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Title: Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

Author: Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov

Translator: Juliet M. Soskice

Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9619]

Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and PG Distributed Proofreaders

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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?"

CHAPTER II

A SONG

Stand before your judge—

And your legs will quake!

Stand before the priest

On your wedding-day,—

How your head will ache!

How your head will ache!

You will call to mind

Songs of long ago,

Songs of gloom and woe:

Telling how the guests 10

Crowd into the yard,

Run to see the bride

Whom the husband brings

Homeward at his side.

How his parents both

Fling themselves on her;

How his brothers soon

Call her "wasteful one";

How his sisters next

Call her "giddy one"; 20

How his father growls,

"Greedy little bear!"

How his mother snarls,

"Cannibal!" at her.

She is "slovenly"

And "disorderly,"

She's a "wicked one"!

"All that's in the song

Happened now to me.

Do you know the song? 30

Have you heard it sung?"

"Yes, we know it well;

Gossip, you begin,

We will all join in."

Matróna

So sleepy, so weary

I am, and my heavy head

Clings to the pillow.

But out in the passage

My Father-in-law

Begins stamping and swearing. 40

Peasants in Chorus

Stamping and swearing!

Stamping and swearing!

He won't let the poor woman

Rest for a moment.

Up, up, up, lazy-head!

Up, up, up, lie-abed!

Lazy-head!

Lie-abed!

Slut!

Matróna

So sleepy, so weary 50

I am, and my heavy head

Clings to the pillow;

But out in the passage

My Mother-in-law

Begins scolding and nagging.

Peasants in Chorus

Scolding and nagging!

Scolding and nagging!

She won't let the poor woman

Rest for a moment.

Up, up, up, lazy-head! 60

Up, up, up, lie-abed!

Lazy-head!

Lie-abed!

Slut!

"A quarrelsome household

It was—that of Philip's

To which I belonged now;

And I from my girlhood

Stepped straight into Hell.

My husband departed 70

To work in the city,

And leaving, advised me

To work and be silent,

To yield and be patient:

'Don't splash the red iron

With cold water—it hisses!'

With father and mother

And sisters-in-law he

Now left me alone;

Not a soul was among them 80

To love or to shield me,

But many to scold.

One sister-in-law—

It was Martha, the eldest,—

Soon set me to work

Like a slave for her pleasure.

And Father-in-law too

One had to look after,

Or else all his clothes

To redeem from the tavern. 90

In all that one did

There was need to be careful,

Or Mother-in-law's

Superstitions were troubled

(One never could please her).

Well, some superstitions

Of course may be right;

But they're most of them evil.

And one day it happened

That Mother-in-law 100

Murmured low to her husband

That corn which is stolen

Grows faster and better.

So Father-in-law

Stole away after midnight….

It chanced he was caught,

And at daybreak next morning

Brought back and flung down

Like a log in the stable.

"But I acted always 110

As Phílip had told me:

I worked, with the anger

Hid deep in my bosom,

And never a murmur

Allowed to escape me.

And then with the winter

Came Phílip, and brought me

A pretty silk scarf;

And one feast-day he took me

To drive in the sledges; 120

And quickly my sorrows

Were lost and forgotten:

I sang as in old days

At home, with my father.

For I and my husband

Were both of an age,

And were happy together

When only they left us

Alone, but remember

A husband like Phílip 130

Not often is found."

"Do you mean to say

That he never once beat you?"

Matróna was plainly

Confused by the question;

"Once, only, he beat me,"

She said, very low.

"And why?" asked the peasants.

"Well, you know yourselves, friends,

How quarrels arise 140

In the homes of the peasants.

A young married sister

Of Phílip's one day

Came to visit her parents.

She found she had holes

In her boots, and it vexed her.

Then Phílip said, 'Wife,

Fetch some boots for my sister.'

And I did not answer

At once; I was lifting 150

A large wooden tub,

So, of course, couldn't speak.

But Phílip was angry

With me, and he waited

Until I had hoisted

The tub to the oven,

Then struck me a blow

With his fist, on my temple.

"'We're glad that you came,

But you see that you'd better 160

Keep out of the way,'

Said the other young sister

To her that was married.

"Again Philip struck me!

"'It's long since I've seen you,

My dearly-loved daughter,

But could I have known

How the baggage would treat you!'…

Whined Mother-in-law.

"And again Phílip struck me! 170

"Well, that is the story.

'Tis surely not fitting

For wives to sit counting

The blows of their husbands,

But then I had promised

To keep nothing back."

"Ah, well, with these women—

The poisonous serpents!—

A corpse would awaken

And snatch up a horsewhip," 180

The peasants say, smiling.

Matróna said nothing.

The peasants, in order

To keep the occasion

In manner befitting,

Are filling the glasses;

And now they are singing

In voices of thunder

A rollicking chorus,

Of husbands' relations, 190

And wielding the knout.

… …

"Cruel hated husband,

Hark! he is coming!

Holding the knout…."

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt!

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!"

… …

"Run to his father!

Bowing before him— 200

'Save me!' I beg him;

'Stop my fierce husband—

Venomous serpent!'

Father-in-law says,

'Beat her more soundly!

Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt!

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!" 210

… …

"Quick—to his mother!

Bowing before her—

'Save me!' I beg her;

'Stop my cruel husband!

Venomous serpent!'

Mother-in-law says,

'Beat her more soundly,

Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle!

See the blood spurt! 220

Ai, leli, leli!

See the blood spurt!"

* * * * *

"On Lady-day Phílip

Went back to the city;

A little while later

Our baby was born.

Like a bright-coloured picture

Was he—little Djóma;

The sunbeams had given

Their radiance to him, 230

The pure snow its whiteness;

The poppies had painted

His lips; by the sable

His brow had been pencilled;

The falcon had fashioned

His eyes, and had lent them

Their wonderful brightness.

At sight of his first

Angel smile, all the anger

And bitterness nursed 240

In my bosom was melted;

It vanished away

Like the snow on the meadows

At sight of the smiling

Spring sun. And not longer

I worried and fretted;

I worked, and in silence

I let them upbraid.

But soon after that

A misfortune befell me: 250

The manager by

The Pomyéshchick appointed,

Called Sitnikov, hotly

Began to pursue me.

'My lovely Tsaritsa!

'My rosy-ripe berry!'

Said he; and I answered,

'Be off, shameless rascal!

Remember, the berry

Is not in your forest!' 260

I stayed from the field-work,

And hid in the cottage;

He very soon found me.

I hid in the corn-loft,

But Mother-in-law

Dragged me out to the courtyard;

'Now don't play with fire, girl!'

She said. I besought her

To send him away,

But she answered me roughly, 270

'And do you want Phílip

To serve as a soldier?'

I ran to Savyéli,

The grandfather, begging

His aid and advice.

"I haven't yet told you

A word of Savyéli,

The only one living

Of Phílip's relations

Who pitied and loved me. 280

Say, friends, shall I tell you

About him as well?"

"Yes, tell us his tale,

And we'll each throw a couple

Of sheaves in to-morrow,

Above what we promised."

"Well, well," says Matróna,

"And 'twould be a pity

To give old Savyéli

No place in the story; 290

For he was a happy one,

Too—the old man…."

CHAPTER III

SAVYÉLI

"A mane grey and bushy

Which covered his shoulders,

A huge grizzled beard

Which had not seen the scissors

For twenty odd years,

Made Savyéli resemble

A shaggy old bear,

Especially when he

Came out of the forest,

So broad and bent double. 10

The grandfather's shoulders

Were bowed very low,

And at first I was frightened

Whenever he entered

The tiny low cottage:

I thought that were he

To stand straight of a sudden

He'd knock a great hole

With his head in the ceiling.

But Grandfather could not 20

Stand straight, and they told me

That he was a hundred.

He lived all alone

In his own little cottage,

And never permitted

The others to enter;

He couldn't abide them.

Of course they were angry

And often abused him.

His own son would shout at him, 30

'Branded one! Convict!'

But this did not anger

Savyéli, he only

Would go to his cottage

Without making answer,

And, crossing himself,

Begin reading the scriptures;

Then suddenly cry

In a voice loud and joyful,

'Though branded—no slave!' 40

When too much they annoyed him,

He sometimes would say to them:

'Look, the swat's[46] coming!'

The unmarried daughter

Would fly to the window;

Instead of the swat there

A beggar she'd find!

And one day he silvered

A common brass farthing,

And left it to lie 50

On the floor; and then straightway

Did Father-in-law run

In joy to the tavern,—

He came back, not tipsy,

But beaten half-dead!

At supper that night

We were all very silent,

And Father-in-law had

A cut on his eyebrow,

But Grandfather's face 60

Wore a smile like a rainbow!

"Savyéli would gather

The berries and mushrooms

From spring till late autumn,

And snare the wild rabbits;

Throughout the long winter

He lay on the oven

And talked to himself.

He had favourite sayings:

He used to lie thinking 70

For whole hours together,

And once in an hour

You would hear him exclaiming:

"'Destroyed … and subjected!'

Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes!

You're fit but for battles

With old men and women!'

"'Be patient … and perish,

Impatient … and perish!'

"'Eh, you Russian peasant, 80

You giant, you strong man,

The whole of your lifetime

You're flogged, yet you dare not

Take refuge in death,

For Hell's torments await you!'

"'At last the Korójins[47]

Awoke, and they paid him,

They paid him, they paid him,

They paid the whole debt!'

And many such sayings 90

He had,—I forget them.

When Father-in-law grew

Too noisy I always

Would run to Savyéli,

And we two, together,

Would fasten the door.

Then I began working,

While Djómushka climbed

To the grandfather's shoulder,

And sat there, and looked 100

Like a bright little apple

That hung on a hoary

Old tree. Once I asked him:

"'And why do they call you

A convict, Savyéli?'

"'I was once a convict,'

Said he.

"'You, Savyéli!'

"'Yes I, little Grandchild,

Yes, I have been branded. 110

I buried a German

Alive—Christian Vogel.'

"'You're joking, Savyéli!'

"'Oh no, I'm not joking.

I mean it,' he said,

And he told me the story.

"'The peasants in old days

Were serfs as they now are,

But our race had, somehow,

Not seen its Pomyéshchick; 120

No manager knew we,

No pert German agent.

And barschin we gave not,

And taxes we paid not

Except when it pleased us,—

Perhaps once in three years

Our taxes we'd pay.'

"'But why, little Grandad?'

"'The times were so blessed,—

And folk had a saying 130

That our little village

Was sought by the devil

For more than three years,

But he never could find it.

Great forests a thousand

Years old lay about us;

And treacherous marshes

And bogs spread around us;

No horseman and few men

On foot ever reached us. 140

It happened that once

By some chance, our Pomyéshchick,

Shaláshnikov, wanted

To pay us a visit.

High placed in the army

Was he; and he started

With soldiers to find us.

They soon got bewildered

And lost in the forest,

And had to turn back; 150

Why, the Zemsky policeman

Would only come once

In a year! They were good times!

In these days the Barin

Lives under your window;

The roadways go spreading

Around, like white napkins—

The devil destroy them!

We only were troubled

By bears, and the bears too 160

Were easily managed.

Why, I was a worse foe

By far than old Mishka,

When armed with a dagger

And bear-spear. I wandered

In wild, secret woodpaths,

And shouted, ''My forest!''

And once, only once,

I was frightened by something:

I stepped on a huge 170

Female bear that was lying

Asleep in her den

In the heart of the forest.

She flung herself at me,

And straight on my bear-spear

Was fixed. Like a fowl

On the spit she hung twisting

An hour before death.

It was then that my spine snapped.

It often was painful 180

When I was a young man;

But now I am old,

It is fixed and bent double.

Now, do I not look like

A hook, little Grandchild?'

"'But finish the story.

You lived and were not much

Afflicted. What further?'

"'At last our Pomyéshchick

Invented a new game: 190

He sent us an order,

''Appear!'' We appeared not.

Instead, we lay low

In our dens, hardly breathing.

A terrible drought

Had descended that summer,

The bogs were all dry;

So he sent a policeman,

Who managed to reach us,

To gather our taxes, 200

In honey and fish;

A second time came he,

We gave him some bear-skins;

And when for the third time

He came, we gave nothing,—

We said we had nothing.

We put on our laputs,

We put our old caps on,

Our oldest old coats,

And we went to Korójin 210

(For there was our master now,

Stationed with soldiers).

''Your taxes!'' ''We have none,

We cannot pay taxes,

The corn has not grown,

And the fish have escaped us.''

''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.''

He waited no longer;

''Hey! Give them the first round!''

He said, and they flogged us. 220

"'Our pockets were not

Very easily opened;

Shaláshnikov, though, was

A master at flogging.

Our tongues became parched,

And our brains were set whirling,

And still he continued.

He flogged not with birch-rods,

With whips or with sticks,

But with knouts made for giants. 230

At last we could stand it

No longer; we shouted,

''Enough! Let us breathe!''

We unwound our foot-rags

And took out our money,

And brought to the Barin

A ragged old bonnet

With roubles half filled.

"'The Barin grew calm,

He was pleased with the money; 240

He gave us a glass each

Of strong, bitter brandy,

And drank some himself

With the vanquished Korójins,

And gaily clinked glasses.

''It's well that you yielded,''

Said he, ''For I swear

I was fully decided

To strip off the last shred

Of skins from your bodies 250

And use it for making

A drum for my soldiers!

Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!''

(He was pleased with the notion.)

''A fine drum indeed!''

"'In silence we left;

But two stalwart old peasants

Were chuckling together;

They'd two hundred roubles

In notes, the old rascals! 260

Safe hidden away

In the end of their coat-tails.

They both had been yelling,

''We're beggars! We're beggars!''

So carried them home.

''Well, well, you may cackle!''

I thought to myself,

''But the next time, be certain,

You won't laugh at me!''

The others were also 270

Ashamed of their weakness,

And so by the ikons

We swore all together

That next time we rather

Would die of the beating

Than feebly give way.

It seems the Pomyéshchick

Had taken a fancy

At once to our roubles,

Because after that 280

Every year we were summoned

To go to Korójin,

We went, and were flogged.

"'Shaláshnikov flogged like

A prince, but be certain

The treasures he thrashed from

The doughty Korójins

Were not of much weight.

The weak yielded soon,

But the strong stood like iron 290

For the commune. I also

Bore up, and I thought:

''Though never so stoutly

You flog us, you dog's son,

You won't drag the whole soul

From out of the peasant;

Some trace will be left.''

"'When the Barin was sated

We went from the town,

But we stopped on the outskirts 300

To share what was over.

And plenty there was, too!

