Who Can Be Happy And Free In Russia?

Nicholas Nekrassov

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  • NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE.
  • PROLOGUE.
  • PART I.
  • PART II.
  • PART III.
  • PART IV.
  • Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen
    and Distributed Proofreaders






    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.









    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?


    Luka said, “The pope,” [2]
      And Roman, “The Pomyeshchick,” [3]
    Demyan, “The official,”
      “The round-bellied merchant,”
      Said both brothers Goobin,
    Mitrodor and Ivan. 20
      Pakhom, 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 Prokoffy
      To christen his baby.
    Pakhom had some honey
      To sell in the market;
    The two brothers Goobin
      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!


    Pakhom, 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?


    Luka cries, “The pope!”
      And Roman, “The Pomyeshchick!”
    And Prov shouts, “The Tsar!”
    And Demyan, “The official!”
      “The round-bellied merchant!”
    Bawl both brothers Goobin,
      Mitrodor and Ivan.
    Pakhom 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!
      Roman and Pakhom close, 140
    Demyan clouts Luka,
      While the two brothers Goobin
    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 Pomyeshchick!”
      “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.
    Pakhom 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 Goobin,
      Mitrodor and Ivan,
    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 Pakhom
      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 Goobin,
    “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,”
      Pakhom 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,” Roman 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,”
    Luka added lastly. 370


    The little bird answered,
      “The magic white napkin
    Will mend, wash, and dry for you.
      Now free my child.”


    Pakhom 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,”
    Luka said in answer.
      (Luka 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 Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
    And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'
      And Demyan, 'The official';
    'The round-bellied merchant,'
      Said both brothers Goobin,
    Mitrodor and Ivan;
      Pakhom 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 Goobin.
      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 Pomyeshchicks.[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 Pomyeshchick
    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
      Pomyeshchicks 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 Pomyeshchicks
    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 Luka
      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
      Pavloosha Varenko,
    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 Bluecher he sells them
      A hundred small pictures, 390
    As many of Fotyi[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 Bluecher, 410
      Not stupid “Milord,”
    But Belinsky and Gogol!
    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 etape—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
    Olyenushka? 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 Pavloosha,
      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 Ivan, “I love you,”
    And Mariushka, “I you!”
      Cries Ivan, “Press closer!”
    And Mariushka, “Kiss me!”
      Cries Ivan, “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 Roman 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!”


      Pakhom 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 Peremeteff,
      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 Peremeteff,
      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 Gubonine,
      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, Fedocy,
    From “Swallow-Smoke” village, 360
      Said, sitting beside them,
    “I'd ask Ermil Girin.
      If he will not suit you,
    If he is not happy,
      Then no one can help you.”


      “But who is this Ermil,
    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 Ermil, with others,
    Went into the sale-room.
      The small buyers quickly
    Dropped out of the bidding;
      Till Ermil alone,
    With a merchant, Alternikoff, 380
      Kept up the fight.
    The merchant outbid him,
      Each time by a farthing,
    Till Ermil grew angry
      And added five roubles;
    The merchant a farthing
      And Ermil 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 Ermil 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 Ermil;
    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 Ermil departed,
    The sellers exchanging
    Sly looks with the merchant,
      And grinning—the foxes!
    But Ermil 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 Ermil,
    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 Ermil,
      Each gives what he can.
    Though Ermil'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, Ermil,
    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 Ermil sees through them;
      He gives not a farthing,
    He speaks not a word.


      “The whole town assembles
    At market next Friday, 510
      When Ermil 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 Ermil 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 Ermil, 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 Ermil 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 Ermil 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 Ermil,
    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, 'Ermil Girin!'
      As though they were one.
    Then Ermil 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 Ermil 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 Ermil
      You knew his young brother,
    Knew Mityenka, did you?”


