of his Fathers,
He winds them all into
Petrov, like a corkscrew.
"The peasants are patient, 610
But even their patience
Must come to an end.
Petrov was out early,
Had eaten no breakfast,
Felt dizzy already,
And now with the words
Of the Barin all buzzing
Like flies in his ears--
Why, he couldn't keep steady,
He laughed in his face! 620
"'Have done, you old scarecrow!'
He said to the Barin.
'You crazy old clown!'
His jaw once unmuzzled
He let enough words out
To stuff the Pomyéshchick
With Fathers and Grandfathers
Into the bargain.
The oaths of the lords
Are like stings of mosquitoes, 630
But those of the peasant
Like blows of the pick-axe.
The Barin's dumbfounded!
He'd safely encounter
A rain of small shot,
But he cannot face stones.
The ladies are with him,
They, too, are bewildered,
They run to the peasant
And try to restrain him. 640
"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!
For what are you swollen
With pride, you old dotard,
You scum of the pig-sty?
Have done with your jabber!
You've lost your strong grip
On the soul of the peasant,
The last one you are.
By the will of the peasant
Because he is foolish 650
They treat you as master
To-day. But to-morrow
The ball will be ended;
A good kick behind
We will give the Pomyéshchick,
And tail between legs
Send him back to his dwelling
To leave us in peace!'
"The Barin is gasping,
'You rebel ... you rebel!' 660
He trembles all over,
Half-dead he has fallen,
And lies on the earth!
"The end! think the others,
The black-moustached footguards,
The beautiful ladies;
But they are mistaken;
It isn't the end.
"An order: to summon
The village together 670
To witness the punishment
Dealt to the rebel
Before the Pomyéshchick....
The heirs and the ladies
Come running in terror
To Klím, to Petrov,
And to me: 'Only save us!'
Their faces are pale,
'If the trick is discovered
We're lost!' 680
It is Klím's place
To deal with the matter:
He drinks with Petrov
All day long, till the evening,
Embracing him fondly.
Together till midnight
They pace round the village,
At midnight start drinking
Again till the morning.
Petrov is as tipsy 690
As ever man was,
And like that he is brought
To the Barin's large courtyard,
And all is perfection!
The Barin can't move
From the balcony, thanks
To his yesterday's shaking.
And Klím is well pleased.
"He leads Petrov into
The stable and sets him 700
In front of a gallon
Of vodka, and tells him:
'Now, drink and start crying,
''Oh, oh, little Fathers!
Oh, oh, little. Mothers!
Have mercy! Have mercy!'''
"Petrov does his bidding;
He howls, and the Barin,
Perched up on the balcony,
Listens in rapture. 710
He drinks in the sound
Like the loveliest music.
And who could help laughing
To hear him exclaiming,
'Don't spare him, the villain!
The im-pu-dent rascal!
Just teach him a lesson!'
Petrov yells aloud
Till the vodka is finished.
Of course in the end 720
He is perfectly helpless,
And four peasants carry him
Out of the stable.
His state is so sorry
That even the Barin
Has pity upon him,
And says to him sweetly,
'Your own fault it is,
Little peasant, you know!'"
"You see what a kind heart 730
He has, the Pomyéshchick,"
Says Prov, and old Vlásuchka
Answers him quietly,
"A saying there is:
'Praise the grass--in the haystack,
The lord--in his coffin.'
"Twere well if God took him.
Petrov is no longer
Alive. That same evening
He started up, raving, 740
At midnight the pope came,
And just as the day dawned
He died. He was buried,
A cross set above him,
And God alone knows
What he died of. It's certain
That we never touched him,
Nay, not with a finger,
Much less with a stick.
Yet sometimes the thought comes:
Perhaps if that accident 751
Never had happened
Petrov would be living.
You see, friends, the peasant
Was proud more than others,
He carried his head high,
And never had bent it,
And now of a sudden--
Lie down for the Barin!
Fall flat for his pleasure! 760
The thing went off well,
But Petrov had not wished it.
I think he was frightened
To anger the commune
By not giving in,
And the commune is foolish,
It soon will destroy you....
The ladies were ready
To kiss the old peasant,
They brought fifty roubles 770
For him, and some dainties.
'Twas Klímka, the scamp,
The unscrupulous sinner,
Who worked his undoing....
"A servant is coming
To us from the Barin,
They've finished their lunch.
Perhaps they have sent him
To summon the Elder.
I'll go and look on 780
At the comedy there."
II
KLÍM, THE ELDER
With him go the strangers,
And some of the women
And men follow after,
For mid-day has sounded,
Their rest-time it is,
So they gather together
To stare at the gentry,
To whisper and wonder.
They stand in a row
At a dutiful distance 10
Away from the Prince....
At a long snowy table
Quite covered with bottles
And all kinds of dishes
Are sitting the gentry,
The old Prince presiding
In dignified state
At the head of the table;
All white, dressed in white,
With his face shrunk awry, 20
His dissimilar eyes;
In his button-hole fastened
A little white cross
(It's the cross of St. George,
Some one says in a whisper);
And standing behind him,
Ipát, the domestic,
The faithful old servant,
In white tie and shirt-front
Is brushing the flies off. 30
Beside the Pomyéshchick
On each hand are sitting
The beautiful ladies:
The one with black tresses,
Her lips red as beetroots,
Each eye like an apple;
The other, the fair-haired,
With yellow locks streaming.