Shaláshnikov, heh,

You're a fool! It was our turn

To laugh at the Barin;

Ah, they were proud peasants—

The plucky Korójins!

But nowadays show them

The tail of a knout,

And they'll fly to the Barin, 310

And beg him to take

The last coin from their pockets.

Well, that's why we all lived

Like merchants in those days.

One summer came tidings

To us that our Barin

Now owned us no longer,

That he had, at Varna,

Been killed. We weren't sorry,

But somehow we thought then: 320

''The peasants' good fortune

Has come to an end!''

The heir made a new move:

He sent us a German.[48]

Through vast, savage forests,

Through sly sucking bogs

And on foot came the German,

As bare as a finger.

"'As melting as butter

At first was the German: 330

''Just give what you can, then,''

He'd say to the peasants.

"'''We've nothing to give!''

"'''I'll explain to the Barin.''

"'''Explain,'' we replied,

And were troubled no more.

It seemed he was going

To live in the village;

He soon settled down.

On the banks of the river, 340

For hour after hour

He sat peacefully fishing,

And striking his nose

Or his cheek or his forehead.

We laughed: ''You don't like

The Korójin mosquitoes?''

He'd boat near the bankside

And shout with enjoyment,

Like one in the bath-house

Who's got to the roof.[49] 350

"'With youths and young maidens

He strolled in the forest

(They were not for nothing

Those strolls in the forest!)—

''Well, if you can't pay

You should work, little peasants.''

"'''What work should we do?''

"'''You should dig some deep ditches

To drain off the bog-lands.''

We dug some deep ditches. 360

"'''And now trim the forest.''

"'''Well, well, trim the forest….''

We hacked and we hewed

As the German directed,

And when we look round

There's a road through the forest!

"'The German went driving

To town with three horses;

Look! now he is coming

With boxes and bedding, 370

And God knows wherefrom

Has this bare-footed German

Raised wife and small children!

And now he's established

A village ispravnik,[50]

They live like two brothers.

His courtyard at all times

Is teeming with strangers,

And woe to the peasants—

The fallen Korójins! 380

He sucked us all dry

To the very last farthing;

And flog!—like the soul

Of Shaláshnikov flogged he!

Shaláshnikov stopped

When he got what he wanted;

He clung to our backs

Till he'd glutted his stomach,

And then he dropped down

Like a leech from a dog's ear. 390

But he had the grip

Of a corpse—had this German;

Until he had left you

Stripped bare like a beggar

You couldn't escape.'

"'But how could you bear it?'

"'Ah, how could we bear it?

Because we were giants—

Because by their patience

The people of Russia

Are great, little Grandchild. 400

You think, then, Matróna,

That we Russian peasants

No warriors are?

Why, truly the peasant

Does not live in armour,

Does not die in warfare,

But nevertheless

He's a warrior, child.

His hands are bound tight, 410

And his feet hung with fetters;

His back—mighty forests

Have broken across it;

His breast—I will tell you,

The Prophet Elijah

In chariot fiery

Is thundering within it;

And these things the peasant

Can suffer in patience.

He bends—but he breaks not; 420

He reels—but he falls not;

Then is he not truly

A warrior, say?'

"'You joke, little Grandad;

Such warriors, surely,

A tiny mouse nibbling

Could crumble to atoms,'

I said to Savyéli.

"'I know not, Matróna,

But up till to-day 430

He has stood with his burden;

He's sunk in the earth

'Neath its weight to his shoulders;

His face is not moistened

With sweat, but with heart's blood.

I don't know what may

Come to pass in the future,

I can't think what will

Come to pass—only God knows.

For my part, I know 440

When the storm howls in winter,

When old bones are painful,

I lie on the oven,

I lie, and am thinking:

''Eh, you, strength of giants,

On what have they spent you?

On what are you wasted?

With whips and with rods

They will pound you to dust!'''

"'But what of the German, 450

Savyéli?'

"'The German?

Well, well, though he lived

Like a lord in his glory

For eighteen long years,

We were waiting our day.

Then the German considered

A factory needful,

And wanted a pit dug.

'Twas work for nine peasants. 460

We started at daybreak

And laboured till mid-day,

And then we were going

To rest and have dinner,

When up comes the German:

''Eh, you, lazy devils!

So little work done?''

He started to nag us,

Quite coolly and slowly,

Without heat or hurry; 470

For that was his way.

"'And we, tired and hungry,

Stood listening in silence.

He kicked the wet earth

With his boot while he scolded,

Not far from the edge

Of the pit. I stood near him.

And happened to give him

A push with my shoulder;

Then somehow a second 480

And third pushed him gently….

We spoke not a word,

Gave no sign to each other,

But silently, slowly,

Drew closer together,

And edging the German

Respectfully forward,

We brought him at last

To the brink of the hollow….

He tumbled in headlong! 490

''A ladder!'' he bellows;

Nine shovels reply.

''Naddai!''[51]—the word fell

From my lips on the instant,

The word to which people

Work gaily in Russia;

''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!''

And we laboured so bravely

That soon not a trace

Of the pit was remaining, 500

The earth was as smooth

As before we had touched it;

And then we stopped short

And we looked at each other….'

"The old man was silent.

'What further, Savyéli?'

"'What further? Ah, bad times:

The prison in Buy-Town

(I learnt there my letters),

Until we were sentenced; 510

The convict-mines later;

And plenty of lashes.

But I never frowned

At the lash in the prison;

They flogged us but poorly.

And later I nearly

Escaped to the forest;

They caught me, however.

Of course they did not

Pat my head for their trouble; 520

The Governor was through

Siberia famous

For flogging. But had not

Shaláshnikov flogged us?

I spit at the floggings

I got in the prison!

Ah, he was a Master!

He knew how to flog you!

He toughened my hide so

You see it has served me 530

For one hundred years,

And 'twill serve me another.

But life was not easy,

I tell you, Matróna:

First twenty years prison,

Then twenty years exile.

I saved up some money,

And when I came home,

Built this hut for myself.

And here I have lived 540

For a great many years now.

They loved the old grandad

So long as he'd money,

But now it has gone

They would part with him gladly,

They spit in his face.

Eh, you plucky toy heroes!

You're fit to make war

Upon old men and women!'

"And that was as much 550

As the grandfather told me."

"And now for your story,"

They answer Matróna.

"'Tis not very bright.

From one trouble God

In His goodness preserved me;

For Sitnikov died

Of the cholera. Soon, though,

Another arose,

I will tell you about it." 560

"Naddai!" say the peasants

(They love the word well),

They are filling the glasses.

CHAPTER IV

DJÓMUSHKA

"The little tree burns

For the lightning has struck it.

The nightingale's nest

Has been built in its branches.

The little tree burns,

It is sighing and groaning;

The nightingale's children

Are crying and calling:

'Oh, come, little Mother!

Oh, come, little Mother! 10

Take care of us, Mother,

Until we can fly,

Till our wings have grown stronger,

Until we can fly

To the peaceful green forest,

Until we can fly

To the far silent valleys….'

The poor little tree—

It is burnt to grey ashes;

The poor little fledgelings 20

Are burnt to grey ashes.

The mother flies home,

But the tree … and the fledgelings …

The nest…. She is calling,

Lamenting and calling;

She circles around,

She is sobbing and moaning;

She circles so quickly,

She circles so quickly,

Her tiny wings whistle. 30

The dark night has fallen,

The dark world is silent,

But one little creature

Is helplessly grieving

And cannot find comfort;—

The nightingale only

Laments for her children….

She never will see them

Again, though she call them

Till breaks the white day…. 40

I carried my baby

Asleep in my bosom

To work in the meadows.

But Mother-in-law cried,

'Come, leave him behind you,

At home with Savyéli,

You'll work better then.'

And I was so timid,

So tired of her scolding,

I left him behind. 50

"That year it so happened

The harvest was richer

Than ever we'd known it;

The reaping was hard,

But the reapers were merry,

I sang as I mounted

The sheaves on the waggon.

(The waggons are loaded

To laughter and singing;

The sledges in silence, 60

With thoughts sad and bitter;

The waggons convey the corn

Home to the peasants,

The sledges will bear it

Away to the market.)

"But as I was working

I heard of a sudden

A deep groan of anguish:

I saw old Savyéli

Creep trembling towards me, 70

His face white as death:

'Forgive me, Matróna!

Forgive me, Matróna!

I sinned….I was careless.'

He fell at my feet.

"Oh, stay, little swallow!

Your nest build not there!

Not there 'neath the leafless

Bare bank of the river:

The water will rise, 80

And your children will perish.

Oh, poor little woman,

Young wife and young mother,

The daughter-in-law

And the slave of the household,

Bear blows and abuse,

Suffer all things in silence,

But let not your baby

Be torn from your bosom….

Savyéli had fallen 90

Asleep in the sunshine,

And Djóma—the pigs

Had attacked him and killed him.

"I fell to the ground

And lay writhing in torture;

I bit the black earth

And I shrieked in wild anguish;

I called on his name,

And I thought in my madness

My voice must awake him…. 100

"Hark!—horses' hoofs stamping,[52]

And harness-bells jangling—

Another misfortune!

The children are frightened,

They run to the houses;

And outside the window

The old men and women

Are talking in whispers

And nodding together.

The Elder is running 110

And tapping each window

In turn with his staff;

Then he runs to the hayfields,

He runs to the pastures,

To summon the people.

They come, full of sorrow—

Another misfortune!

And God in His wrath

Has sent guests that are hateful,

Has sent unjust judges. 120

Perhaps they want money?

Their coats are worn threadbare?

Perhaps they are hungry?

"Without greeting Christ

They sit down at the table,

They've set up an icon

And cross in the middle;

Our pope, Father John,

Swears the witnesses singly.

"They question Savyéli, 130

And then a policeman

Is sent to find me,

While the officer, swearing,

Is striding about

Like a beast in the forest….

'Now, woman, confess it,'

He cries when I enter,

'You lived with the peasant

Savyéli in sin?'

"I whisper in answer, 140

'Kind sir, you are joking.

I am to my husband

A wife without stain,

And the peasant Savyéli

Is more than a hundred

Years old;—you can see it.'

"He's stamping about

Like a horse in the stable;

In fury he's thumping

His fist on the table. 150

'Be silent! Confess, then,

That you with Savyéli

Had plotted to murder

Your child!'

"Holy Mother!

What horrible ravings!

My God, give me patience,

And let me not strangle

The wicked blasphemer!

I looked at the doctor 160

And shuddered in terror:

Before him lay lancets,

Sharp scissors, and knives.

I conquered myself,

For I knew why they lay there.

I answer him trembling,

'I loved little Djóma,

I would not have harmed him.'

"'And did you not poison him.

Give him some powder?' 170

"'Oh, Heaven forbid!'

I kneel to him crying,

'Be gentle! Have mercy!

And grant that my baby

In honour be buried,

Forbid them to thrust

The cruel knives in his body!

Oh, I am his mother!'

"Can anything move them?

No hearts they possess, 180

In their eyes is no conscience,

No cross at their throats….

"They have lifted the napkin

Which covered my baby;

His little white body

With scissors and lancets

They worry and torture …

The room has grown darker,

I'm struggling and screaming,

'You butchers! You fiends! 190

Not on earth, not on water,

And not on God's temple

My tears shall be showered;

But straight on the souls

Of my hellish tormentors!

Oh, hear me, just God!

May Thy curse fall and strike them!

Ordain that their garments

May rot on their bodies!

Their eyes be struck blind, 200

And their brains scorch in madness!

Their wives be unfaithful,

Their children be crippled!

Oh, hear me, just God!

Hear the prayers of a mother,

And look on her tears,—

Strike these pitiless devils!'

"'She's crazy, the woman!'

The officer shouted,

'Why did you not tell us 210

Before? Stop this fooling!

Or else I shall order

My men, here, to bind you.'

"I sank on the bench,

I was trembling all over;

I shook like a leaf

As I gazed at the doctor;

His sleeves were rolled backwards,

A knife was in one hand,

A cloth in the other, 220

And blood was upon it;

His glasses were fixed

On his nose. All was silent.

The officer's pen

Began scratching on paper;

The motionless peasants

Stood gloomy and mournful;

The pope lit his pipe

And sat watching the doctor.

He said, 'You are reading 230

A heart with a knife.'

I started up wildly;

I knew that the doctor

Was piercing the heart

Of my little dead baby.

"'Now, bind her, the vixen!'

The officer shouted;—

She's mad!' He began

To inquire of the peasants,

'Have none of you noticed 240

Before that the woman

Korchágin is crazy?'

"'No,' answered the peasants.

And then Phílip's parents

He asked, and their children;

They answered, 'Oh, no, sir!

We never remarked it.'

He asked old Savyéli,—

There's one thing,' he answered,

'That might make one think 250

That Matróna is crazy:

She's come here this morning

Without bringing with her

A present of money

Or cloth to appease you.'

"And then the old man

Began bitterly crying.

The officer frowning

Sat down and said nothing.

And then I remembered: 260

In truth it was madness—

The piece of new linen

Which I had made ready

Was still in my box—

I'd forgotten to bring it;

And now I had seen them

Seize Djómushka's body

And tear it to pieces.

I think at that moment

I turned into marble: 270

I watched while the doctor

Was drinking some vodka

And washing his hands;

I saw how he offered

The glass to the pope,

And I heard the pope answer,

'Why ask me? We mortals

Are pitiful sinners,—

We don't need much urging

To empty a glass!' 280

"The peasants are standing

In fear, and are thinking:

'Now, how did these vultures

Get wind of the matter?

Who told them that here

There was chance of some profit?

They dashed in like wolves,

Seized the beards of the peasants,

And snarled in their faces

Like savage hyenas!' 290

"And now they are feasting,

Are eating and drinking;

They chat with the pope,

He is murmuring to them,

'The people in these parts

Are beggars and drunken;

They owe me for countless

Confessions and weddings;

They'll take their last farthing

To spend in the tavern; 300

And nothing but sins

Do they bring to their priest.'

"And then I hear singing

In clear, girlish voices—

I know them all well:

There's Natásha and Glásha,

And Dáriushka,—Jesus

Have mercy upon them!

Hark! steps and accordion;

Then there is silence. 310

I think I had fallen

Asleep; then I fancied

That somebody entering

Bent over me, saying,

'Sleep, woman of sorrows,

Exhausted by sorrow,'

And making the sign

Of the cross on my forehead.

I felt that the ropes

On my body were loosened, 320

And then I remembered

No more. In black darkness

I woke, and astonished

I ran to the window:

Deep night lay around me—

What's happened? Where am I?