      The speaker considered,
    Then said, “I'd forgotten,
    I'll tell you about it:
      It happened that once
    Even Ermil 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 Vlasevna, 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 Ermil 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 Vlasevna'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 Ermil's relations
    Did not beg for mercy
      And lenient treatment, 680
    But rather for firmness:
      'Bring Vlasevna's son back
    Or Ermil will hang himself,
      Nothing will save him!'
    And then appeared Ermil
      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 Vlasevna's feet.
    Well, all was put right soon,
      The nobles have fingers
    In every small corner,
      The lad was brought back
    And young Mityenka started;
      They say that his service
    Did not weigh too heavy, 710
      The prince saw to that.
    And we, as a penance,
      Imposed upon Ermil
    A fine, and to Vlasevna
      One part was given,
    To Mitya another,
      The rest to the village
    For vodka. However,
      Not quickly did Ermil
    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 Ermil.”


    “Your time would be wasted,”
      The grey-headed pope,
    Who'd before interrupted,
      Remarked to the peasants,
    “I knew Ermil Girin, 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 Ermil: 770
      In prison he lies.”


      “How's that?”


      “God so willed it.
    You've heard how the peasants
    Of 'Log' the Pomyeshchick
      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 Girin,
      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 POMYESHCHICK


      The “troika” is drawing
    The local Pomyeshchick—
      Gavril Afanasich
        Obolt-Oboldooeff.
    A portly Pomyeshchick,
      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.
      Gavril Afanasich
    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?
    Luka said, 'The pope,'
      And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
    Demyan, 'The official.'
      'The round-bellied merchant,'
    Said both brothers Goobin,
      Mitrodor and Ivan;
    Pakhom 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, Pomyeshchick,
    Is your life a sweet one?
      And is the Pomyeshchick
    Both happy and free?”


      Gavril Afanasich
    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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Pomyeshchick:


      “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 Pomyeshchick.
    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, Oboldooeff,
    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
    Obolt-Oboldooeff,
      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 Oboldooeff, 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 Oboldooeff
      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 Schepin, and one 200
      Vaska Gooseff, 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
    Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick
      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!”...
    Gavril Afanasich
      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 Pomyeshchick—
    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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Boyarin.[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 'Koolich'[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 Pomyeshchick!
    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 Pomyeshchick
    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 Pomyeshchick.
      Farewell to the past, 560
    And farewell to thee, Russia,
      The Russia who cradled
    The happy Pomyeshchick,
      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 'Posrednik,'[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 Pomyeshchick:
      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 Pomyeshchick?
      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 Pomyeshchick,
      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 Ganushka,
      Echoed my voice
      As they played by my side;
    That under this linden 640
      My young wife confessed me
    That little Gavrioushka,
      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 Pomyeshchicks!
    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 Pomyeshchicks
    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 Pomyeshchick,
    The other—the peasant.”








    PART II.


    THE LAST POMYESHCHICK



    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 Pakhom,
      “Why, the folk must be giants.”
    The two brothers Goobin 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 Vlasuchka) 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 Pomyeshchick
      Returning from boating!”
    Says Vlasuchka, running
      To busy the mowers:
    “Wake up! Look alive there!
      And mind—above all things,
    Don't heat the Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick.


    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 Pomyeshchick,
      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 Pomyeshchick. 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 Pomyeshchick,
      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 Pomyeshchick
    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 Pomyeshchick.


      The table is shining
    All dazzlingly white
      On the bank of the river. 250
    The strangers, astonished,
    Draw near to old Vlasuchka;
      “Pray, little Uncle,”
    They say, “what's the meaning
      Of all these strange doings?
    And who is that curious
        Old man?”


        “Our Pomyeshchick,
    The great Prince Yutiatin.”


    “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 Vlasuchka,
      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 Vlasuchka 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 Vlasuchka tells them
    The following story.