(Oh, you yellow locks,
Like spun gold do you glisten 40
And glow, in the sunshine!)
Then perched on three high chairs
The three little Barins,
Each wearing his napkin
Tucked under his chin,
With the old nurse beside them,
And further the body
Of ancient retainers;
And facing the Prince
At the foot of the table, 50
The black-moustached footguards
Are sitting together.
Behind each chair standing
A young girl is serving,
And women are waving
The flies off with branches.
The woolly white poodles
Are under the table,
The three little Barins
Are teasing them slyly. 60
Before the Pomyéshchick,
Bare-headed and humble,
The Elder is standing.
"Now tell me, how soon
Will the mowing be finished?"
The Barin says, talking
And eating at once.
"It soon will be finished.
Three days of the week
Do we work for your Highness; 70
A man with a horse,
And a youth or a woman,
And half an old woman
From every allotment.
To-day for this week
Is the Barin's term finished."
"Tut-tut!" says the Barin,
Like one who has noticed
Some crafty intent
On the part of another. 80
"'The Barin's term,' say you?
Now, what do you mean, pray?"
The eye which is bright
He has fixed on the peasant.
The Elder is hanging
His head in confusion.
"Of course it must be
As your Highness may order.
In two or three days,
If the weather be gracious, 90
The hay of your Highness
Can surely be gathered.
That's so,--is it not?"
(He turns his broad face round
And looks at the peasants.)
And then the sharp woman,
Klím's gossip, Orévna,
Makes answer for them:
"Yes, Klím, Son-of-Jacob,
The hay of the Barin 100
Is surely more precious
Than ours. We must tend it
As long as the weather lasts;
Ours may come later."
"A woman she is,
But more clever than you,"
The Pomyéshchick says smiling,
And then of a sudden
Is shaken with laughter:
"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110
Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool!
It's the 'Barin's term,' say you?
Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha!
The Barin's term, slave,
Is the whole of your life-time;
And you have forgotten
That I, by God's mercy,
By Tsar's ancient charter,
By birth and by merit,
Am your supreme master!" 120
The strangers remark here
That Vlásuchka gently
Slips down to the grass.
"What's that for?" they ask him.
"We may as well rest now;
He's off. You can't stop him.
For since it was rumoured
That we should be given
Our freedom, the Barin
Takes care to remind us 130
That till the last hour
Of the world will the peasant
Be clenched in the grip
Of the nobles." And really
An hour slips away
And the Prince is still speaking;
His tongue will not always
Obey him, he splutters
And hisses, falls over
His words, and his right eye 140
So shares his disquiet
That it trembles and twitches.
The left eye expands,
Grows as round as an owl's eye,
Revolves like a wheel.
The rights of his Fathers
Through ages respected,
His services, merits,
His name and possessions,
The Barin rehearses. 150
God's curse, the Tsar's anger,
He hurls at the heads
Of obstreperous peasants.
And strictly gives order
To sweep from the commune
All senseless ideas,
Bids the peasants remember
That they are his slaves
And must honour their master.
"Our Fathers," cried Klím, 160
And his voice sounded strangely,
It rose to a squeak
As if all things within him
Leapt up with a passionate
Joy of a sudden
At thought of the mighty
And noble Pomyéshchicks,
"And whom should we serve
Save the Master we cherish?
And whom should we honour? 170
In whom should we hope?
We feed but on sorrows,
We bathe but in tear-drops,
How can we rebel?
"Our tumble-down hovels,
Our weak little bodies,
Ourselves, we are yours,
We belong to our Master.
The seeds which we sow
In the earth, and the harvest, 180
The hair on our heads--
All belongs to the Master.
Our ancestors fallen
To dust in their coffins,
Our feeble old parents
Who nod on the oven,
Our little ones lying
Asleep in their cradles
Are yours--are our Master's,
And we in our homes 190
Use our wills but as freely
As fish in a net."
The words of the Elder
Have pleased the Pomyéshchick,
The right eye is gazing
Benignantly at him,
The left has grown smaller
And peaceful again
Like the moon in the heavens.
He pours out a goblet 200
Of red foreign wine:
"Drink," he says to the peasant.
The rich wine is burning
Like blood in the sunshine;
Klím drinks without protest.
Again he is speaking:
"Our Fathers," he says,
"By your mercy we live now
As though in the bosom
Of Christ. Let the peasant 210
But try to exist
Without grace from the Barin!"
(He sips at the goblet.)
"The whole world would perish
If not for the Barin's
Deep wisdom and learning.
If not for the peasant's
Most humble submission.
By birth, and God's holy
Decree you are bidden 220
To govern the stupid
And ignorant peasant;
By God's holy will
Is the peasant commanded
To honour and cherish
And work for his lord!"