I ran to the street,—

It was empty, in Heaven

No moon and no stars,

And a great cloud of darkness 330

Spread over the village.

The huts of the peasants

Were dark; only one hut

Was brilliantly lighted,

It shone like a palace—

The hut of Savyéli.

I ran to the doorway,

And then … I remembered.

"The table was gleaming

With yellow wax candles, 340

And there, in the midst,

Lay a tiny white coffin,

And over it spread

Was a fine coloured napkin,

An icon was placed

At its head….

O you builders,

For my little son

What a house you have fashioned!

No windows you've made 350

That the sunshine may enter,

No stove and no bench,

And no soft little pillows….

Oh, Djómushka will not

Feel happy within it,

He cannot sleep well….

'Begone!'—I cried harshly

On seeing Savyéli;

He stood near the coffin

And read from the book 360

In his hand, through his glasses.

I cursed old Savyéli,

Cried—'Branded one! Convict!

Begone! 'Twas you killed him!

You murdered my, Djóma,

Begone from my sight!'

"He stood without moving;

He crossed himself thrice

And continued his reading.

But when I grew calmer 370

Savyéli approached me,

And said to me gently,

'In winter, Matróna,

I told you my story,

But yet there was more.

Our forests were endless,

Our lakes wild and lonely,

Our people were savage;

By cruelty lived we:

By snaring the wood-grouse, 380

By slaying the bears:—

You must kill or you perish!

I've told you of Barin

Shaláshnikov, also

Of how we were robbed

By the villainous German,

And then of the prison,

The exile, the mines.

My heart was like stone,

I grew wild and ferocious. 390

My winter had lasted

A century, Grandchild,

But your little Djóma

Had melted its frosts.

One day as I rocked him

He smiled of a sudden,

And I smiled in answer….

A strange thing befell me

Some days after that:

As I prowled in the forest 400

I aimed at a squirrel;

But suddenly noticed

How happy and playful

It was, in the branches:

Its bright little face

With its paw it sat washing.

I lowered my gun:—

'You shall live, little squirrel!'

I rambled about

In the woods, in the meadows, 410

And each tiny floweret

I loved. I went home then

And nursed little Djóma,

And played with him, laughing.

God knows how I loved him,

The innocent babe!

And now … through my folly,

My sin, … he has perished….

Upbraid me and kill me,

But nothing can help you, 420

With God one can't argue….

Stand up now, Matróna,

And pray for your baby;

God acted with reason:

He's counted the joys

In the life of a peasant!'

"Long, long did Savyéli

Stand bitterly speaking,

The piteous fate

Of the peasant he painted; 430

And if a rich Barin,

A merchant or noble,

If even our Father

The Tsar had been listening,

Savyéli could not

Have found words which were truer,

Have spoken them better….

"'Now Djóma is happy

And safe, in God's Heaven,'

He said to me later. 440

His tears began falling….

"'I do not complain

That God took him, Savyéli,'

I said,—'but the insult

They did him torments me,

It's racking my heart.

Why did vicious black ravens

Alight on his body

And tear it to pieces?

Will neither our God 450

Nor our Tsar—Little Father—

Arise to defend us?'

"'But God, little Grandchild,

Is high, and the Tsar

Far away,' said Savyéli.

"I cried, 'Yet I'll reach them!'

"But Grandfather answered,

'Now hush, little Grandchild,

You woman of sorrow,

Bow down and have patience; 460

No truth you will find

In the world, and no justice.'

"'But why then, Savyéli?'

"'A bondswoman, Grandchild,

You are; and for such

Is no hope,' said Savyéli.

"For long I sat darkly

And bitterly thinking.

The thunder pealed forth

And the windows were shaken; 470

I started! Savyéli

Drew nearer and touched me,

And led me to stand

By the little white coffin:

"'Now pray that the Lord

May have placed little Djóma

Among the bright ranks

Of His angels,' he whispered;

A candle he placed

In my hand…. And I knelt there 480

The whole of the night

Till the pale dawn of daybreak:

The grandfather stood

Beside Djómushka's coffin

And read from the book

In a measured low voice…."

CHAPTER V

THE SHE-WOLF

"'Tis twenty years now

Since my Djóma was taken,

Was carried to sleep

'Neath his little grass blanket;

And still my heart bleeds,

And I pray for him always,

No apple till Spassa[53]

I touch with my lips….

"For long I lay ill,

Not a word did I utter, 10

My eyes could not suffer

The old man, Savyéli.

No work did I do,

And my Father-in-law thought

To give me a lesson

And took down the horse-reins;

I bowed to his feet,

And cried—'Kill me! Oh, kill me!

I pray for the end!'

He hung the reins up, then. 20

I lived day and night

On the grave of my Djóma,

I dusted it clean

With a soft little napkin

That grass might grow green,

And I prayed for my lost one.

I yearned for my parents:

'Oh, you have forgotten,

Forgotten your daughter!'

"'We have not forgotten 30

Our poor little daughter,

But is it worth while, say,

To wear the grey horse out

By such a long journey

To learn about your woes,

To tell you of ours?

Since long, little daughter,

Would father and mother

Have journeyed to see you,

But ever the thought rose: 40

She'll weep at our coming,

She'll shriek when we leave!'

"In winter came Philip,

Our sorrow together

We shared, and together

We fought with our grief

In the grandfather's hut."

"The grandfather died, then?"

"Oh, no, in his cottage

For seven whole days 50

He lay still without speaking,

And then he got up

And he went to the forest;

And there old Savyéli

So wept and lamented,

The woods were set throbbing.

In autumn he left us

And went as a pilgrim

On foot to do penance

At some distant convent…. 60

"I went with my husband

To visit my parents,

And then began working

Again. Three years followed,

Each week like the other,

As twin to twin brother,

And each year a child.

There was no time for thinking

And no time for grieving;

Praise God if you have time 70

For getting your work done

And crossing your forehead.

You eat—when there's something

Left over at table,

When elders have eaten,

When children have eaten;

You sleep—when you're ill….

"In the fourth year came sorrow

Again; for when sorrow

Once lightens upon you 80

To death he pursues you;

He circles before you—

A bright shining falcon;

He hovers behind you—

An ugly black raven;

He flies in advance—

But he will not forsake you;

He lingers behind—

But he will not forget….

"I lost my dear parents. 90

The dark nights alone knew

The grief of the orphan;

No need is there, brothers,

To tell you about it.

With tears did I water

The grave of my baby.

From far once I noticed

A wooden cross standing

Erect at its head,

And a little gilt icon; 100

A figure is kneeling

Before it—'Savyéli!

From whence have you come?'

"'I have come from Pesótchna.

I've prayed for the soul

Of our dear little Djóma;

I've prayed for the peasants

Of Russia…. Matróna,

Once more do I pray—

Oh, Matróna … Matróna…. 110

I pray that the heart

Of the mother, at last,

May be softened towards me….

Forgive me, Matróna!'

"'Oh, long, long ago

I forgave you, Savyéli.'

"'Then look at me now

As in old times, Matróna!'

"I looked as of old.

Then up rose Savyéli, 120

And gazed in my eyes;

He was trying to straighten

His stiffened old back;

Like the snow was his hair now.

I kissed the old man,

And my new grief I told him;

For long we sat weeping

And mourning together.

He did not live long

After that. In the autumn 130

A deep wound appeared

In his neck, and he sickened.

He died very hard.

For a hundred days, fully,

No food passed his lips;

To the bone he was shrunken.

He laughed at himself:

'Tell me, truly, Matróna,

Now am I not like

A Korójin mosquito?' 140

"At times the old man

Would be gentle and patient;

At times he was angry

And nothing would please him;

He frightened us all

By his outbursts of fury:

'Eh, plough not, and sow not,

You downtrodden peasants!

You women, sit spinning

And weaving no longer! 150

However you struggle,

You fools, you must perish!

You will not escape

What by fate has been written!

Three roads are spread out

For the peasant to follow—

They lead to the tavern,

The mines, and the prison!

Three nooses are hung

For the women of Russia: 160

The one is of white silk,

The second of red silk,

The third is of black silk—

Choose that which you please!'

And Grandfather laughed

In a manner which caused us

To tremble with fear

And draw nearer together….

He died in the night,

And we did as he asked us: 170

We laid him to rest

In the grave beside Djóma.

The Grandfather lived

To a hundred and seven….

"Four years passed away then,

The one like the other,

And I was submissive,

The slave of the household,

For Mother-in-law

And her husband the drunkard, 180

For Sister-in-law

By all suitors rejected.

I'd draw off their boots—

Only,—touch not my children!

For them I stood firm

Like a rock. Once it happened

A pilgrim arrived

At our village—a holy

And pious-tongued woman;

She spoke to the people 190

Of how to please God

And of how to reach Heaven.

She said that on fast-days

No woman should offer

The breast to her child.

The women obeyed her:

On Wednesdays and Fridays

The village was filled

By the wailing of babies;

And many a mother 200

Sat bitterly weeping

To hear her child cry

For its food—full of pity,

But fearing God's anger.

But I did not listen!

I said to myself

That if penance were needful

The mothers must suffer,

But not little children.

I said, 'I am guilty, 210

My God—not my children!'

"It seems God was angry

And punished me for it

Through my little son;

My Father-in-law

To the commune had offered

My little Fedótka

As help to the shepherd

When he was turned eight….

One night I was waiting 220

To give him his supper;

The cattle already

Were home, but he came not.

I went through the village

And saw that the people

Were gathered together

And talking of something.

I listened, then elbowed

My way through the people;

Fedótka was set 230

In their midst, pale and trembling,

The Elder was gripping

His ear. 'What has happened?

And why do you hold him?'

I said to the Elder.

"'I'm going to beat him,—

He threw a young lamb

To the wolf,' he replied.

"I snatched my Fedótka

Away from their clutches; 240

And somehow the Elder

Fell down on the ground!

"The story was strange:

It appears that the shepherd

Went home for awhile,

Leaving little Fedótka

In charge of the flock.

'I was sitting,' he told me,

'Alone on the hillside,

When all of a sudden 250

A wolf ran close by me

And picked Masha's lamb up.

I threw myself at her,

I whistled and shouted,

I cracked with my whip,

Blew my horn for Valétka,

And then I gave chase.

I run fast, little Mother,

But still I could never

Have followed the robber 260

If not for the traces

She left; because, Mother,

Her breasts hung so low

(She was suckling her children)

They dragged on the earth

And left two tracks of blood.

But further the grey one

Went slower and slower;

And then she looked back

And she saw I was coming. 270

At last she sat down.

With my whip then I lashed her;

''Come, give me the lamb,

You grey devil!'' She crouched,

But would not give it up.

I said—''I must save it

Although she should kill me.''

I threw myself on her

And snatched it away,

But she did not attack me. 280

The lamb was quite dead,

She herself was scarce living.

She gnashed with her teeth

And her breathing was heavy;

And two streams of blood ran

From under her body.

Her ribs could be counted,

Her head was hung down,

But her eyes, little Mother,

Looked straight into mine … 290

Then she groaned of a sudden,

She groaned, and it sounded

As if she were crying.

I threw her the lamb….'

"Well, that was the story.

And foolish Fedótka

Ran back to the village

And told them about it.

And they, in their anger,

Were going to beat him 300

When I came upon them.

The Elder, because

Of his fall, was indignant,

He shouted—'How dare you!

Do you want a beating

Yourself?' And the woman

Whose lamb had been stolen

Cried, 'Whip the lad soundly,

'Twill teach him a lesson!'

Fedótka she pulled from 310

My arms, and he trembled,

He shook like a leaf.

"Then the horns of the huntsmen

Were heard,—the Pomyéshchick

Returning from hunting.

I ran to him, crying,

'Oh, save us! Protect us!'

"'What's wrong? Call the Elder!'

And then, in an instant,

The matter is settled: 320

'The shepherd is tiny—

His youth and his folly

May well be forgiven.

The woman's presumption

You'll punish severely!'

"'Oh, Barin, God bless you!'

I danced with delight!

'Fedótka is safe now!

Run home, quick, Fedótka.'

"'Your will shall be done, sir,' 330

The Elder said, bowing;

'Now, woman, prepare;

You can dance later on!'

"A gossip then whispered,

'Fall down at the feet

Of the Elder—beg mercy!'

"'Fedótka—go home!'

"Then I kissed him, and told him:

'Remember, Fedótka,

That I shall be angry 340

If once you look backwards.

Run home!'

"Well, my brothers,

To leave out a word

Of the song is to spoil it,—

I lay on the ground…."

* * * * *

"I crawled like a cat

To Fedótushka's corner

That night. He was sleeping,

He tossed in his dream. 350

One hand was hung down,

While the other, clenched tightly,

Was shielding his eyes:

'You've been crying, my treasure;

Sleep, darling, it's nothing—

See, Mother is near!'

I'd lost little Djóma

While heavy with this one;

He was but a weakling,

But grew very clever. 360

He works with his dad now,

And built such a chimney

With him, for his master,

The like of it never

Was seen. Well, I sat there

The whole of the night

By the sweet little shepherd.

At daybreak I crossed him,

I fastened his laputs,

I gave him his wallet, 370

His horn and his whip.

The rest began stirring,

But nothing I told them

Of all that had happened,

But that day I stayed

From the work in the fields.

"I went to the banks

Of the swift little river,

I sought for a spot

Which was silent and lonely 380

Amid the green rushes

That grow by the bank.

"And on the grey stone

I sat down, sick and weary,

And leaning my head

On my hands, I lamented,

Poor sorrowing orphan.

And loudly I called

On the names of my parents:

'Oh, come, little Father, 390

My tender protector!

Oh, look at the daughter

You cherished and loved!'

"In vain do I call him!

The loved one has left me;

The guest without lord,

Without race, without kindred,

Named Death, has appeared,

And has called him away.

"And wildly I summon 400

My mother, my mother!

The boisterous wind cries,

The distant hills answer,

But mother is dead,

She can hear me no longer!

"You grieved day and night,

And you prayed for me always,

But never, beloved,

Shall I see you again;

You cannot turn back now, 410

And I may not follow.

"A pathway so strange,

So unknown, you have chosen,

The beasts cannot find it,

The winds cannot reach it,

My voice will be lost

In the terrible distance….

"My loving protectors,

If you could but see me!

Could know what your daughter 420

Must suffer without you!

Could learn of the people

To whom you have left her!

"By night bathed in tears,

And by day weak and trembling,

I bow like the grass

To the wind, but in secret

A heart full of fury

Is gnawing my breast!"