    I


    THE DIE-HARD


    “The great prince, Yutiatin,
      The ancient Pomyeshchick,
    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 posrednik
      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 Pomyeshchick,
    The habit gets into
      The blood,” says Mitrodor,
      “And not the Pomyeshchick's
    Alone, for the habit
      Is strong in the peasant
    As well,” old Pakhom said.
      “I once on suspicion 50
    Was put into prison,
      And met there a peasant
    Called Sedor, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 posrednik
    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 Pomyeshchicks;
    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 Yutiatin,
    The Princes Yu-tia-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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Ipat,
    And when we were made free
      He refused to believe it;
    'The great Prince Yutiatin 180
      Be left without peasants!
    What pranks are you playing?'
      At last, when the 'Order
    Of Freedom' was shown him,
      Ipat said, 'Well, well,
    Get you gone to your pleasures,
      But I am the slave
    Of the Princes Yutiatin!'
      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,
      Ipat.' 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
    Ipat, 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 Vlasuchka, 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 posrednik
      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 posrednik,
      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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Klimka Lavin 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 Klimka 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 Klimka 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 Klimka the 'scapegrace'
    He suddenly changed
      Into Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick;
    His ears burn, I warrant,
      When we come together!
    And Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick
    That Widow Terentevna's
      Cottage had fallen.
    And that she is begging
      Her bread. He commands you
      To marry the widow
    To Gabriel Jockoff; 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 Pomyeshchick 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.
      Yakutsk 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 Sofronoff the watchman
      Does not behave nicely,
    It barked at the Barin.
      Be therefore Sofronoff
    Dismissed. Let Evremka
    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 Klimka'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 Orevna,
      And she is Klim'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 Pomyeshchick
    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 Pomyeshchick,
      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 Pomyeshchick....
    The heirs and the ladies
      Come running in terror
    To Klim, to Petrov,
      And to me: 'Only save us!'
    Their faces are pale,
        'If the trick is discovered
    We're lost!' 680
                 It is Klim'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 Klim 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 Pomyeshchick,”
    Says Prov, and old Vlasuchka
      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 Klimka, 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


    KLIM, 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,
      Ipat, the domestic,
    The faithful old servant,
    In white tie and shirt-front
      Is brushing the flies off. 30
    Beside the Pomyeshchick
      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 Pomyeshchick,
    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,
      Klim's gossip, Orevna,
    Makes answer for them:
      “Yes, Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Vlasuchka 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 Klim, 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 Pomyeshchicks,
    “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 Pomyeshchick,
    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;
      Klim 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
      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,
    Ipat, who is standing
      Behind the Pomyeshchick
    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 Vlasuchka, crossly.)


    The red sun peeps slyly
      At them from a cloud,
    And the slow, dreamy music
      Is heard from the river....


    The ancient Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick,
      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, Roman,” 320
      Say the two brothers Goobin,
    You love the Pomyeshchicks.”


      “I'd rather you went, though!”
    And each is quite willing
      To offer the other.
    Then Klim looses patience;
      “Now, Vlasuchka, help us!
    Do something to save us!
      I'm sick of the thing!”


    “Yes! Nicely you lied there!” 330


      “Oho!” says Klim 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, Klim?”


      “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, Klim!
      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 Klim—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,
      Ipat, 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 Vlasuchka, 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 Pomyeshchick.
    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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Pomyeshchick,” 540
      Said Klim 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 Pomyeshchick,
      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 Pomyeshchick,
    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 Vlasuchka sadly
    And thoughtfully answers,
      “How long, though, how long, though,
    Have we—not we only 590
      But all Russian peasants—
    Endured the Pomyeshchicks?
      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 Klimka. 600
      “Hurrah! Let us toss him!”
    And now they are placing
      Old Widow Terentevna
    Next to her bridegroom,
      The little child Jockoff,
    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 Pomyeshchick,
    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 Vlasuchka 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
    Matrona Korchagin—
    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.
      Pakhom 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 Pomyeshchick'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 Pakhom
      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 Mityenka 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, Yegorshka,
    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,
      Demyan 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?”
      Demyan 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 Pomyeshchick!”


      “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 Pomyeshchick,”
    The peasants remark.
      For long the Pomyeshchick
    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?”
    Roman asks the woman
      Now feeding her baby
    With steaming ukha.[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 Pomyeshchick
      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
      Ipat, 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 Mityenka,
      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
    Matrona Korchagin?”
      The peasants demand.


    “And what do you want 380
    With Matrona Korchagin?”


    The woman Matrona
      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
      Sarafan[44] she is wearing,
    She walks with a hay-fork
      Slung over her shoulder.


    “Well, what do you want
      With Matrona Korchagin?”
    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.
    Luka said, 'The pope,'
      And Demyan, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
    And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420
      And Roman, 'The official.'
    'The round-bellied merchant,'
    Said both brothers Goobin,
      Mitrodor and Ivan.
    Pakhom 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 Pomyeshchick,
    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.”