And here the old servant,
Ipát, who is standing
Behind the Pomyéshchick
And waving his branches, 230
Begins to sob loudly,
The tears streaming down
O'er his withered old face:
"Let us pray that the Barin
For many long years
May be spared to his servants!"
The simpleton blubbers,
The loving old servant,
And raising his hand,
Weak and trembling, he crosses 240
Himself without ceasing.
The black-moustached footguards
Look sourly upon him
With secret displeasure.
But how can they help it?
So off come their hats
And they cross themselves also.
And then the old Prince
And the wrinkled old dry-nurse
Both sign themselves thrice, 250
And the Elder does likewise.
He winks to the woman,
His sharp little gossip,
And straightway the women,
Who nearer and nearer
Have drawn to the table,
Begin most devoutly
To cross themselves too.
And one begins sobbing
In just such a manner 260
As had the old servant.
("That's right, now, start whining,
Old Widow Terentevna,
Sill-y old noodle!"
Says Vlásuchka, crossly.)
The red sun peeps slyly
At them from a cloud,
And the slow, dreamy music
Is heard from the river....
The ancient Pomyéshchick 270
Is moved, and the right eye
Is blinded with tears,
Till the golden-haired lady
Removes them and dries it;
She kisses the other eye
Heartily too.
"You see!" then remarks
The old man to his children,
The two stalwart sons
And the pretty young ladies; 280
"I wish that those villains,
Those Petersburg liars
Who say we are tyrants,
Could only be here now
To see and hear this!"
But then something happened
Which checked of a sudden
The speech of the Barin:
A peasant who couldn't
Control his amusement 290
Gave vent to his laughter.
The Barin starts wildly,
He clutches the table,
He fixes his face
In the sinner's direction;
The right eye is fierce,
Like a lynx he is watching
To dart on his prey,
And the left eye is whirling.
"Go, find him!" he hisses, 300
"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"
The Elder dives straight
In the midst of the people;
He asks himself wildly,
"Now, what's to be done?"
He makes for the edge
Of the crowd, where are sitting
The journeying strangers;
His voice is like honey:
"Come one of you forward; 310
You see, you are strangers,
He wouldn't touch _you_."
But they are not anxious
To face the Pomyéshchick,
Although they would gladly
Have helped the poor peasants.
He's mad, the old Barin,
So what's to prevent him
From beating them too?
"Well, you go, Román," 320
Say the two brothers Góobin,
"_You_ love the Pomyéshchicks."
"I'd rather you went, though!"
And each is quite willing
To offer the other.
Then Klím looses patience;
"Now, Vlásuchka, help us!
Do something to save us!
I'm sick of the thing!"
"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330
"Oho!" says Klím sharply,
"What lies did I tell?
And shan't we be choked
In the grip of the Barins
Until our last day
When we lie in our coffins?
When we get to Hell, too,
Won't they be there waiting
To set us to work?"
"What kind of a job 340
Would they find for us there, Klím?"
"To stir up the fire
While they boil in the pots!"
The others laugh loudly.
The sons of the Barin
Come hurrying to them;
"How foolish you are, Klím!
Our father has sent us,
He's terribly angry
That you are so long, 350
And don't bring the offender."
"We can't bring him, Barin;
A stranger he is,
From St. Petersburg province,
A very rich peasant;
The devil has sent him
To us, for our sins!
He can't understand us,
And things here amuse him;
He couldn't help laughing." 360
"Well, let him alone, then.
Cast lots for a culprit,
We'll pay him. Look here!"
He offers five roubles.
Oh, no. It won't tempt them.
"Well, run to the Barin,
And say that the fellow
Has hidden himself."
"But what when to-morrow comes?
Have you forgotten 370
Petrov, how we punished
The innocent peasant?"
"Then what's to be done?"
"Give me the five roubles!
You trust me, I'll save you!"
Exclaims the sharp woman,
The Elder's sly gossip.
She runs from the peasants
Lamenting and groaning,
And flings herself straight 380
At the feet of the Barin:
"O red little sun!
O my Father, don't kill me!
I have but one child,
Oh, have pity upon him!
My poor boy is daft,
Without wits the Lord made him,
And sent him so into
The world. He is crazy.
Why, straight from the bath 390
He at once begins scratching;
His drink he will try
To pour into his laputs
Instead of the jug.
And of work he knows nothing;
He laughs, and that's all
He can do--so God made him!
Our poor little home,
'Tis small comfort he brings it;
Our hut is in ruins, 400
Not seldom it happens
We've nothing to eat,
And that sets him laughing--
The poor crazy loon!
You may give him a farthing,
A crack on the skull,
And at one and the other
He'll laugh--so God made him!
And what can one say?
From a fool even sorrow 410
Comes pouring in laughter."
The knowing young woman!
She lies at the feet
Of the Barin, and trembles,
She squeals like a silly
Young girl when you pinch her,
She kisses his feet.
"Well ... go. God be with you!"
The Barin says kindly,
"I need not be angry 420
At idiot laughter,
I'll laugh at him too!"
"How good you are, Father,"
The black-eyed young lady
Says sweetly, and strokes
The white head of the Barin.