CHAPTER VI

AN UNLUCKY YEAR

"Strange stars played that year

On the face of the Heavens;

And some said, 'The Lord rides

Abroad, and His angels

With long flaming brooms sweep

The floor of the Heavens

In front of his carriage.'

But others were frightened,—

They said, 'It is rather

The Antichrist coming! 10

It signals misfortune!'

And they read it truly.

A terrible year came,

A terrible famine,

When brother denied

To his brother a morsel.

And then I remembered

The wolf that was hungry,

For I was like her,

Craving food for my children. 20

Now Mother-in-law found

A new superstition:

She said to the neighbours

That I was the reason

Of all the misfortune;

And why? I had caused it

By changing my shirt

On the day before Christmas!

Well, I escaped lightly,

For I had a husband 30

To shield and protect me,

But one woman, having

Offended, was beaten

To death by the people.

To play with the starving

Is dangerous, my friends.

"The famine was scarcely

At end, when another

Misfortune befell us—

The dreaded recruiting. 40

But I was not troubled

By that, because Phílip

Was safe: one already

Had served of his people.

One night I sat working,

My husband, his brothers,

The family, all had

Been out since the morning.

My Father-in-law

Had been called to take part 50

In the communal meeting.

The women were standing

And chatting with neighbours.

But I was exhausted,

For then I was heavy

With child. I was ailing,

And hourly expected

My time. When the children

Were fed and asleep

I lay down on the oven. 60

The women came home soon

And called for their suppers;

But Father-in-law

Had not come, so we waited.

He came, tired and gloomy:

'Eh, wife, we are ruined!

I'm weary with running,

But nothing can save us:

They've taken the eldest—

Now give them the youngest! 70

I've counted the years

To a day—I have proved them;

They listen to nothing.

They want to take Phílip!

I prayed to the commune—

But what is it worth?

I ran to the bailiff;

He swore he was sorry,

But couldn't assist us.

I went to the clerk then; 80

You might just as well

Set to work with a hatchet

To chop out the shadows

Up there, on the ceiling,

As try to get truth

Out of that little rascal!

He's bought. They are all bought,—

Not one of them honest!

If only he knew it—

The Governor—he'd teach them! 90

If he would but order

The commune to show him

The lists of the volost,

And see how they cheat us!'

The mother and daughters

Are groaning and crying;

But I! … I am cold….

I am burning in fever! …

My thoughts … I have no thoughts!

I think I am dreaming! 100

My fatherless children

Are standing before me,

And crying with hunger.

The family, frowning,

Looks coldly upon them….

At home they are 'noisy,'

At play they are 'clumsy,'

At table they're 'gluttons'!

And somebody threatens

To punish my children— 110

They slap them and pinch them!

Be silent, you mother!

You wife of a soldier!"

* * * * *

"I now have no part

In the village allotments,

No share in the building,

The clothes, and the cattle,

And these are my riches:

Three lakes of salt tear-drops,

Three fields sown with grief!" 120

* * * * *

"And now, like a sinner,

I bow to the neighbours;

I ask their forgiveness;

I hear myself saying,

'Forgive me for being

So haughty and proud!

I little expected

That God, for my pride,

Would have left me forsaken!

I pray you, good people, 130

To show me more wisdom,

To teach me to live

And to nourish my children,

What food they should have,

And what drink, and what teaching.'"

* * * * *

"I'm sending my children

To beg in the village;

'Go, children, beg humbly,

But dare not to steal.'

The children are sobbing, 140

'It's cold, little Mother,

Our clothes are in rags;

We are weary of passing

From doorway to doorway;

We stand by the windows

And shiver. We're frightened

To beg of the rich folk;

The poor ones say, ''God will

Provide for the orphans!''

We cannot come home, 150

For if we bring nothing

We know you'll be angry!'"

* * * * *

"To go to God's church

I have made myself tidy;

I hear how the neighbours

Are laughing around me:

'Now who is she setting

Her cap at?' they whisper."

* * * * *

"Don't wash yourself clean.

And don't dress yourself nicely; 160

The neighbours are sharp—

They have eyes like the eagle

And tongues like the serpent.

Walk humbly and slowly,

Don't laugh when you're cheerful,

Don't weep when you're sad."

* * * * *

"The dull, endless winter

Has come, and the fields

And the pretty green meadows

Are hidden away 170

'Neath the snow. Nothing living

Is seen in the folds

Of the gleaming white grave-clothes.

No friend under Heaven

There is for the woman,

The wife of the soldier.

Who knows what her thoughts are?

Who cares for her words?

Who is sad for her sorrow?

And where can she bury 180

The insults they cast her?

Perhaps in the woods?—

But the woods are all withered!

Perhaps in the meadows?—

The meadows are frozen!

The swift little stream?—

But its waters are sleeping!

No,—carry them with you

To hide in your grave!"

* * * * *

"My husband is gone; 190

There is no one to shield me.

Hark, hark! There's the drum!

And the soldiers are coming!

They halt;—they are forming

A line in the market.

'Attention!' There's Phílip!

There's Phílip! I see him!

'Attention! Eyes front!'

It's Shaláshnikov shouting….

Oh, Phílip has fallen! 200

Have mercy! Have mercy!

'Try that—try some physic!

You'll soon get to like it!

Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!'

He is striking my husband!

'I flog, not with whips,

But with knouts made for giants!'"

* * * * *

"I sprang from the stove,

Though my burden was heavy;

I listen…. All silent…. 210

The family sleeping.

I creep to the doorway

And open it softly,

I pass down the street

Through the night…. It is frosty.

In Domina's hut,

Where the youths and young maidens

Assemble at night,

They are singing in chorus

My favourite song: 220

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,

The little cottage at its foot,

And Máshenka is there.

Her father comes to look for her,

He wakens her and coaxes her:

''Eh, Máshenka, come home,'' he cries,

''Efeémovna, come home!''

"'''I won't come, and I won't listen!

Black the night—no moon in Heaven!

Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry!

Dark the wood—no guards.'' 231

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,

The little cottage at its foot,

And Máshenka is there.

Her mother comes to look for her,

She wakens her and coaxes her:

''Now, Máshenka, come home,'' she says,

''Efeémovna, come home!''

"'''I won't come, and I won't listen!

Black the night—no moon in Heaven!

Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry!

Dark the wood—no guards!'' 242

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands,

The little cottage at its foot,

And Máshenka is there.

Young Peter comes to look for her,

He wakens her, and coaxes her:

''Oh, Máshenka, come home with me!

My little dove, Efeémovna,

Come home, my dear, with me.'' 250

"'''I will come, and I will listen,

Fair the night—the moon in Heaven,

Calm the stream with bridge and ferry,

In the wood strong guards.'''"

CHAPTER VII

THE GOVERNOR'S LADY

"I'm hurrying blindly,

I've run through the village;

Yet strangely the singing

From Domina's cottage

Pursues me and rings

In my ears. My pace slackens,

I rest for awhile,

And look back at the village:

I see the white snowdrift

O'er valley and meadow, 10

The moon in the Heavens,

My self, and my shadow….

"I do not feel frightened;

A flutter of gladness

Awakes in my bosom,

'You brisk winter breezes,

My thanks for your freshness!

I crave for your breath

As the sick man for water.'

My mind has grown clear, 20

To my knees I am falling:

'O Mother of Christ!

I beseech Thee to tell me

Why God is so angry

With me. Holy Mother!

No tiniest bone

In my limbs is unbroken;

No nerve in my body

Uncrushed. I am patient,—

I have not complained. 30

All the strength that God gave me

I've spent on my work;

All the love on my children.

But Thou seest all things,

And Thou art so mighty;

Oh, succour thy slave!'

"I love now to pray

On a night clear and frosty;

To kneel on the earth

'Neath the stars in the winter. 40

Remember, my brothers,

If trouble befall you,

To counsel your women

To pray in that manner;

In no other place

Can one pray so devoutly,

At no other season….

"I prayed and grew stronger;

I bowed my hot head

To the cool snowy napkin, 50

And quickly my fever

Was spent. And when later

I looked at the roadway

I found that I knew it;

I'd passed it before

On the mild summer evenings;

At morning I'd greeted

The sunrise upon it

In haste to be off

To the fair. And I walked now 60

The whole of the night

Without meeting a soul….

But now to the cities

The sledges are starting,

Piled high with the hay

Of the peasants. I watch them,

And pity the horses:

Their lawful provision

Themselves they are dragging

Away from the courtyard; 70

And afterwards they

Will be hungry. I pondered:

The horses that work

Must eat straw, while the idlers

Are fed upon oats.

But when Need comes he hastens

To empty your corn-lofts,

Won't wait to be asked….

"I come within sight

Of the town. On the outskirts 80

The merchants are cheating

And wheedling the peasants,

There's shouting and swearing,

Abusing and coaxing.

"I enter the town

As the bell rings for matins.

I make for the market

Before the cathedral.

I know that the gates

Of the Governor's courtyard 90

Are there. It is dark still,

The square is quite empty;

In front of the courtyard

A sentinel paces:

'Pray tell me, good man,

Does the Governor rise early?'

"'Don't know. Go away.

I'm forbidden to chatter.'

(I give him some farthings.)

'Well, go to the porter; 100

He knows all about it.'

"'Where is he? And what

Is his name, little sentry?'

"'Makhár Fedosséich,

He stands at the entrance.'

I walk to the entrance,

The doors are not opened.

I sit on the doorsteps

And think….

"It grows lighter, 110

A man with a ladder

Is turning the lamps down.

"'Heh, what are you doing?

And how did you enter?'

"I start in confusion,

I see in the doorway

A bald-headed man

In a bed-gown. Then quickly

I come to my senses,

And bowing before him 120

(Makhár Fedosséich),

I give him a rouble.

"'I come in great need

To the Governor, and see him

I must, little Uncle!'

"'You can't see him, woman.

Well, well…. I'll consider….

Return in two hours.'

"I see in the market

A pedestal standing, 130

A peasant upon it,

He's just like Savyéli,

And all made of brass:

It's Susánin's memorial.

While crossing the market

I'm suddenly startled—

A heavy grey drake

From a cook is escaping;

The fellow pursues

With a knife. It is shrieking. 140

My God, what a sound!

To the soul it has pierced me.

('Tis only the knife

That can wring such a shriek.)

The cook has now caught it;

It stretches its neck,

Begins angrily hissing,

As if it would frighten

The cook,—the poor creature!

I run from the market, 150

I'm trembling and thinking,

'The drake will grow calm

'Neath the kiss of the knife!'

"The Governor's dwelling

Again is before me,

With balconies, turrets,

And steps which are covered

With beautiful carpets.

I gaze at the windows

All shaded with curtains. 160

'Now, which is your chamber,'

I think, 'my desired one?

Say, do you sleep sweetly?

Of what are you dreaming?'

I creep up the doorsteps,

And keep to the side

Not to tread on the carpets;

And there, near the entrance,

I wait for the porter.

"'You're early, my gossip!' 170

Again I am startled:

A stranger I see,—

For at first I don't know him;

A livery richly

Embroidered he wears now;

He holds a fine staff;

He's not bald any longer!

He laughs—'You were frightened?'

"'I'm tired, little Uncle.'

"'You've plenty of courage, 180

God's mercy be yours!

Come, give me another,

And I will befriend you.'

"(I give him a rouble.)

'Now come, I will make you

Some tea in my office.'

"His den is just under

The stairs. There's a bedstead,

A little iron stove,

And a candlestick in it, 190

A big samovar,

And a lamp in the corner.

Some pictures are hung

On the wall. 'That's His Highness,'

The porter remarks,

And he points with his finger.

I look at the picture:

A warrior covered

With stars. 'Is he gentle?'

"'That's just as you happen 200

To find him. Why, neighbour,

The same is with me:

To-day I'm obliging,

At times I'm as cross

As a dog.'

"'You are dull here,

Perhaps, little Uncle?'

"'Oh no, I'm not dull;

I've a task that's exciting:

Ten years have I fought 210

With a foe: Sleep his name is.

And I can assure you

That when I have taken

An odd cup of vodka,

The stove is red hot,

And the smuts from the candle

Have blackened the air,

It's a desperate struggle!'

"There's somebody knocking.

Makhár has gone out; 220

I am sitting alone now.

I go to the door

And look out. In the courtyard

A carriage is waiting.

I ask, 'Is he coming?'

'The lady is coming,'

The porter makes answer,

And hurries away

To the foot of the staircase.

A lady descends, 230

Wrapped in costliest sables,

A lackey behind her.

I know not what followed

(The Mother of God

Must have come to my aid),

It seems that I fell

At the feet of the lady,

And cried, 'Oh, protect us!

They try to deceive us!

My husband—the only 240

Support of my children—

They've taken away—

Oh, they've acted unjustly!'…

"'Who are you, my pigeon?'

"My answer I know not,

Or whether I gave one;

A sudden sharp pang tore

My body in twain."

* * * * *

"I opened my eyes

In a beautiful chamber, 250

In bed I was laid

'Neath a canopy, brothers,

And near me was sitting

A nurse, in a head-dress

All streaming with ribbons.

She's nursing a baby.

'Who's is it?' I ask her.

"'It's yours, little Mother.'

I kiss my sweet child.

It seems, when I fell 260

At the feet of the lady,

I wept so and raved so,

Already so weakened

By grief and exhaustion,

That there, without warning,

My labour had seized me.

I bless the sweet lady,

Elyén Alexándrovna,

Only a mother

Could bless her as I do. 270

She christened my baby,

Lidórushka called him."

"And what of your husband?"

"They sent to the village

And started enquiries,

And soon he was righted.

Elyén Alexándrovna

Brought him herself

To my side. She was tender

And clever and lovely, 280

And healthy, but childless,

For God would not grant her

A child. While I stayed there

My baby was never

Away from her bosom.

She tended and nursed him

Herself, like a mother.

The spring had set in

And the birch trees were budding,

Before she would let us 290

Set out to go home.

"Oh, how fair and bright

In God's world to-day!

Glad my heart and gay!

"Homewards lies our way,

Near the wood we pause,

See, the meadows green,

Hark! the waters play.

Rivulet so pure,

Little child of Spring, 300

How you leap and sing,

Rippling in the leaves!

High the little lark

Soars above our heads,

Carols blissfully!

Let us stand and gaze;

Soon our eyes will meet,

I will laugh to thee,

Thou wilt smile at me,

Wee Lidórushka! 310

"Look, a beggar comes,

Trembling, weak, old man,

Give him what we can.

'Do not pray for us,'

Let us to him say,

'Father, you must pray

For Elyénushka,

For the lady fair,

Alexándrovna!'