    Matrona Korchagin
      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.


    Matrona 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


    Matrona Korchagin
      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 Goobin
     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 Matrona
      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;
    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 Philip Korchagin,
      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 Philip,
    '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 Philip 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 Philip, 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 Philip astonished,
    But still held me tight.
      'Ah, Philip, 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,
    Matrona, 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 beloved,
      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 Goobin,
    “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
      Matrona Korchagin?”


    “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
    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”;
    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.”


        Matrona


    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!


        Matrona


    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 no
    As Philip 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 Philip, 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 Philip 130
    Not often is found.”


    “Do you mean to say
      That he never once beat you?”


    Matrona 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 Philip's one day
      Came to visit her parents.
    She found she had holes
      In her boots, and it vexed her.
    Then Philip 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 Philip 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 Philip 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.


    Matrona 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 Philip
      Went back to the city;
    A little while later
      Our baby was born.
    Like a bright-coloured picture
      Was he—little Djoma;
    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 Pomyeshchick 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 Philip
      To serve as a soldier?'
    I ran to Savyeli,
      The grandfather, begging
    His aid and advice.


      “I haven't yet told you
    A word of Savyeli,
      The only one living
    Of Philip'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 Matrona,
      “And 'twould be a pity
    To give old Savyeli
    No place in the story; 290
    For he was a happy one,
      Too—the old man....”






    CHAPTER III.
    SAVYELI


    “A mane grey and bushy
      Which covered his shoulders,
    A huge grizzled beard
      Which had not seen the scissors
    For twenty odd years,
      Made Savyeli resemble
    A shaggy old bear,
      Especially when he
    Came out of the forest,
      So broad and bent double.
    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
      Savyeli, 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!


    “Savyeli 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 Korojins[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 Savyeli,
      And we two, together,
    Would fasten the door.
      Then I began working,
    While Djomushka 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, Savyeli?'


    “'I was once a convict,'
      Said he.


        “'You, Savyeli!'


    “'Yes I, little Grandchild,
      Yes, I have been branded. 110
    I buried a German
      Alive—Christian Vogel.'


    “'You're joking, Savyeli!'


      “'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 Pomyeshchick; 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 Pomyeshchick,
    Shalashnikov, 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 Pomyeshchick
      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 Korojin 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;
    Shalashnikov, 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 Korojins,
    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 Pomyeshchick
      Had taken a fancy
    At once to our roubles,
      Because after that 280
    Every year we were summoned
      To go to Korojin,
    We went, and were flogged.


      “'Shalashnikov flogged like
    A prince, but be certain
    The treasures he thrashed from
      The doughty Korojins
    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!
      Shalashnikov, heh,
    You're a fool! It was our turn
      To laugh at the Barin;
    Ah, they were proud peasants—
      The plucky Korojins!
    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 Korojin 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 Korojins! 380
    He sucked us all dry
      To the very last farthing;
    And flog!—like the soul
      Of Shalashnikov flogged he!
    Shalashnikov 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, Matrona,
      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 Savyeli.


    “'I know not, Matrona,
      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
    Savyeli?'


        “'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, Savyeli?'


      “'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
    Shalashnikov 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, Matrona:
    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 Matrona.


      “'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.
    DJOMUSHKA


    “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 Savyeli,
    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 Savyeli
    Creep trembling towards me, 70
      His face white as death:
    'Forgive me, Matrona!
      Forgive me, Matrona!
    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....
    Savyeli had fallen 90
      Asleep in the sunshine,
    And Djoma—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 Savyeli, 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
    Savyeli in sin?'


    “I whisper in answer, 140
    'Kind sir, you are joking.
      I am to my husband
    A wife without stain,
      And the peasant Savyeli
    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 Savyeli
    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 Djoma,
    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
      Korchagin is crazy?'


    “'No,' answered the peasants.
      And then Philip's parents
    He asked, and their children;
      They answered, 'Oh, no, sir!
    We never remarked it.'
      He asked old Savyeli,—
    There's one thing,' he answered,
      'That might make one think 250
    That Matrona 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 Djomushka'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 Natasha and Glasha,
      And Dariushka,—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 Savyeli.
    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, Djomushka will not
      Feel happy within it,
    He cannot sleep well....
    'Begone!'—I cried harshly
      On seeing Savyeli;
    He stood near the coffin
      And read from the book 360
    In his hand, through his glasses.
      I cursed old Savyeli,
    Cried—'Branded one! Convict!
      Begone! 'Twas you killed him!
    You murdered my, Djoma,
      Begone from my sight!'