The black-moustached footguards
At this put their word in:
"A fool cannot follow
The words of his masters, 430
Especially those
Like the words of our father,
So noble and clever."
And Klím--shameless rascal!--
Is wiping his eyes
On the end of his coat-tails,
Is sniffing and whining;
"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!
The sons of our Father!
They know how to punish, 440
But better they know
How to pardon and pity!"
The old man is cheerful
Again, and is asking
For light frothing wine,
And the corks begin popping
And shoot in the air
To fall down on the women,
Who fly from them, shrieking.
The Barin is laughing, 450
The ladies then laugh,
And at them laugh their husbands,
And next the old servant,
Ipát, begins laughing,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
And then the whole party
Laugh loudly together;
The feast will be merry!
His daughters-in-law
At the old Prince's order 460
Are pouring out vodka
To give to the peasants,
Hand cakes to the youths,
To the girls some sweet syrup;
The women drink also
A small glass of vodka.
The old Prince is drinking
And toasting the peasants;
And slyly he pinches
The beautiful ladies. 470
"That's right! That will do him
More good than his physic,"
Says Vlásuchka, watching.
"He drinks by the glassful,
Since long he's lost measure
In revel, or wrath...."
The music comes floating
To them from the Volga,
The girls now already
Are dancing and singing, 480
The old Prince is watching them,
Snapping his fingers.
He wants to be nearer
The girls, and he rises.
His legs will not bear him,
His two sons support him;
And standing between them
He chuckles and whistles,
And stamps with his feet
To the time of the music; 490
The left eye begins
On its own account working,
It turns like a wheel.
"But why aren't you dancing?"
He says to his sons,
And the two pretty ladies.
"Dance! Dance!" They can't help themselves,
There they are dancing!
He laughs at them gaily,
He wishes to show them 500
How things went in _his_ time;
He's shaking and swaying
Like one on the deck
Of a ship in rough weather.
"Sing, Luiba!" he orders.
The golden-haired lady
Does not want to sing,
But the old man will have it.
The lady is singing
A song low and tender, 510
It sounds like the breeze
On a soft summer evening
In velvety grasses
Astray, like spring raindrops
That kiss the young leaves,
And it soothes the Pomyéshchick.
The feeble old man:
He is falling asleep now....
And gently they carry him
Down to the water, 520
And into the boat,
And he lies there, still sleeping.
Above him stands, holding
A big green umbrella,
The faithful old servant,
His other hand guarding
The sleeping Pomyéshchick
From gnats and mosquitoes.
The oarsmen are silent,
The faint-sounding music 530
Can hardly be heard
As the boat moving gently
Glides on through the water....
The peasants stand watching:
The bright yellow hair
Of the beautiful lady
Streams out in the breeze
Like a long golden banner....
"I managed him finely,
The noble Pomyéshchick," 540
Said Klím to the peasants.
"Be God with you, Barin!
Go bragging and scolding,
Don't think for a moment
That we are now free
And your servants no longer,
But die as you lived,
The almighty Pomyéshchick,
To sound of our music,
To songs of your slaves; 550
But only die quickly,
And leave the poor peasants
In peace. And now, brothers,
Come, praise me and thank me!
I've gladdened the commune.
I shook in my shoes there
Before the Pomyéshchick,
For fear I should trip
Or my tongue should betray me;
And worse--I could hardly 560
Speak plain for my laughter!
That eye! How it spins!
And you look at it, thinking:
'But whither, my friend,
Do you hurry so quickly?
On some hasty errand
Of yours, or another's?
Perhaps with a pass
From the Tsar--Little Father,
You carry a message 570
From him.' I was standing
And bursting with laughter!
Well, I am a drunken
And frivolous peasant,
The rats in my corn-loft
Are starving from hunger,
My hut is quite bare,
Yet I call God to witness
That I would not take
Such an office upon me 580
For ten hundred roubles
Unless I were certain
That he was the last,
That I bore with his bluster
To serve my own ends,
Of my own will and pleasure."
Old Vlásuchka sadly
And thoughtfully answers,
"How long, though, how long, though,
Have we--not we only 590
But all Russian peasants--
Endured the Pomyéshchicks?
And not for our pleasure,
For money or fun,
Not for two or three months,
But for life. What has changed, though?
Of what are we bragging?
For still we are peasants."
The peasants, half-tipsy,
Congratulate Klímka. 600
"Hurrah! Let us toss him!"
And now they are placing
Old Widow Teréntevna
Next to her bridegroom,
The little child Jóckoff,
Saluting them gaily.
They're eating and drinking
What's left on the table.
Then romping and jesting
They stay till the evening, 610
And only at nightfall
Return to the village.
And here they are met
By some sobering tidings:
The old Prince is dead.
From the boat he was taken,
They thought him asleep,
But they found he was lifeless.
The second stroke--while
He was sleeping--had fallen! 620
The peasants are sobered,
They look at each other,
And silently cross themselves.