"Look, the church of God! 320

Sign the cross we twain

Time and time again….

'Grant, O blessed Lord,

Thy most fair reward

To the gentle heart

Of Elyénushka,

Alexándrovna!'

"Green the forest grows,

Green the pretty fields,

In each dip and dell 330

Bright a mirror gleams.

Oh, how fair it is

In God's world to-day,

Glad my heart and gay!

Like the snowy swan

O'er the lake I sail,

O'er the waving steppes

Speeding like the quail.

"Here we are at home.

Through the door I fly 340

Like the pigeon grey;

Low the family

Bow at sight of me,

Nearly to the ground,

Pardon they beseech

For the way in which

They have treated me.

'Sit you down,' I say,

'Do not bow to me.

Listen to my words: 350

You must bow to one

Better far than I,

Stronger far than I,

Sing your praise to her.'

"'Sing to whom,' you say?

'To Elyénushka,

To the fairest soul

God has sent on earth:

Alexándrovna!'"

CHAPTER VIII

THE WOMAN'S LEGEND

Matróna is silent.

You see that the peasants

Have seized the occasion—

They are not forgetting

To drink to the health

Of the beautiful lady!

But noticing soon

That Matróna is silent,

In file they approach her.

"What more will you tell us?" 10

"What more?" says Matróna,

"My fame as the 'lucky one'

Spread through the volost,

Since then they have called me

'The Governor's Lady.'

You ask me, what further?

I managed the household,

And brought up my children.

You ask, was I happy?

Well, that you can answer 20

Yourselves. And my children?

Five sons! But the peasant's

Misfortunes are endless:

They've robbed me of one."

She lowers her voice,

And her lashes are trembling,

But turning her head

She endeavours to hide it.

The peasants are rather

Confused, but they linger: 30

"Well, neighbour," they say,

"Will you tell us no more?"

"There's one thing: You're foolish

To seek among women

For happiness, brothers."

"That's all?"

"I can tell you

That twice we were swallowed

By fire, and that three times

The plague fell upon us; 40

But such things are common

To all of us peasants.

Like cattle we toiled,

My steps were as easy

As those of a horse

In the plough. But my troubles

Were not very startling:

No mountains have moved

From their places to crush me;

And God did not strike me 50

With arrows of thunder.

The storm in my soul

Has been silent, unnoticed,

So how can I paint it

To you? O'er the Mother

Insulted and outraged,

The blood of her first-born

As o'er a crushed worm

Has been poured; and unanswered

The deadly offences 60

That many have dealt her;

The knout has been raised

Unopposed o'er her body.

But one thing I never

Have suffered: I told you

That Sítnikov died,

That the last, irreparable

Shame had been spared me.

You ask me for happiness?

Brothers, you mock me! 70

Go, ask the official,

The Minister mighty,

The Tsar—Little Father,

But never a woman!

God knows—among women

Your search will be endless,

Will lead to your graves.

"A pious old woman

Once asked us for shelter;

The whole of her lifetime 80

The Flesh she had conquered

By penance and fasting;

She'd bathed in the Jordan,

And prayed at the tomb

Of Christ Jesus. She told us

The keys to the welfare

And freedom of women

Have long been mislaid—

God Himself has mislaid them.

And hermits, chaste women, 90

And monks of great learning,

Have sought them all over

The world, but not found them.

They're lost, and 'tis thought

By a fish they've been swallowed.

God's knights have been seeking

In towns and in deserts,

Weak, starving, and cold,

Hung with torturing fetters.

They've asked of the seers, 100

The stars they have counted

To learn;—but no keys!

Through the world they have journeyed;

In underground caverns,

In mountains, they've sought them.

At last they discovered

Some keys. They were precious,

But only—not ours.

Yet the warriors triumphed:

They fitted the lock 110

On the fetters of serfdom!

A sigh from all over

The world rose to Heaven,

A breath of relief,

Oh, so deep and so joyful!

Our keys were still missing….

Great champions, though,

Till to-day are still searching,

Deep down in the bed

Of the ocean they wander, 120

They fly to the skies,

In the clouds they are seeking,

But never the keys.

Do you think they will find them?

Who knows? Who can say?

But I think it is doubtful,

For which fish has swallowed

Those treasures so priceless,

In which sea it swims—

God Himself has forgotten!" 130

PART IV.

Dedicated to Serge Petrovitch Botkin

A FEAST FOR THE WHOLE VILLAGE

PROLOGUE

A very old willow

There is at the end

Of the village of "Earthworms,"

Where most of the folk

Have been diggers and delvers

From times very ancient

(Though some produced tar).

This willow had witnessed

The lives of the peasants:

Their holidays, dances, 10

Their communal meetings,

Their floggings by day,

In the evening their wooing,

And now it looked down

On a wonderful feast.

The feast was conducted

In Petersburg fashion,

For Klímka, the peasant

(Our former acquaintance),

Had seen on his travels 20

Some noblemen's banquets,

With toasts and orations,

And he had arranged it.

The peasants were sitting

On tree-trunks cut newly

For building a hut.

With them, too, our seven

(Who always were ready

To see what was passing)

Were sitting and chatting 30

With Vlass, the old Elder.

As soon as they fancied

A drink would be welcome,

The Elder called out

To his son, "Run for Trifon!"

With Trifon the deacon,

A jovial fellow,

A chum of the Elder's,

His sons come as well.

Two pupils they are 40

Of the clerical college

Named Sava and Grisha.

The former, the eldest,

Is nineteen years old.

He looks like a churchman

Already, while Grisha

Has fine, curly hair,

With a slight tinge of red,

And a thin, sallow face.

Both capital fellows 50

They are, kind and simple,

They work with the ploughshare,

The scythe, and the sickle,

Drink vodka on feast-days,

And mix with the peasants

Entirely as equals….

The village lies close

To the banks of the Volga;

A small town there is

On the opposite side. 60

(To speak more correctly,

There's now not a trace

Of the town, save some ashes:

A fire has demolished it

Two days ago.)

Some people are waiting

To cross by the ferry,

While some feed their horses

(All friends of the peasants).

Some beggars have crawled 70

To the spot; there are pilgrims,

Both women and men;

The women loquacious,

The men very silent.

The old Prince Yutiátin

Is dead, but the peasants

Are not yet aware

That instead of the hayfields

His heirs have bequeathed them

A long litigation. 80

So, drinking their vodka,

They first of all argue

Of how they'll dispose

Of the beautiful hayfields.

You were not all cozened,[54]

You people of Russia,

And robbed of your land.

In some blessed spots

You were favoured by fortune!

By some lucky chance— 90

The Pomyéshchick's long absence,

Some slip of posrédnik's,

By wiles of the commune,

You managed to capture

A slice of the forest.

How proud are the peasants

In such happy corners!

The Elder may tap

At the window for taxes,

The peasant will bluster,— 100

One answer has he:

"Just sell off the forest,

And don't bother me!"

So now, too, the peasants

Of "Earthworms" decided

To part with the fields

To the Elder for taxes.

They calculate closely:

"They'll pay both the taxes

And dues—with some over, 110

Heh, Vlásuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paid

I'll uncover to no man.

I'll work if it please me,

I'll lie with my wife,

Or I'll go to the tavern."

"Bravo!" cry the peasants,

In answer to Klímka,

"Now, Vlásuchka, do you

Agree to our plan?" 120

"The speeches of Klímka

Are short, and as plain

As the public-house signboard,"

Says Vlásuchka, joking.

"And that is his manner:

To start with a woman

And end in the tavern."

"Well, where should one end, then?

Perhaps in the prison?

Now—as to the taxes, 130

Don't croak, but decide."

But Vlásuchka really

Was far from a croaker.

The kindest soul living

Was he, and he sorrowed

For all in the village,

Not only for one.

His conscience had pricked him

While serving his haughty

And rigorous Barin, 140

Obeying his orders,

So cruel and oppressive.

While young he had always

Believed in 'improvements,'

But soon he observed

That they ended in nothing,

Or worse—in misfortune.

So now he mistrusted

The new, rich in promise.

The wheels that have passed 150

O'er the roadways of Moscow

Are fewer by far

Than the injuries done

To the soul of the peasant.

There's nothing to laugh at

In that, so the Elder

Perforce had grown gloomy.

But now, the gay pranks

Of the peasants of "Earthworms"

Affected him too. 160

His thoughts became brighter:

No taxes … no barschin …

No stick held above you,

Dear God, am I dreaming?

Old Vlásuchka smiles….

A miracle surely!

Like that, when the sun

From the splendour of Heaven

May cast a chance ray

In the depths of the forest: 170

The dew shines like diamonds,

The mosses are gilded.

"Drink, drink, little peasants!

Disport yourselves bravely!"

'Twas gay beyond measure.

In each breast awakens

A wondrous new feeling,

As though from the depths

Of a bottomless gulf

On the crest of a wave, 180

They've been borne to the surface

To find there awaits them

A feast without end.

Another pail's started,

And, oh, what a clamour

Of voices arises,

And singing begins.

And just as a dead man's

Relations and friends

Talk of nothing but him 190

Till the funeral's over,

Until they have finished

The funeral banquet

And started to yawn,—

So over the vodka,

Beneath the old willow,

One topic prevails:

The "break in the chain"

Of their lords, the Pomyéshchicks.

The deacon they ask, 200

And his sons, to oblige them

By singing a song

Called the "Merry Song" to them.

(This song was not really

A song of the people:

The deacon's son Grisha

Had sung it them first.

But since the great day

When the Tsar, Little Father,

Had broken the chains 210

Of his suffering children,

They always had danced

To this tune on the feast-days.

The "popes" and the house-serfs

Could sing the words also,

The peasants could not,

But whenever they heard it

They whistled and stamped,

And the "Merry Song" called it.)

CHAPTER I

BITTER TIMES—BITTER SONGS

The Merry Song

* * * * *

The "Merry Song" finished,

They struck up a chorus,

A song of their own,

A wailing lament

(For, as yet, they've no others).

And is it not strange

That in vast Holy Russia,

With masses and masses

Of people unnumbered,

No song has been born 10

Overflowing with joy

Like a bright summer morning?

Yes, is it not striking,

And is it not tragic?

O times that are coming,

You, too, will be painted

In songs of the people,

But how? In what colours?

And will there be ever

A smile in their hearts? 20

"Eh, that's a fine song!

'Tis a shame to forget it."

Our peasants regret

That their memories trick them.

And, meanwhile, the peasants

Of "Earthworms" are saying,

"We lived but for 'barschin,'

Pray, how would you like it?

You see, we grew up

'Neath the snout of the Barin, 30

Our noses were glued

To the earth. We'd forgotten

The faces of neighbours,

Forgot how to speak.

We got tipsy in silence,

Gave kisses in silence,

Fought silently, too."

"Eh, who speaks of silence?

We'd more cause to hate it

Than you," said a peasant 40

Who came from a Volost

Near by, with a waggon

Of hay for the market.

(Some heavy misfortune

Had forced him to sell it.)

"For once our young lady,

Miss Gertrude, decided

That any one swearing

Must soundly be flogged.

Dear Lord, how they flogged us 50

Until we stopped swearing!

Of course, not to swear

For the peasant means—silence.

We suffered, God knows!

Then freedom was granted,

We feasted it finely,

And then we made up

For our silence, believe me:

We swore in such style

That Pope John was ashamed 60

For the church-bells to hear us.

(They rang all day long.)

What stories we told then!

We'd no need to seek

For the words. They were written

All over our backs."

"A funny thing happened

In our parts,—a strange thing,"

Remarked a tall fellow

With bushy black whiskers. 70

(He wore a round hat

With a badge, a red waistcoat

With ten shining buttons,

And stout homespun breeches.

His legs, to contrast

With the smartness above them,

Were tied up in rags!

There are trees very like him,

From which a small shepherd

Has stripped all the bark off 80

Below, while above

Not a scratch can be noticed!

And surely no raven

Would scorn such a summit

For building a nest.)

"Well, tell us about it."

"I'll first have a smoke."

And while he is smoking

Our peasants are asking,

"And who is this fellow? 90

What sort of a goose?"

"An unfortunate footman

Inscribed in our Volost,

A martyr, a house-serf

Of Count Sinegúsin's.

His name is Vikénti.

He sprang from the foot-board

Direct to the ploughshare;

We still call him 'Footman.'

He's healthy enough, 100

But his legs are not strong,

And they're given to trembling.

His lady would drive

In a carriage and four

To go hunting for mushrooms.

He'll tell you some stories:

His memory's splendid;

You'd think he had eaten

The eggs of a magpie." [55]

Now, setting his hat straight, 110

Vikénti commences

To tell them the story.

The Dutiful Serf—Jacob the Faithful

Once an official, of rather low family,

Bought a small village from bribes he had stored,

Lived in it thirty-three years without leaving it,

Feasted and hunted and drank like a lord.

Greedy and miserly, not many friends he made,

Sometimes he'd drive to his sister's to tea.

Cruel was his nature, and not to his serfs alone:

On his own daughter no pity had he, 120

Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both penniless

Out of his house; not a soul dare resist.

Jacob, his dutiful servant,

Ever of orders observant,

Often he'd strike in the mouth with his fist.

Hearts of men born into slavery

Sometimes with dogs' hearts accord:

Crueller the punishments dealt to them

More they will worship their lord. 129

Jacob, it seems, had a heart of that quality,

Only two sources of joy he possessed:

Tending and serving his Barin devotedly,

Rocking his own little nephew to rest.

So they lived on till old age was approaching them,

Weak grew the legs of the Barin at last,

Vainly, to cure them, he tried every remedy;

Feast and debauch were delights of the past.

Plump are his hands and white,

Keen are his eyes and bright,

Rosy his cheek remains, 140

But on his legs—are chains!

Helpless the Barin now lies in his dressing-gown,

Bitterly, bitterly cursing his fate.

Jacob, his "brother and friend,"—so the Barin says,—

Nurses him, humours him early and late.

Winter and summer they pass thus in company,

Mostly at card-games together they play,

Sometimes they drive for a change to the sister's house,

Eight miles or so, on a very fine day.

Jacob himself bears his lord to the carriage then, 150

Drives him with care at a moderate pace,

Carries him into the old lady's drawing-room….

So they live peacefully on for a space.

Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes,

Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed."

"Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir."

Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!"

Looking at her he had often bethought himself,

"Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!" 159

So, though the uncle entreated his clemency,

Grisha to serve in the army he sent.

Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny,

Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell:

Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate,

No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!"

Hate in each bosom since long has been festering:

Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay,

Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities,

Two quite unbearable weeks pass away.

Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170

Straight at the feet of his master he fell,

Pity has softened his heart to the legless one,

Who can look after the Barin so well?

"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty,

While I am living my cross I'll embrace."

Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown,

Jacob, once more, is restored to his place.

Brother again the Pomyéshchick has christened him.

"Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he.

"Barin, there's something that stings … in my memory…." 180

Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea,

Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries,

Next for a drive to the sister's they start,

See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly,

Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart.

Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly,

Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack,

"Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly,

"Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack.)

Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice,

Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss," 191

Jacob turns into the wood by the side of it.

Queries his lord, "What's the meaning of this?"

Jacob replies not. The path here is difficult,

Branches and ruts make their steps very slow;

Rustling of trees is heard. Spring waters noisily

Cast themselves into the hollow below.

Then there's a halt,—not a step can the horses move:

Straight in their path stand the pines like a wall;

Jacob gets down, and, the horses unharnessing,

Takes of the Barin no notice at all. 201

Vainly the Barin's exclaiming and questioning,

Jacob is pale, and he shakes like a leaf,

Evilly smiles at entreaties and promises:

"Am I a murderer, then, or a thief?

No, Barin, you shall not die. There's another way!"

Now he has climbed to the top of a pine,

Fastened the reins to the summit, and crossed himself,

Turning his face to the sun's bright decline.

Thrusting his head in the noose … he has hanged himself! 210

Horrible! Horrible! See, how he sways

Backwards and forwards…. The Barin, unfortunate,

Shouts for assistance, and struggles and prays.

Twisting his head he is jerking convulsively,

Straining his voice to the utmost he cries,

All is in vain, there is no one to rescue him,

Only the mischievous echo replies.

Gloomy the hollow now lies in its winding-sheet,

Black is the night. Hear the owls on the wing,

Striking the earth as they pass, while the horses stand 220

Chewing the leaves, and their bells faintly ring.

Two eyes are burning like lamps at the train's approach,

Steadily, brightly they gleam in the night,

Strange birds are flitting with movements mysterious,

Somewhere at hand they are heard to alight.

Straight over Jacob a raven exultingly

Hovers and caws. Now a hundred fly round!

Feebly the Barin is waving his crutch at them,

Merciful Heaven, what horrors abound!

So the poor Barin all night in the carriage lies,

Shouting, from wolves to protect his old bones. 231

Early next morning a hunter discovers him,

Carries him home, full of penitent groans:

"Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!"

Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave,

One figure surely will haunt you incessantly,

Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave.

"What sinners! What sinners!"

The peasants are saying,

"I'm sorry for Jacob, 240

Yet pity the Barin,

Indeed he was punished!

Ah, me!" Then they listen

To two or three more tales

As strange and as fearful,

And hotly they argue

On who must be reckoned

The greatest of sinners:

"The publican," one says,

And one, "The Pomyéshchick," 250

Another, "The peasant."

This last was a carter,

A man of good standing

And sound reputation,

No ignorant babbler.

He'd seen many things

In his life, his own province

Had traversed entirely.

He should have been heard.

The peasants, however, 260

Were all so indignant

They would not allow him

To speak. As for Klímka,

His wrath is unbounded,

"You fool!" he is shouting.

"But let me explain."

"I see you are all fools,"

A voice remarks roughly:

The voice of a trader

Who squeezes the peasants 270

For laputs or berries

Or any spare trifles.

But chiefly he's noted

For seizing occasions

When taxes are gathered,

And peasants' possessions

Are bartered at auction.

"You start a discussion

And miss the chief point.

Why, who's the worst sinner? 280

Consider a moment."

"Well, who then? You tell us."

"The robber, of course."

"You've not been a serf, man,"

Says Klímka in answer;

"The burden was heavy,

But not on your shoulders.

Your pockets are full,

So the robber alarms you;

The robber with this case 290

Has nothing to do."

"The case of the robber

Defending the robber,"

The other retorts.

"Now, pray!" bellows Klímka,

And leaping upon him,

He punches his jaw.

The trader repays him

With buffets as hearty,

"Take leave of your carcase!" 300

He roars.

"Here's a tussle!"

The peasants are clearing

A space for the battle;

They do not prevent it

Nor do they applaud it.

The blows fall like hail.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!

Write home to your parents!"

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310

Heh, send for the pope!"

The trader, bent double

By Klímka, who, clutching

His hair, drags his head down,

Repeating, "He's bowing!"

Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"

When Klímka has freed him

He sits on a log,

And says, wiping his face

With a broadly-checked muffler, 320

"No wonder he conquered:

He ploughs not, he reaps not,

Does nothing but doctor

The pigs and the horses;

Of course he gets strong!"

The peasants are laughing,

And Klímka says, mocking,

"Here, try a bit more!"

"Come on, then! I'm ready,"

The trader says stoutly, 330

And rolling his sleeves up,

He spits on his palms.

"The hour has now sounded

For me, though a sinner,

To speak and unite you,"

Ióna pronounces.

The whole of the evening

That diffident pilgrim

Has sat without speaking,

And crossed himself, sighing. 340

The trader's delighted,

And Klímka replies not.

The rest, without speaking,

Sit down on the ground.

CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

We know that in Russia

Are numbers of people

Who wander at large

Without kindred or home.

They sow not, they reap not,

They feed at the fountain

That's common to all,

That nourishes likewise

The tiniest mouse

And the mightiest army:

The sweat of the peasant. 10

The peasants will tell you

That whole populations

Of villages sometimes

Turn out in the autumn

To wander like pilgrims.

They beg, and esteem it

A paying profession.

The people consider

That misery drives them 20

More often than cunning,

And so to the pilgrims

Contribute their mite.

Of course, there are cases

Of downright deception:

One pilgrim's a thief,

Or another may wheedle

Some cloth from the wife

Of a peasant, exchanging

Some "sanctified wafers" 30

Or "tears of the Virgin"

He's brought from Mount Athos,

And then she'll discover

He's been but as far

As a cloister near Moscow.

One saintly old greybeard

Enraptured the people

By wonderful singing,

And offered to teach

The young girls of the village 40

The songs of the church

With their mothers' permission.

And all through the winter

He locked himself up

With the girls in a stable.

From thence, sometimes singing

Was heard, but more often

Came laughter and giggles.

Well, what was the upshot?

He taught them no singing, 50

But ruined them all.

Some Masters so skilful

There are, they will even

Lay siege to the ladies.

They first to the kitchens

Make sure of admission,

And then through the maids

Gained access to the mistress.

See, there he goes, strutting

Along through the courtyard 60

And jingling the keys

Of the house like a Barin.

And soon he will spit

In the teeth of the peasants;

The pious old women,

Who always before

At the house have been welcome,

He'll speedily banish.

The people, however,

Can see in these pilgrims 70

A good side as well.

For, who begs the money

For building the churches?

And who keeps the convent's

Collecting-box full?

And many, though useless,

Are perfectly harmless;

But some are uncanny,

One can't understand them:

The people know Fóma, 80

With chains round his middle

Some six stones in weight;

How summer and winter

He walks about barefoot,

And constantly mutters

Of Heaven knows what.

His life, though, is godly:

A stone for his pillow,

A crust for his dinner.

The people know also 90

The old man, Nikífor,

Adherent, most strange,

Of the sect called "The Hiders."

One day he appeared

In Usólovo village

Upbraiding the people

For lack of religion,

And calling them forth

To the great virgin forest

To seek for salvation. 100

The chief of police

Of the district just happened

To be in the village

And heard his oration:

"Ho! Question the madman!"

"Thou foe of Christ Jesus!

Thou Antichrist's herald!"

Nikífor retorts.

The Elders are nudging him:

"Now, then, be silent!" 110

He pays no attention.

They drag him to prison.

He stands in the waggon,

Undauntedly chiding

The chief of police,

And loudly he cries

To the people who follow him:

"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you!

Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you!

Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120

Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"

The people are crossing

Themselves. The Nachálnik[56]

Is striking the prophet:

"Remember the Judge

Of Jerusalem, sinner!"

The driver's so frightened

The reins have escaped him,

His hair stands on end….

And when will the people 130

Forget Yevressína,

Miraculous widow?

Let cholera only

Break out in a village:

At once like an envoy

Of God she appears.

She nurses and fosters

And buries the peasants.

The women adore her,

They pray to her almost. 140

It's evident, then,

That the door of the peasant

Is easily opened:

Just knock, and be certain

He'll gladly admit you.

He's never suspicious

Like wealthier people;

The thought does not strike him

At sight of the humble

And destitute stranger, 150

"Perhaps he's a thief!"

And as to the women,

They're simply delighted,

They'll welcome you warmly.

At night, in the Winter,

The family gathered

To work in the cottage

By light of "luchina," [57]

Are charmed by the pilgrim's

Remarkable stories. 160

He's washed in the steam-bath,

And dipped with his spoon

In the family platter,

First blessing its contents.

His veins have been thawed

By a streamlet of vodka,

His words flow like water.

The hut is as silent

As death. The old father

Was mending the laputs, 170

But now he has dropped them.

The song of the shuttle

Is hushed, and the woman

Who sits at the wheel

Is engrossed in the story.

The daughter, Yevgénka,

Her plump little finger

Has pricked with a needle.

The blood has dried up,

But she notices nothing; 180

Her sewing has fallen,

Her eyes are distended,

Her arms hanging limp.

The children, in bed

On the sleeping-planks, listen,

Their heads hanging down.

They lie on their stomachs

Like snug little seals

Upon Archangel ice-blocks.

Their hair, like a curtain, 190

Is hiding their faces:

It's yellow, of course!

But wait. Soon the pilgrim

Will finish his story—

(It's true)—from Mount Athos.

It tells how that sinner

The Turk had once driven

Some monks in rebellion

Right into the sea,—

Who meekly submitted, 200

And perished in hundreds.

(What murmurs of horror

Arise! Do you notice

The eyes, full of tears?)

And now conies the climax,

The terrible moment,

And even the mother

Has loosened her hold

On the corpulent bobbin,

It rolls to the ground…. 210

And see how cat Vaska

At once becomes active

And pounces upon it.

At times less enthralling

The antics of Vaska

Would meet their deserts;

But now he is patting

And touching the bobbin

And leaping around it

With flexible movements, 220

And no one has noticed.

It rolls to a distance,

The thread is unwound.

Whoever has witnessed

The peasant's delight

At the tales of the pilgrims

Will realise this:

Though never so crushing

His labours and worries,

Though never so pressing 230

The call of the tavern,

Their weight will not deaden

The soul of the peasant

And will not benumb it.

The road that's before him

Is broad and unending….

When old fields, exhausted,

Play false to the reaper,

He'll seek near the forest

For soil more productive. 240

The work may be hard,

But the new plot repays him:

It yields a rich harvest

Without being manured.

A soil just as fertile

Lies hid in the soul

Of the people of Russia:

O Sower, then come!

The pilgrim Ióna

Since long is well known 250

In the village of "Earthworms."

The peasants contend

For the honour of giving

The holy man shelter.

At last, to appease them,

He'd say to the women,

"Come, bring out your icons!"

They'd hurry to fetch them.

Ióna, prostrating

Himself to each icon, 260

Would say to the people,

"Dispute not! Be patient,

And God will decide:

The saint who looks kindest

At me I will follow."

And often he'd follow

The icon most poor

To the lowliest hovel.

That hut would become then

A Cup overflowing; 270

The women would run there

With baskets and saucepans,

All thanks to Ióna.

And now, without hurry

Or noise, he's beginning

To tell them a story,

"Two Infamous Sinners,"

But first, most devoutly,

He crosses himself.

Two Infamous Sinners

Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280

Let us the legend relate

Told by a monk in the Priory.

Thus did I hear him narrate:

Once were twelve brigands notorious,

One, Kudeár, at their head;

Torrents of blood of good Christians

Foully the miscreants shed.

Deep in the forest their hiding-place,

Rich was their booty and rare;

Once Kudeár from near Kiev Town 290

Stole a young maiden most fair.

Days Kudeár with his mistress spent,

Nights on the road with his horde;

Suddenly, conscience awoke in him,

Stirred by the grace of the Lord.

Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity

Sickened his spirit at last;

Shades of his victims appeared to him,

Crowding in multitudes vast.

Long was this monster most obdurate, 300

Blind to the light from above,

Then flogged to death his chief satellite,

Cut off the head of his love,—

Scattered his gang in his penitence,

And to the churches of God

All his great riches distributed,

Buried his knife in the sod,

Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre,

Filled with repentance and grief;

Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage

Brought to his soul no relief. 311

When he returned to his Fatherland

Clad like a monk, old and bent,

'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite,

Life in the forest he spent.

There, from the Maker Omnipotent,

Grace day and night did he crave:

"Lord, though my body thou castigate,

Grant that my soul I may save!"

Pity had God on the penitent, 320

Showed him the pathway to take,

Sent His own messenger unto him

During his prayers, who thus spake:

"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference,

Not without promptings divine;

Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with,

Fell it, and grace shall be thine.

"Yea, though the task prove laborious,

Great shall the recompense be,

Let but the tree fall, and verily 330

Thou from thy load shalt be free."

Vast was the giant's circumference;

Praying, his task he begins,

Works with the tool of atrociousness,

Offers amends for his sins.

Glory he sang to the Trinity,

Scraped the hard wood with his blade.

Years passed away. Though he tarried not,

Slow was the progress he made.

'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340

How could he hope to prevail?

Only a Samson could vanquish it,

Not an old man, spent and frail.

Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him:

Once of a voice came the sound,

"Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?"

Crossing himself he looked round.

There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him

On his brave Arab astride,

Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350

Known in the whole countryside.

Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him,

Filled were his subjects with hate,

So the old hermit to caution him

Told him his own sorry fate.

"Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively,

"Hope of salvation's not mine;

These are the things that I estimate—

Women, gold, honour, and wine.

"My life, old man, is the only one; 360

Many the serfs that I keep;

What though I waste, hang, and torture them—

You should but see how I sleep!"

Lo! to the hermit, by miracle,

Wrath a great strength did impart,

Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself,

Buried the knife in his heart.

Scarce had the Pan, in his agony,

Sunk to the blood-sodden ground,

Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate,

Trembled the earth at the sound. 371

Lo! and the sins of the anchorite

Passed from his soul like a breath.

"Let us pray God to incline to us,

Slaves in the shadow of Death…."

CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW

Ióna has finished.

He crosses himself,

And the people are silent.

And then of a sudden

The trader cries loudly

In great irritation,

"What's wrong with the ferry?

A plague on the sluggards!

Ho, ferry ahoy!"