      “He stood without moving;
    He crossed himself thrice
      And continued his reading.
    But when I grew calmer 370
      Savyeli approached me,
    And said to me gently,
      'In winter, Matrona,
    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
      Shalashnikov, 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 Djoma
      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 Djoma,
      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, Matrona,
    And pray for your baby;
      God acted with reason:
    He's counted the joys
      In the life of a peasant!'


    “Long, long did Savyeli
      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,
    Savyeli could not
      Have found words which were truer,
    Have spoken them better....


      “'Now Djoma 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, Savyeli,'
       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 Savyeli.


      “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, Savyeli?'


    “'A bondswoman, Grandchild,
      You are; and for such
    Is no hope,' said Savyeli.


      “For long I sat darkly
    And bitterly thinking.
      The thunder pealed forth
    And the windows were shaken; 470
      I started! Savyeli
    Drew nearer and touched me,
      And led me to stand
    By the little white coffin:


    “'Now pray that the Lord
      May have placed little Djoma
    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 Djomushka's coffin
    And read from the book
      In a measured low voice....”






    CHAPTER V.
    THE SHE-WOLF


    “'Tis twenty years now
      Since my Djoma 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, Savyeli.
    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 Djoma,
      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 Savyeli
      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—'Savyeli!
    From whence have you come?'


      “'I have come from Pesotchna.
    I've prayed for the soul
      Of our dear little Djoma;
    I've prayed for the peasants
      Of Russia.... Matrona,
    Once more do I pray—
      Oh, Matrona ... Matrona.... 110
    I pray that the heart
      Of the mother, at last,
    May be softened towards me....
      Forgive me, Matrona!'


    “'Oh, long, long ago
      I forgave you, Savyeli.'


      “'Then look at me now
    As in old times, Matrona!'


      “I looked as of old.
    Then up rose Savyeli, 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, Matrona,
    Now am I not like
      A Korojin 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 Djoma.
    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 Fedotka
    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;
    Fedotka 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 Fedotka
    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 Fedotka
      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 Valetka,
    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 Fedotka
      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!'
    Fedotka she pulled from 310
      My arms, and he trembled,
    He shook like a leaf.


      “Then the horns of the huntsmen
    Were heard,—the Pomyeshchick
      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!
      'Fedotka is safe now!
    Run home, quick, Fedotka.'


      “'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!'


    “'Fedotka—go home!'


      “Then I kissed him, and told him:
    'Remember, Fedotka,
      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 Fedotushka'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 Djoma
    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 Philip
      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 Philip!
    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 Philip!
      There's Philip! I see him!
    'Attention! Eyes front!'
      It's Shalashnikov shouting....
    Oh, Philip 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 Mashenka is there.
    Her father comes to look for her,
    He wakens her and coaxes her:
    ''Eh, Mashenka, come home,'' he cries,
    ''Efeemovna, 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 Mashenka is there.
    Her mother comes to look for her,
    She wakens her and coaxes her:
    ''Now, Mashenka, come home,'' she says,
    ''Efeemovna, 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 Mashenka is there.
    Young Peter comes to look for her,
    He wakens her, and coaxes her:
    ''Oh, Mashenka, come home with me!
    My little dove, Efeemovna,
    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?'


    “'Makhar Fedosseich,
      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
    (Makhar Fedosseich),
      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 Savyeli,
      And all made of brass:
    It's Susanin'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.
    Makhar 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,
    Elyen Alexandrovna,
      Only a mother
    Could bless her as I do. 270
      She christened my baby,
    Lidorushka called him.”


      “And what of your husband?”


    “They sent to the village
      And started enquiries,
    And soon he was righted.
      Elyen Alexandrovna
    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 Lidorushka! 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 Elyenushka,
      For the lady fair,
      Alexandrovna!'


      “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 Elyenushka,
      Alexandrovna!'