Then they breathe deeply;
And never before
Did the poor squalid village
Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"
Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"
Draw such an intense
And unanimous breath.... 630
Their pleasure, however,
Was not very lasting,
Because with the death
Of the ancient Pomyéshchick,
The sweet-sounding words
Of his heirs and their bounties
Ceased also. Not even
A pick-me-up after
The yesterday's feast
Did they offer the peasants. 640
And as to the hayfields--
Till now is the law-suit
Proceeding between them,
The heirs and the peasants.
Old Vlásuchka was
By the peasants appointed
To plead in their name,
And he lives now in Moscow.
He went to St. Petersburg too,
But I don't think 650
That much can be done
For the cause of the peasants.
PART III.
THE PEASANT WOMAN
PROLOGUE
"Not only to men
Must we go with our question,
We'll ask of the women,"
The peasants decided.
They asked in the village
"Split-up," but the people
Replied to them shortly,
"Not here will you find one.
But go to the village
'Stripped-Naked'--a woman 10
Lives there who is happy.
She's hardly a woman,
She's more like a cow,
For a woman so healthy,
So smooth and so clever,
Could hardly be found.
You must seek in the village
Matróna Korchágin--
The people there call her
'The Governor's Lady.'" 20
The peasants considered
And went....
Now already
The corn-stalks are rising
Like tall graceful columns,
With gilded heads nodding,
And whispering softly
In gentle low voices.
Oh, beautiful summer!
No time is so gorgeous, 30
So regal, so rich.
You full yellow cornfields,
To look at you now
One would never imagine
How sorely God's people
Had toiled to array you
Before you arose,
In the sight of the peasant,
And stood before him,
Like a glorious army 40
n front of a Tsar!
'Tis not by warm dew-drops
That you have been moistened,
The sweat of the peasant
Has fallen upon you.
The peasants are gladdened
At sight of the oats
And the rye and the barley,
But not by the wheat,
For it feeds but the chosen: 50
"We love you not, wheat!
But the rye and the barley
We love--they are kind,
They feed all men alike."
The flax, too, is growing
So sweetly and bravely:
"Ai! you little mite!
You are caught and entangled!"
A poor little lark
In the flax has been captured; 60
It struggles for freedom.
Pakhóm picks it up,
He kisses it tenderly:
"Fly, little birdie!" ...
The lark flies away
To the blue heights of Heaven;
The kind-hearted peasants
Gaze lovingly upwards
To see it rejoice
In the freedom above.... 70
The peas have come on, too;
Like locusts, the peasants
Attack them and eat them.
They're like a plump maiden--
The peas--for whoever
Goes by must needs pinch them.
Now peas are being carried
In old hands, in young hands,
They're spreading abroad
Over seventy high-roads. 80
The vegetables--how
They're flourishing also!
Each toddler is clasping
A radish or carrot,
And many are cracking
The seeds of the sunflower.
The beetroots are dotted
Like little red slippers
All over the earth.
Our peasants are walking, 90
Now faster--now slower.
At last they have reached it--
The village 'Stripped-Naked,'
It's not much to look at:
Each hut is propped up
Like a beggar on crutches;
The thatch from the roofs
Has made food for the cattle;
The huts are like feeble
Old skeletons standing, 100
Like desolate rooks' nests
When young birds forsake them.
When wild Autumn winds
Have dismantled the birch-trees.
The people are all
In the fields; they are working.
Behind the poor village
A manor is standing;
It's built on the slope
Of a hill, and the peasants 110
Are making towards it
To look at it close.
The house is gigantic,
The courtyard is huge,
There's a pond in it too;
A watch-tower arises
From over the house,
With a gallery round it,
A flagstaff upon it.
They meet with a lackey 120
Near one of the gates:
He seems to be wearing
A strange kind of mantle;
"Well, what are you up to?"
He says to the friends,
"The Pomyéshchick's abroad now,
The manager's dying."
He shows them his back,
And they all begin laughing:
A tiger is clutching 130
The edge of his shoulders!
"Heh! here's a fine joke!"
They are hotly discussing
What kind of a mantle
The lackey is wearing,
Till clever Pakhóm
Has got hold of the riddle.
"The cunning old rascal,
He's stolen a carpet,
And cut in the middle 140
A hole for his head!"
Like weak, straddling beetles
Shut up to be frozen
In cold empty huts
By the pitiless peasants.
The servants are crawling
All over the courtyard.
Their master long since
Has forgotten about them,
And left them to live 150
As they can. They are hungry,
All old and decrepit,
And dressed in all manners,
They look like a crowd
In a gipsy encampment.
And some are now dragging
A net through the pond:
"God come to your help!
Have you caught something, brothers?"
"One carp--nothing more; 160
There used once to be many,
But now we have come
To the end of the feast!"
"Do try to get five!"
Says a pale, pregnant woman,
Who's fervently blowing
A fire near the pond.
"And what are those pretty
Carved poles you are burning?
They're balcony railings, 170
I think, are they not?"
"Yes, balcony railings."
"See here. They're like tinder;
Don't blow on them, Mother!
I bet they'll burn faster
Than you find the victuals
To cook in the pot!"
"I'm waiting and waiting,
And Mítyenka sickens
Because of the musty 180
Old bread that I give him.
But what can I do?
This life--it is bitter!"