"You won't get the ferry 10

Till sunrise, for even

In daytime they're frightened

To cross: the boat's rotten!

About Kudeár, now—"

"Ho, ferry ahoy!"

He strides to his waggon.

A cow is there tethered;

He churlishly kicks her.

His hens begin clucking;

He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20

The calf, which is shifting

About in the cart.

Gets a crack on the forehead.

He strikes the roan mare

With the whip, and departing

He makes for the Volga.

The moon is now shining,

It casts on the roadway

A comical shadow,

Which trots by his side. 30

"Oho!" says the Elder,

"He thought himself able

To fight, but discussion

Is not in his line….

My brothers, how grievous

The sins of the nobles!"

"And yet not as great

As the sin of the peasant,"

The carter cannot here

Refrain from remarking. 40

"A plaguey old croaker!"

Says Klím, spitting crossly;

"Whatever arises

The raven must fly

To his own little brood!

What is it, then, tell us,

The sin of the peasant?"

The Sin of Gleb the Peasant

A'miral Widower sailed on the sea,

Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49

Once with the Turk a great battle he fought,

His was the victory, gallantly bought.

So to the hero as valour's reward

Eight thousand souls[59] did the Empress award.

A'miral Widower lived on his land

Rich and content, till his end was at hand.

As he lay dying this A'miral bold

Handed his Elder a casket of gold.

"See that thou cherish this casket," he said,

"Keep it and open it when I am dead.

There lies my will, and by it you will see

Eight thousand souls are from serfdom set free." 61

Dead, on the table, the A'miral lies,

A kinsman remote to the funeral hies.

Buried! Forgotten! His relative soon

Calls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune.

And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill,

Learns of the casket, and terms of the will.

Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed,

Gives him his freedom,—the will is destroyed!

Thus, by Gleb's longing for criminal gains,

Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71

Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well,

Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!

God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crime

Ne'er will be pardoned till end of all time.

Peasant, most infamous sinner of all,

Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!

Wrathful, relentless,

The carter thus finished

The tale of the peasant 80

In thunder-like tones.

The others sigh deeply

And rise. They're exclaiming,

"So, that's what it is, then,

The sin of the peasant.

He's right. 'Tis indeed

A most terrible sin!"

"The story speaks truly;

Our grief shall be endless,

Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90

(His faith in improvements

Has vanished again.)

And Klímka, who always

Is swayed in an instant

By joy or by sorrow,

Despondingly echoes,

"A terrible sin!"

The green by the Volga,

Now flooded with moonlight,

Has changed of a sudden: 100

The peasants no longer

Seem men independent

With self-assured movements,

They're "Earthworms" again—

Those "Earthworms" whose victuals

Are never sufficient,

Who always are threatened

With drought, blight, or famine,

Who yield to the trader

The fruits of extortion 110

Their tears, shed in tar.

The miserly haggler

Not only ill-pays them,

But bullies as well:

"For what do I pay you?

The tar costs you nothing.

The sun brings it oozing

From out of your bodies

As though from a pine."

Again the poor peasants 120

Are sunk in the depths

Of the bottomless gulf!

Dejected and silent,

They lie on their stomachs

Absorbed in reflection.

But then they start singing;

And slowly the song,

Like a ponderous cloud-bank,

Rolls mournfully onwards.

They sing it so clearly 130

That quickly our seven

Have learnt it as well.

The Hungry One

The peasant stands

With haggard gaze,

He pants for breath,

He reels and sways;

From famine food,

From bread of bark,

His form has swelled,

His face is dark. 140

Through endless grief

Suppressed and dumb

His eyes are glazed,

His soul is numb.

As though in sleep,

With footsteps slow,

He creeps to where

The rye doth grow.

Upon his field

He gazes long, 150

He stands and sings

A voiceless song:

"Grow ripe, grow ripe,

O Mother rye,

I fostered thee,

Thy lord am I.

"Yield me a loaf

Of monstrous girth,

A cake as vast

As Mother-Earth. 160

"I'll eat the whole—

No crumb I'll spare;

With wife, with child,

I will not share."

"Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!"

A voice exclaims feebly.

It's one of the peasants.

He fetches a loaf

From his bag, and devours it.

"They sing without voices, 170

And yet when you listen

Your hair begins rising,"

Another remarks.

It's true. Not with voices

They sing of the famine—

But something within them.

One, during the singing,

Has risen, to show them

The gait of the peasant

Exhausted by hunger, 180

And swayed by the wind.

Restrained are his movements

And slow. After singing

"The Hungry One," thirsting

They make for the bucket,

One after another

Like geese in a file.

They stagger and totter

As people half-famished,

A drink will restore them. 190

"Come, let us be joyful!"

The deacon is saying.

His youngest son, Grísha,

Approaches the peasants.

"Some vodka?" they ask him.

"No, thank you. I've had some.

But what's been the matter?

You look like drowned kittens."

"What should be the matter?"

(And making an effort 200

They bear themselves bravely.)

And Vlass, the old Elder,

Has placed his great palm

On the head of his godson.

"Is serfdom revived?

Will they drive you to barschin

Or pilfer your hayfields?"

Says Grísha in jest.

"The hay-fields? You're joking!"

"Well, what has gone wrong, then?

And why were you singing 211

'The Hungry One,' brothers?

To summon the famine?"

"Yes, what's all the pother?"

Here Klímka bursts out

Like a cannon exploding.

The others are scratching

Their necks, and reflecting:

"It's true! What's amiss?"

"Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,'

Come, drink and be merry! 221

All's well—as we'd have it,

Aye, just as we wished it.

Come, hold up your noddles!

But what about Gleb?"

A lengthy discussion

Ensues; and it's settled

That they're not to blame

For the deed of the traitor:

'Twas serfdom's the fault. 230

For just as the big snake

Gives birth to the small ones,

So serfdom gave birth

To the sins of the nobles,

To Jacob the Faithful's

And also to Gleb's.

For, see, without serfdom

Had been no Pomyéshchick

To drive his true servant

To death by the noose, 240

No terrible vengeance

Of slave upon master

By suicide fearful,

No treacherous Gleb.

'Twas Prov of all others

Who listened to Grísha

With deepest attention

And joy most apparent.

And when he had finished

He cried to the others 250

In accents of triumph,

Delightedly smiling,

"Now, brothers, mark that!"

"So now, there's an end

Of 'The Hungry One,' peasants!"

Cries Klímka, with glee.

The words about serfdom

Were quickly caught up

By the crowd, and went passing

From one to another: 260

"Yes, if there's no big snake

There cannot be small ones!"

And Klímka is swearing

Again at the carter:

"You ignorant fool!"

They're ready to grapple!

The deacon is sobbing

And kissing his Grísha:

"Just see what a headpiece

The Lord is creating! 270

No wonder he longs

For the college in Moscow!"

Old Vlass, too, is patting

His shoulder and saying,

"May God send thee silver

And gold, and a healthy

And diligent wife!"

"I wish not for silver

Or gold," replies Grísha.

"But one thing I wish: 280

I wish that my comrades,

Yes, all the poor peasants

In Russia so vast,

Could be happy and free!"

Thus, earnestly speaking,

And blushing as shyly

As any young maiden,

He walks from their midst.

The dawn is approaching.

The peasants make ready 290

To cross by the ferry.

"Eh, Vlass," says the carter,

As, stooping, he raises

The span of his harness,

"Who's this on the ground?"

The Elder approaches,

And Klímka behind him,

Our seven as well.

(They're always most anxious

To see what is passing.) 300

Some fellow is lying

Exhausted, dishevelled,

Asleep, with the beggars

Behind some big logs.

His clothing is new,

But it's hanging in ribbons.

A crimson silk scarf

On his neck he is wearing;

A watch and a waistcoat;

His blouse, too, is red. 310

Now Klímka is stooping

To look at the sleeper,

Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughly

Stamps straight on his mouth.

The fellow springs up,

Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep,

And old Vlásuchka strikes him.

He squeals like a rat

'Neath the heel of your slipper,

And makes for the forest 320

On long, lanky legs.

Four peasants pursue him,

The others cry, "Beat him!"

Until both the man

And the band of pursuers

Are lost in the forest.

"Who is he?" our seven

Are asking the Elder,

"And why do they beat him?"

"We don't know the reason, 330

But we have been told

By the people of Tískov

To punish this Shútov

Whenever we catch him,

And so we obey.

When people from Tískov

Pass by, they'll explain it.

What luck? Did you catch him?"

He asks of the others

Returned from the chase. 340

"We caught him, I warrant,

And gave him a lesson.

He's run to Demyánsky,

For there he'll be able

To cross by the ferry."

"Strange people, to beat him

Without any cause!"

"And why? If the commune

Has told us to do it

There must be some reason!" 350

Shouts Klím at the seven.

"D'you think that the people

Of Tískov are fools?

It isn't long since, mind,

That many were flogged there,

One man in each ten.

Ah, Shútov, you rendered

A dastardly service,

Your duties are evil,

You damnable wretch! 360

And who deserves beating

As richly as Shútov?

Not we alone beat him:

From Tískov, you know,

Fourteen villages lie

On the banks of the Volga;

I warrant through each

He's been driven with blows."

The seven are silent.

They're longing to get 370

At the root of the matter.

But even the Elder

Is now growing angry.

It's daylight. The women

Are bringing their husbands

Some breakfast, of rye-cakes

And—goose! (For a peasant

Had driven some geese

Through the village to market,

And three were grown weary, 380

And had to be carried.)

"See here, will you sell them?

They'll die ere you get there."

And so, for a trifle,

The geese had been bought.

We've often been told

How the peasant loves drinking;

Not many there are, though,

Who know how he eats.

He's greedier far 390

For his food than for vodka,

So one man to-day

(A teetotaller mason)

Gets perfectly drunk

On his breakfast of goose!

A shout! "Who is coming?

Who's this?" Here's another

Excuse for rejoicing

And noise! There's a hay-cart

With hay, now approaching, 400

And high on its summit

A soldier is sitting.

He's known to the peasants

For twenty versts round.

And, cosy beside him,

Justínutchka sits

(His niece, and an orphan,

His prop in old age).

He now earns his living

By means of his peep-show, 410

Where, plainly discerned,

Are the Kremlin and Moscow,

While music plays too.

The instrument once

Had gone wrong, and the soldier,

No capital owning,

Bought three metal spoons,

Which he beat to make music;

But the words that he knew

Did not suit the new music, 420

And folk did not laugh.

The soldier was sly, though:

He made some new words up

That went with the music.

They hail him with rapture!

"Good-health to you, Grandad!

Jump down, drink some vodka,

And give us some music."

"It's true I got up here,

But how to get-down?" 430

"You're going, I see,

To the town for your pension,

But look what has happened:

It's burnt to the ground."

"Burnt down? Yes, and rightly!

What then? Then I'll go

To St. Petersburg for it;

For all my old comrades

Are there with their pensions,

They'll show me the way." 440

"You'll go by the train, then?"

The old fellow whistles:

"Not long you've been serving

Us, orthodox Christians,

You, infidel railway!

And welcome you were

When you carried us cheaply

From Peters to Moscow.

(It cost but three roubles.)

But now you want seven, 450

So, go to the devil!

"Lady so insolent, lady so arrogant!

Hiss like a snake as you glide!

Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you!

Puff at the whole countryside!

Crushing and maiming your toll you extort,

Straight in the face of the peasant you snort,

Soon all the people of Russia you may

Cleaner than any big broom sweep away!"

"Come, give us some music," 460

Says Vlass to the soldier,

"For here there are plenty

Of holiday people,

'Twill be to your profit.

You see to it, Klímka!"

(Though Vlass doesn't like him,

Whenever there's something

That calls for arranging

He leaves it to Klímka:

"You see to it, Klímka!" 470

And Klimka is pleased.)

And soon the old soldier

Is helped from the hay-cart:

He's weak on his legs,—tall,

And strikingly thin.

His uniform seems

To be hung from a pole;

There are medals upon it.

It cannot be said

That his face is attractive, 480

Especially when

It's distorted by tic:

His mouth opens wide

And his eyes burn like charcoal,—

A regular demon!

The music is started,

The people run back

From the banks of the Volga.

He sings to the music.

* * * * *

A spasm has seized him: 490

He leans on his niece,

And his left leg upraising

He twirls it around

In the air like a weight.

His right follows suit then,

And murmuring, "Curse it!"

He suddenly masters

And stands on them both.

"You see to it, Klímka!"

Of course he'll arrange it 500

In Petersburg fashion:

He stands them together,

The niece and the uncle;

Takes two wooden dishes

And gives them one each,

Then springs on a tree-trunk

To make an oration.

(The soldier can't help

Adding apt little words

To the speech of the peasant, 510

And striking his spoons.)

* * * * *

The soldier is stamping

His feet. One can hear

His dry bones knock together.

When Klímka has finished

The peasants come crowding,

Surrounding the soldier,

And some a kopéck give,

And others give half:

In no time a rouble 520

Is piled on the dishes.

EPILOGUE

GRÍSHA DOBROSKLONOW

A CHEERFUL SEASON—CHEERFUL SONGS

The feast was continued

Till morning—a splendid,

A wonderful feast!

Then the people dispersing

Went home, and our peasants

Lay down 'neath the willow;

Ióna—meek pilgrim

Of God—slept there too.

And Sáva and Grísha,

The sons of the deacon, 10

Went home, with their parent

Unsteady between them.

They sang; and their voices,

Like bells on the Volga,

So loud and so tuneful,

Came chiming together:

"Praise to the hero

Bringing the nation

Peace and salvation!

"That which will surely 20

Banish the night

He[60] has awarded—

Freedom and Light!

"Praise to the hero

Bringing the nation

Peace and salvation!

"Blessings from Heaven,

Grace from above,

Rained on the battle,

Conquered by Love. 30

"Little we ask Thee—

Grant us, O Lord,

Strength to be honest,

Fearing Thy word!

"Brotherly living,

Sharing in part,

That is the roadway

Straight to the heart.

"Turn from that teaching

Tender and wise— 40

Cowards and traitors

Soon will arise.

"People of Russia,

Banish the night!

You have been granted

That which is needful—

Freedom and Light!"

The deacon was poor

As the poorest of peasants:

A mean little cottage 50

Like two narrow cages,

The one with an oven

Which smoked, and the other

For use in the summer,—

Such was his abode.

No horse he possessed

And no cow. He had once had

A dog and a cat,

But they'd both of them left him.

His sons put him safely 60

To bed, snoring loudly;

Then Sávushka opened

A book, while his brother

Went out, and away

To the fields and the forest.