      “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 Elyenushka,
      To the fairest soul
      God has sent on earth:
      Alexandrovna!'“






    CHAPTER VIII.
    THE WOMAN'S LEGEND


      Matrona 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 Matrona is silent,
      In file they approach her.


    “What more will you tell us?” 10


      “What more?” says Matrona,
    “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 Sitnikov 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 Klimka, 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 Yutiatin
      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 Pomyeshchick's long absence,
    Some slip of posrednik'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, Vlasuchka, 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 Klimka,
    “Now, Vlasuchka, do you
      Agree to our plan?” 120


    “The speeches of Klimka
      Are short, and as plain
    As the public-house signboard,”
      Says Vlasuchka, 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 Vlasuchka 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 Vlasuchka 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 Pomyeshchicks.


    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
      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 Sinegusin's.
    His name is Vikenti.
      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
      Vikenti 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick,” 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 Klimka,
        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 Klimka 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 Klimka,
      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 Klimka, who, clutching
      His hair, drags his head down,
        Repeating, “He's bowing!”
      Cries, “Stop, that's enough!”
        When Klimka 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 Klimka 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,”
        Iona pronounces.
      The whole of the evening
        That diffident pilgrim
      Has sat without speaking,
        And crossed himself, sighing. 340
      The trader's delighted,
        And Klimka 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 Foma, 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, Nikifor,
    Adherent, most strange,
      Of the sect called “The Hiders.”
    One day he appeared
      In Usolovo 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!”
    Nikifor 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 Nachalnik[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 Yevressina,
      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, Yevgenka,
      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 Iona
        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.
        Iona, 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 Iona.


        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, Kudear, 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 Kudear from near Kiev Town 290
      Stole a young maiden most fair.


    Days Kudear 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] Glukhovsky 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 Glukhovsky, 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 Glukhovsky 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


    Iona 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 Kudear, 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 Klim, 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 Klimka, 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, Grisha,
    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 Grisha 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 Klimka 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 Pomyeshchick
    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 Grisha
    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 Klimka, 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 Klimka is swearing
      Again at the carter:
    “You ignorant fool!”
    They're ready to grapple!
      The deacon is sobbing
    And kissing his Grisha:
      “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 Grisha.
    “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 Klimka 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 Klimka 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 Vlasuchka 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 Tiskov
      To punish this Shutov
    Whenever we catch him,
      And so we obey.
    When people from Tiskov
      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 Demyansky,
      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 Klim at the seven.
    “D'you think that the people
    Of Tiskov are fools?
      It isn't long since, mind,
    That many were flogged there,
    One man in each ten.
      Ah, Shutov, you rendered
    A dastardly service,
      Your duties are evil,
    You damnable wretch! 360
      And who deserves beating
    As richly as Shutov?
      Not we alone beat him:
    From Tiskov, 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,
    Justinutchka 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, Klimka!”
    (Though Vlass doesn't like him,
      Whenever there's something
    That calls for arranging
      He leaves it to Klimka:
    “You see to it, Klimka!” 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, Klimka!”
      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 Klimka has finished
    The peasants come crowding,
      Surrounding the soldier,
    And some a kopeck give,
      And others give half:
    In no time a rouble 520
      Is piled on the dishes.





    EPILOGUE. GRISHA 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;
    Iona—meek pilgrim
      Of God—slept there too.
    And Sava and Grisha,
      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 Savushka opened
      A book, while his brother
    Went out, and away
      To the fields and the forest.


    A broad-shouldered youth
      Was this Grisha; his face, though,
    Was terribly thin.
      In the clerical college
    The students got little 70
      To eat. Sometimes Grisha
    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 Dyomna, 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 Dyomna
    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 Dyomna 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, Grisha.
      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 Dyomna 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 Grisha 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 Grisha.
      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 Grisha 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 Grisha,
    And guided his steps
       To a very broad hayfield.
    The peasants were cutting
       The hay, and were singing 280
    His favourite song.
       Young Grisha 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 Grisha
    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 Grisha 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 Grisha 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 Grisha 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 Grisha: 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 Pomyeshchicks
    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] Ukha—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 Pomyeshchicks'
    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 Pomyeshchicks
    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.