She fondles the head
Of a half-naked baby
Who sits by her side
In a little brass basin,
A button-nosed mite.
"The boy will take cold there,
The basin will chill him," 190
Says Prov; and he wishes
To lift the child up,
But it screams at him, angry.
"No, no! Don't you touch him,"
The mother says quickly,
"Why, can you not see
That's his carriage he's driving?
Drive on, little carriage!
Gee-up, little horses!
You see how he drives!" 200
The peasants each moment
Observe some new marvel;
And soon they have noticed
A strange kind of labour
Proceeding around them:
One man, it appears,
To the door has got fastened;
He's toiling away
To unscrew the brass handles,
His hands are so weak 210
He can scarcely control them.
Another is hugging
Some tiles: "See, Yegórshka,
I've dug quite a heap out!"
Some children are shaking
An apple-tree yonder:
"You see, little Uncles,
There aren't many left,
Though the tree was quite heavy."
"But why do you want them? 220
They're quite hard and green."
"We're thankful to get them!"
The peasants examine
The park for a long time;
Such wonders are seen here,
Such cunning inventions:
In one place a mountain
Is raised; in another
A ravine yawns deep!
A lake has been made too; 230
Perhaps at one time
There were swans on the water?
The summer-house has some
Inscriptions upon it,
Demyán begins spelling
Them out very slowly.
A grey-haired domestic
Is watching the peasants;
He sees they have very
Inquisitive natures, 240
And presently slowly
Goes hobbling towards them,
And holding a book.
He says, "Will you buy it?"
Demyán is a peasant
Acquainted with letters,
He tries for some time
But he can't read a word.
"Just sit down yourself
On that seat near the linden, 250
And read the book leisurely
Like a Pomyéshchick!"
"You think you are clever,"
The grey-headed servant
Retorts with resentment,
"Yet books which are learned
Are wasted upon you.
You read but the labels
On public-house windows,
And that which is written 260
On every odd corner:
'Most strictly forbidden.'"
The pathways are filthy,
The graceful stone ladies
Bereft of their noses.
"The fruit and the berries,
The geese and the swans
Which were once on the water,
The thieving old rascals
Have stuffed in their maws. 270
Like church without pastor,
Like fields without peasants,
Are all these fine gardens
Without a Pomyéshchick,"
The peasants remark.
For long the Pomyéshchick
Has gathered his treasures,
When all of a sudden....
(The six peasants laugh,
But the seventh is silent, 280
He hangs down his head.)
A song bursts upon them!
A voice is resounding
Like blasts of a trumpet.
The heads of the peasants
Are eagerly lifted,
They gaze at the tower.
On the balcony round it
A man is now standing;
He wears a pope's cassock; 290
He sings ... on the balmy
Soft air of the evening,
The bass, like a huge
Silver bell, is vibrating,
And throbbing it enters
The hearts of the peasants.
The words are not Russian,
But some foreign language,
But, like Russian songs,
It is full of great sorrow, 300
Of passionate grief,
Unending, unfathomed;
It wails and laments,
It is bitterly sobbing....
"Pray tell us, good woman,
What man is that singing?"
Román asks the woman
Now feeding her baby
With steaming ukhá.[43]
"A singer, my brothers, 310
A born Little Russian,
The Barin once brought him
Away from his home,
With a promise to send him
To Italy later.
But long the Pomyéshchick
Has been in strange parts
And forgotten his promise;
And now the poor fellow
Would be but too glad 320
To get back to his village.
There's nothing to do here,
He hasn't a farthing,
There's nothing before him
And nothing behind him
Excepting his voice.
You have not really heard it;
You will if you stay here
Till sunrise to-morrow:
Some three versts away 330
There is living a deacon,
And he has a voice too.
They greet one another:
Each morning at sunrise
Will our little singer
Climb up to the watch-tower,
And call to the other,
'Good-morrow to Father
Ipát, and how fares he?'
(The windows all shake 340
At the sound.)
From the distance
The deacon will answer,
'Good-morrow, good-morrow,
To our little sweet-throat!
I go to drink vodka,
I'm going ... I'm going....'
The voice on the air
Will hang quivering around us
For more than an hour, 350
Like the neigh of a stallion."
The cattle are now
Coming home, and the evening
Is filled with the fragrance
Of milk; and the woman,
The mother of Mítyenka,
Sighs; she is thinking,
"If only one cow
Would turn into the courtyard!"
But hark! In the distance 360
Some voices in chorus!
"Good-bye, you poor mourners,
May God send you comfort!
The people are coming,
We're going to meet them."
The peasants are filled
With relief; because after
The whining old servants
The people who meet them
Returning from work 370
In the fields seem such healthy
And beautiful people.
The men and the women
And pretty young girls
Are all singing together.
"Good health to you! Which is
Among you the woman
Matróna Korchágin?"
The peasants demand.
"And what do you want 380
With Matróna Korchágin?"
The woman Matróna
Is tall, finely moulded,
Majestic in bearing,
And strikingly handsome.
Of thirty-eight years
She appears, and her black hair
Is mingled with grey.
Her complexion is swarthy,
Her eyes large and dark 390
And severe, with rich lashes.
A white shirt, and short
Sarafán[44] she is wearing,
She walks with a hay-fork
Slung over her shoulder.
"Well, what do you want
With Matróna Korchágin?"
The peasants are silent;
They wait till the others
Have gone in advance, 400
And then, bowing, they answer:
"We come from afar,
And a trouble torments us,
A trouble so great
That for it we've forsaken
Our homes and our work,
And our appetites fail.
We're orthodox peasants,
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From 'Destitute Parish,' 410
From neighbouring hamlets--
'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'
And 'Harvestless,' too.
We met in the roadway
And argued about
Who is happy in Russia.
Luká said, 'The pope,'
And Demyán, 'The Pomyéshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420
And Román, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan.
Pakhóm said, 'His Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser.'
Like bulls are the peasants:
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it
Although you should beat them 430
With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly
And nothing will move them.
We argued and quarrelled,
While quarrelling fought,
And while fighting decided
That never again
Would we turn our steps homewards
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people, 440
Until we have found
The reply to our question,
Of who can in Russia
Be happy and free?
We've questioned the pope,
We've asked the Pomyéshchick,
And now we ask you.
We'll seek the official,
The Minister, merchant,
We even will go 450
To the Tsar--Little Father,
Though whether he'll see us
We cannot be sure.
But rumour has told us
That _you're_ free and happy.
Then say, in God's name,
If the rumour be true."
Matróna Korchágin
Does not seem astonished,
But only a sad look 460
Creeps into her eyes,
And her face becomes thoughtful.
"Your errand is surely
A foolish one, brothers,"
She says to the peasants,
"For this is the season
Of work, and no peasant
For chatter has time."
"Till now on our journey
Throughout half the Empire 470
We've met no denial,"
The peasants protest.
"But look for yourselves, now,
The corn-ears are bursting.
We've not enough hands."
"And we? What are we for?
Just give us some sickles,
And see if we don't
Get some work done to-morrow!"
The peasants reply. 480
Matróna sees clearly
Enough that this offer
Must not be rejected;
"Agreed," she said, smiling,
"To such lusty fellows
As you, we may well look
For ten sheaves apiece."
"You give us your promise
To open your heart to us?"
"I will hide nothing." 490
Matróna Korchágin
Now enters her cottage,
And while she is working
Within it, the peasants
Discover a very
Nice spot just behind it,
And sit themselves down.
There's a barn close beside them
And two immense haystacks,
A flax-field around them; 500
And lying just near them
A fine plot of turnips,
And spreading above them
A wonderful oak-tree,
A king among oaks.
They're sitting beneath it,
And now they're producing
The magic white napkin:
"Heh, napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!" 510
The napkin unfolds,
Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where,
Place a pailful of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
The two brothers Goóbin
Are chuckling together,
For they have just pilfered 520
A very big horse-radish
Out of the garden--
It's really a monster!
The skies are dark blue now,
The bright stars are twinkling,
The moon has arisen
And sails high above them;
The woman Matróna
Comes out of the cottage
To tell them her tale. 530
CHAPTER I
THE WEDDING
"My girlhood was happy,
For we were a thrifty
Arid diligent household;
And I, the young maiden,
With Father and Mother
Knew nothing but joy.
My father got up
And went out before sunrise,
He woke me with kisses
And tender caresses; 10
My brother, while dressing,
Would sing little verses:
'Get up, little Sister,
Get up, little Sister,
In no little beds now
Are people delaying,
In all little churches
The peasants are praying,
Get up, now, get up,
It is time, little Sister. 20
The shepherd has gone
To the field with the sheep,
And no little maidens
Are lying asleep,
They've gone to pick raspberries,
Merrily singing.
The sound of the axe
In the forest is ringing.'
"And then my dear mother,
When she had done scouring 30
The pots and the pans,
When the hut was put tidy,
The bread in the oven,
Would steal to my bedside,
And cover me softly
And whisper to me:
"'Sleep on, little dove,
Gather strength--you will need it--
You will not stay always
With Father and Mother, 40
And when you will leave them
To live among strangers
Not long will you sleep.
You'll slave till past midnight,
And rise before daybreak;
You'll always be weary.
They'll give you a basket
And throw at the bottom
A crust. You will chew it,
My poor little dove, 50
And start working again....'
"But, brothers, I did not
Spend much time in sleeping;
And when I was five
On the day of St. Simon,
I mounted a horse
With the help of my father,
And then was no longer
A child. And at six years
I carried my father 60
His breakfast already,
And tended the ducks,
And at night brought the cow home,
And next--took my rake,
And was off to the hayfields!
And so by degrees
I became a great worker,
And yet best of all
I loved singing and dancing;
The whole day I worked 70
In the fields, and at nightfall
Returned to the cottage
All covered with grime.
But what's the hot bath for?
And thanks to the bath
And boughs of the birch-tree,
And icy spring water,
Again I was clean
And refreshed, and was ready
To take out my spinning-wheel, 80
And with companions
To sing half the night.
"I never ran after
The youths, and the forward
I checked very sharply.
To those who were gentle
And shy, I would whisper:
'My cheeks will grow hot,
And sharp eyes has my mother;
Be wise, now, and leave me 90
Alone'--and they left me.
"No matter how clever
I was to avoid them,
The one came at last
I was destined to wed;
And he--to my bitter
Regret--was a stranger:
Young Phílip Korchágin,
A builder of ovens.
He came from St. Petersburg. 100
Oh, how my mother
Did weep: 'Like a fish
In the ocean, my daughter,
You'll plunge and be lost;
Like a nightingale, straying
Away from its nest,
We shall lose you, my daughter!
The walls of the stranger
Are not built of sugar,
Are not spread with honey, 110
Their dwellings are chilly
And garnished with hunger;
The cold winds will nip you,
The black rooks will scold you,
The savage dogs bite you,
The strangers despise you.'
"But Father sat talking
And drinking till late
With the 'swat.'[45] I was frightened.
I slept not all night.... 120
"Oh, youth, pray you, tell me,
Now what can you find
In the maiden to please you?
And where have you seen her?
Perhaps in the sledges
With merry young friends
Flying down from the mountain?
Then you were mistaken,
O son of your father,
It was but the frost 130
And the speed and the laughter
That brought the bright tints
To the cheeks of the maiden.
Perhaps at some feast
In the home of a neighbour
You saw her rejoicing
And clad in bright colours?
But then she was plump
From her rest in the winter;
Her rosy face bloomed 140
Like the scarlet-hued poppy;
But wait!--have you been
To the hut of her father
And seen her at work
Beating flax in the barn?
Ah, what shall I do?
I will take brother falcon
And send him to town:
'Fly to town, brother falcon,
And bring me some cloth 150
And six colours of worsted,
And tassels of blue.
I will make a fine curtain,
Embroider each corner
With Tsar and Tsaritsa,
With Moscow and Kiev,
And Constantinople,
And set the great sun
Shining bright in the middle,
And this I will hang 160
In the front of my window:
Perhaps you will see it,
And, struck by its beauty,
Will stand and admire it,
And will not remember
To seek for the maiden....'
"And so till the morning
I lay with such thoughts.
'Now, leave me, young fellow,'
I said to the youth 170
When he came in the evening;
'I will not be foolish
Enough to abandon
My freedom in order
To enter your service.
God sees me--I will not
Depart from my home!'
"'Do come,' said young Phílip,
'So far have I travelled
To fetch you. Don't fear me-- 180
I will not ill-treat you.'
I begged him to leave me,
I wept and lamented;
But nevertheless
I was still a young maiden:
I did not forget
Sidelong glances to cast
At the youth who thus wooed me.
And Phílip was handsome,
Was rosy and lusty, 190
Was strong and broad-shouldered,
With fair curling hair,
With a voice low and tender....
Ah, well ... I was won....
"'Come here, pretty fellow,
And stand up against me,
Look deep in my eyes--
They are clear eyes and truthful;
Look well at my rosy
Young face, and bethink you: 200
Will you not regret it,
Won't my heart be broken,
And shall I not weep
Day and night if I trust you
And go with you, leaving
My parents forever?'
"'Don't fear, little pigeon,
We shall not regret it,'
Said Phílip, but still
I was timid and doubtful. 210
'Do go,' murmured I, and he,
'When you come with me.'
Of course I was fairer
And sweeter and dearer
Than any that lived,
And his arms were about me....
Then all of a sudden
I made a sharp effort
To wrench myself free. 219
'How now? What's the matter?
You're strong, little pigeon!'
Said Phílip astonished,
But still held me tight.
'Ah, Phílip, if you had
Not held me so firmly
You would not have won me;
I did it to try you,
To measure your strength;
You were strong, and it pleased me.'
We must have been happy 230
In those fleeting moments
When softly we whispered
And argued together;
I think that we never
Were happy again....
"How well I remember....
The night was like this night,
Was starlit and silent ...
Was dreamy and tender
Like this...." 240
And the woman,
Matróna, sighed deeply,
And softly began--
Leaning back on the haystack--
To sing to herself
With her thoughts in the past:
"'Tell me, young merchant, pray,
Why do you love me so--
Poor peasant's daughter?
I am not clad in gold, 250
I am not hung with pearls,
Not decked with silver.'
"'Silver your chastity,
Golden your beauty shines,
O my belovèd,
White pearls are falling now
Out of your weeping eyes,
Falling like tear-drops.'
"My father gave orders
To bring forth the wine-cups, 260
To set them all out
On the solid oak table.
My dear mother blessed me:
'Go, serve them, my daughter,
Bow low to the strangers.'
I bowed for the first time,
My knees shook and trembled;
I bowed for the second--
My face had turned white;
And then for the third time 270
I bowed, and forever
The freedom of girlhood
Rolled down from my head...."
"Ah, that means a wedding,"
Cry both brothers Goóbin,
"Let's drink to the health
Of the happy young pair!"
"Well said! We'll begin
With the bride," say the others.
"Will you drink some vodka, 280
Matróna Korchágin?"
"An old woman, brothers,
And not drink some vodka?"