A broad-shouldered youth

Was this Grísha; his face, though,

Was terribly thin.

In the clerical college

The students got little 70

To eat. Sometimes Grísha

Would lie the whole night

Without sleep; only longing

For morning and breakfast,—

The coarse piece of bread

And the glassful of sbeeten.[61]

The village was poor

And the food there was scanty,

But still, the two brothers

Grew certainly plumper 80

When home for the holidays—

Thanks to the peasants.

The boys would repay them

By all in their power,

By work, or by doing

Their little commissions

In town. Though the deacon

Was proud of his children,

He never had given

Much thought to their feeding. 90

Himself, the poor deacon,

Was endlessly hungry,

His principal thought

Was the manner of getting

The next piece of food.

He was rather light-minded

And vexed himself little;

But Dyómna, his wife,

Had been different entirely:

She worried and counted, 100

So God took her soon.

The whole of her life

She by salt[62] had been troubled:

If bread has run short

One can ask of the neighbours;

But salt, which means money,

Is hard to obtain.

The village with Dyómna

Had shared its bread freely;

And long, long ago 110

Would her two little children

Have lain in the churchyard

If not for the peasants.

And Dyómna was ready

To work without ceasing

For all who had helped her;

But salt was her trouble,

Her thought, ever present.

She dreamt of it, sang of it,

Sleeping and waking, 120

While washing, while spinning,

At work in the fields,

While rocking her darling

Her favourite, Grísha.

And many years after

The death of his mother,

His heart would grow heavy

And sad, when the peasants

Remembered one song,

And would sing it together 130

As Dyómna had sung it;

They called it "The Salt Song."

The Salt Song

Now none but God

Can save my son:

He's dying fast,

My little one….

I give him bread—-

He looks at it,

He cries to me,

"Put salt on it." 140

I have no salt—

No tiny grain;

"Take flour," God whispers,

"Try again…."

He tastes it once,

Once more he tries;

"That's not enough,

More salt!" he cries.

The flour again….

My tears fall fast 150

Upon the bread,—

He eats at last!

The mother smiles

In pride and joy:

Her tears so salt

Have saved the boy.

* * * * *

Young Grísha remembered

This song; he would sing it

Quite low to himself

In the clerical college. 160

The college was cheerless,

And singing this song

He would yearn for his mother,

For home, for the peasants,

His friends and protectors.

And soon, with the love

Which he bore to his mother,

His love for the people

Grew wider and stronger….

At fifteen years old 170

He was firmly decided

To spend his whole life

In promoting their welfare,

In striving to succour

The poor and afflicted.

The demon of malice

Too long over Russia

Has scattered its hate;

The shadow of serfdom

Has hidden all paths 180

Save corruption and lying.

Another song now

Will arise throughout Russia;

The angel of freedom

And mercy is flying

Unseen o'er our heads,

And is calling strong spirits

To follow the road

Which is honest and clean.

Oh, tread not the road 190

So shining and broad:

Along it there speed

With feverish tread

The multitudes led

By infamous greed.

There lives which are spent

With noble intent

Are mocked at in scorn;

There souls lie in chains,

And bodies and brains 200

By passions are torn,

By animal thirst

For pleasures accurst

Which pass in a breath.

There hope is in vain,

For there is the reign

Of darkness and death.

* * * * *

In front of your eyes

Another road lies—

'Tis honest and clean. 210

Though steep it appears

And sorrow and tears

Upon it are seen:

It leads to the door

Of those who are poor,

Who hunger and thirst,

Who pant without air.

Who die in despair—

Oh, there be the first!

The song of the angel 220

Of Mercy not vainly

Was sung to our Grísha.

The years of his study

Being passed, he developed

In thought and in feeling;

A passionate singer

Of Freedom became he,

Of all who are grieving,

Down-trodden, afflicted,

In Russia so vast. 230

* * * * *

The bright sun was shining,

The cool, fragrant morning

Was filled with the sweetness

Of newly-mown hay.

Young Grísha was thoughtful,

He followed the first road

He met—an old high-road,

An avenue, shaded

By tall curling birch trees.

The youth was now gloomy, 240

Now gay; the effect

Of the feast was still with him;

His thoughts were at work,

And in song he expressed them:

"I know that you suffer,

O Motherland dear,

The thought of it fills me with woe:

And Fate has much sorrow

In store yet, I fear,

But you will not perish, I know. 250

"How long since your children

As playthings were used,

As slaves to base passions and lust;

Were bartered like cattle,

Were vilely abused

By masters most cruel and unjust?

"How long since young maidens

Were dragged to their shame,

Since whistle of whips filled the land,

Since 'Service' possessed 260

A more terrible fame

Than death by the torturer's hand?

"Enough! It is finished,

This tale of the past;

'Tis ended, the masters' long sway;

The strength of the people

Is stirring at last,

To freedom 'twill point them the way.

"Your burden grows lighter,

O Motherland dear, 270

Your wounds less appalling to see.

Your fathers were slaves,

Smitten helpless by fear,

But, Mother, your children are free!"

* * * * *

A small winding footpath

Now tempted young Grísha,

And guided his steps

To a very broad hayfield.

The peasants were cutting

The hay, and were singing 280

His favourite song.

Young Grísha was saddened

By thoughts of his mother,

And nearly in anger

He hurried away

From the field to the forest.

Bright echoes are darting

About in the forest;

Like quails in the wheat

Little children are romping 290

(The elder ones work

In the hay fields already).

He stopped awhile, seeking

For horse-chestnuts with them.

The sun was now hot;

To the river went Grísha

To bathe, and he had

A good view of the ruins

That three days before

Had been burnt. What a picture!

No house is left standing; 301

And only the prison

Is saved; just a few days

Ago it was whitewashed;

It stands like a little

White cow in the pastures.

The guards and officials

Have made it their refuge;

But all the poor peasants

Are strewn by the river 310

Like soldiers in camp.

Though they're mostly asleep now,

A few are astir,

And two under-officials

Are picking their way

To the tent for some vodka

'Mid tables and cupboards

And waggons and bundles.

A tailor approaches

The vodka tent also; 320

A shrivelled old fellow.

His irons and his scissors

He holds in his hands,

Like a leaf he is shaking.

The pope has arisen

From sleep, full of prayers.

He is combing his hair;

Like a girl he is holding

His long shining plait.

Down the Volga comes floating 330

Some wood-laden rafts,

And three ponderous barges

Are anchored beneath

The right bank of the river.

The barge-tower yesterday

Evening had dragged them

With songs to their places,

And there he is standing,

The poor harassed man!

He is looking quite gay though, 340

As if on a holiday,

Has a clean shirt on;

Some farthings are jingling

Aloud in his pocket.

Young Grísha observes him

For long from the river,

And, half to himself,

Half aloud, begins singing:

The Barge-Tower

With shoulders back and breast astrain,

And bathed in sweat which falls like rain,

Through midday heat with gasping song,

He drags the heavy barge along. 352

He falls and rises with a groan,

His song becomes a husky moan….

But now the barge at anchor lies,

A giant's sleep has sealed his eyes;

And in the bath at break of day

He drives the clinging sweat away.

Then leisurely along the quay

He strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360

Are sewn into his girdle wide;

Some coppers jingle at his side.

He thinks awhile, and then he goes

Towards the tavern. There he throws

Some hard-earned farthings on the seat;

He drinks, and revels in the treat,

The sense of perfect ease and rest.

Soon with the cross he signs his breast:

The journey home begins to-day.

And cheerfully he goes away; 370

On presents spends a coin or so:

For wife some scarlet calico,

A scarf for sister, tinsel toys

For eager little girls and boys.

God guide him home—'tis many a mile—

And let him rest a little while….

* * * * *

The barge-tower's fate

Lead the thoughts of young Grisha

To dwell on the whole

Of mysterious Russia— 380

The fate of her people.

For long he was roving

About on the bank,

Feeling hot and excited,

His brain overflowing

With new and new verses.

Russia

"The Tsar was in mood

To dabble in blood:

To wage a great war.

Shall we have gold enough? 390

Shall we have strength enough?

Questioned the Tsar.

"(Thou art so pitiful,

Poor, and so sorrowful,

Yet thou art powerful,

Thy wealth is plentiful,

Russia, my Mother!)

"By misery chastened,

By serfdom of old,

The heart of thy people, 400

O Tsar, is of gold.

"And strong were the nation,

Unyielding its might,

If standing for conscience,

For justice and right.

"But summon the country

To valueless strife,

And no man will hasten

To offer his life.

"So Russia lies sleeping 410

In obstinate rest;—

But should the spark kindle

That's hid in her breast—

"She'll rise without summons,

Go forth without call,

With sacrifice boundless,

Each giving his all!

"A host she will gather

Of strength unsurpassed,

With infinite courage 420

Will fight to the last.

"(Thou art so pitiful,

Poor, and so sorrowful,

Yet of great treasure full,

Mighty, all-powerful,

Russia, my Mother!)"

* * * * *

Young Grísha was pleased

With his song; and he murmured.

"Its message is true;

I will sing it to-morrow 430

Aloud to the peasants.

Their songs are so mournful,

It's well they should hear

Something joyful,—God help them!

For just as with running

The cheeks begin burning,

So acts a good song

On the spirit despairing,

Brings comfort and strength."

But first to his brother 440

He sang the new song,

And his brother said, "Splendid!"

Then Grísha tried vainly

To sleep; but half dreaming

New songs he composed.

They grew brighter and stronger….

Our peasants would soon

Have been home from their travels

If they could have known

What was happening to Grísha: 450

With what exaltation

His bosom was burning;

What beautiful strains

In his ears began chiming;

How blissfully sang he

The wonderful anthem

Which tells of the freedom

And peace of the people.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Many years later, after his mother's death, Nekrassov found this letter among her papers. It was a letter written to her by her own mother after her flight and subsequent marriage. It announced to her her father's curse, and was filled with sad and bitter reproaches: "To whom have you entrusted your fate? For what country have you abandoned Poland, your Motherland? You, whose hand was sought, a priceless gift, by princes, have chosen a savage, ignorant, uncultured…. Forgive me, but my heart is bleeding…."

[2] Priest.

[3] Landowner.

[4] The peasants assert that the cuckoo chokes himself with young ears of corn.

[5] A kind of home-brewed cider.

[6] Laput is peasants' footgear made of bark of saplings.

[7] Priest

[8] New huts are built only when the village has been destroyed by fire.

[9] The lines of asterisks throughout the poem represent passages that were censored in the original.

[10] There is a superstition among the Russian peasants that it is an ill omen to meet the "pope" when going upon an errand.

[11] Landowners

[12] Dissenters in Russia are subjected to numerous religious restrictions. Therefore they are obliged to bribe the local orthodox pope, in order that he should not denounce them to the police.

[13] There is a Russian superstition that a round rainbow is sent as a sign of coming dry weather.

[14] Kasha and stchee are two national dishes.

[15] The mud and water from the high lands on both sides descend and collect in the villages so situated, which are often nearly transformed into swamps during the rainy season.

[16] On feast days the peasants often pawn their clothes for drink.

[17] Well-known popular characters in Russia.

[18] Each landowner kept his own band of musicians.

[19] The halting-place for prisoners on their way to Siberia.

[20] The tax collector, the landlord, and the priest.

[21] Fire.

[22] Popular name for Petrograd.

[23] The primitive wooden plough still used by the peasants in Russia.

[24] Three pounds.

[25] Holy pictures of the saints.

[26] The Russian nickname for the bear.

[27] Chief of police.

[28] An administrative unit consisting of a group of villages.

[29] The end of the story is omitted because of the interference of the Censor.

[30] A three-horsed carriage.

[31] The Pomyeshchick is still bitter because his serfs have been set free by the Government.

[32] The Russian warriors of olden times.

[33] Russian Easter dishes.

[34] Russians embrace one another on Easter Sunday, recalling the resurrection of Christ.

[35] The Russians press their foreheads to the ground while worshipping.

[36] The official appointed to arrange terms between the Pomyéshchicks and their emancipated serfs.

[37] The haystacks.

[38] A long-skirted coat.

[39] The forced labour of the serfs for their owners.

[40] Holy images.

[41] Meenin—a famous Russian patriot in the beginning of the seventeenth century. He is always represented with an immense beard.

[42] It is a sign of respect to address a person by his own name and the name of his father.

[43] Ukhá—fish soup.

[44] A national loose sleeveless dress worn with a separate shirt or blouse.

[45] The marriage agent.

[46] The marriage agent.

[47] Inhabitants of the village Korojin.

[48] Germans were often employed as managers of the Pomyéshchicks' estates.

[49] In Russian vapour-baths there are shelves ranged round the walls for the bathers to recline upon. The higher the shelf the hotter the atmosphere.

[50] Police-official.

[51] Heave-to!

[52] This paragraph refers to the custom of the country police in Russia, who, on hearing of the accidental death of anybody in a village, will, in order to extract bribes from the villagers, threaten to hold an inquest on the corpse. The peasants are usually ready to part with nearly all they possess in order to save their dead from what they consider desecration.

[53] The Saviour's day.

[54] A reference to the arranging of terms between the Pomyéshchicks and peasants with regard to land at the time of the emancipation of the serfs.

[55] There is a Russian superstition that a good memory is gained by eating magpies' eggs.

[56] Chief of Police.

[57] A wooden splinter prepared and used for lighting purposes.

[58] Polish title for nobleman or gentleman.

[59] Serfs.

[60] Alexander II., who gave emancipation to the peasants.

[61] A popular Russian drink composed of hot water and honey.

[62] There was a very heavy tax laid upon salt at the time.

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Table of Contents

WHO CAN BE HAPPY AND FREE IN RUSSIA?

NICHOLAS ALEXEIEVITCH NEKRASSOV

CONTENTS:

NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE

NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE

PROLOGUE

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

THE POPE[7]

CHAPTER II

THE VILLAGE FAIR

CHAPTER III

THE DRUNKEN NIGHT

CHAPTER IV

THE HAPPY ONES

CHAPTER V

THE POMYÉSHCHICK

PART II.

PROLOGUE

I

II

PART III.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

THE WEDDING

CHAPTER II

A SONG

CHAPTER III

SAVYÉLI

CHAPTER IV

DJÓMUSHKA

CHAPTER V

THE SHE-WOLF

CHAPTER VI

AN UNLUCKY YEAR

CHAPTER VII

THE GOVERNOR'S LADY

CHAPTER VIII

THE WOMAN'S LEGEND

PART IV.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW

EPILOGUE

A CHEERFUL SEASON—CHEERFUL SONGS

FOOTNOTES:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE