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 Russiain 1879. In 'The World's Classics' this translation was first publishedin 1917. _

CONTENTS:

NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE

PROLOGUE

PART I. 

 CHAP. 

 I. THE POPE II. THE VILLAGE FAIR III. THE DRUNKEN NIGHT IV. THE HAPPY ONES V. THE POMYÉSHCHICK

PART II. --THE LAST POMYÉSHCHICK

 PROLOGUE I. THE DIE-HARD II. KLIM, THE ELDER

PART III. --THE PEASANT WOMAN

 PROLOGUE I. THE WEDDING II. A SONG III. SAVYÉLI IV. DJÓMUSHKA V. THE SHE-WOLF VI. AN UNLUCKY YEAR VII. THE GOVERNOR'S LADY VIII. THE WOMAN'S LEGEND

PART IV. --A FEAST FOR THE WHOLE VILLAGE

 PROLOGUE I. BITTER TIMES--BITTER SONGS II. PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS III. OLD AND NEW

EPILOGUE

NICHOLAS NEKRASSOV: A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE

Western Europe has only lately begun to explore the rich domain ofRussian literature, and is not yet acquainted with all even of itsgreatest figures. Treasures of untold beauty and priceless value, whichfor many decades have been enlarging and elevating the Russian mind, still await discovery here. Who in England, for instance, has heard thenames of Saltykov, Uspensky, or Nekrassov? Yet Saltykov is the greatestof Russian satirists; Uspensky the greatest story-writer of the lives ofthe Russian toiling masses; while Nekrassov, "the poet of the people'ssorrow, " whose muse "of grief and vengeance" has supremely dominated theminds of the Russian educated classes for the last half century, is thesole and rightful heir of his two great predecessors, Pushkin andLermontov. 

Russia is a country still largely mysterious to the denizenof Western Europe, and the Russian peasant, the _moujik_, animpenetrable riddle to him. Of all the great Russian writers not one hascontributed more to the interpretation of the enigmatical soul of the_moujik_ than Russia's great poet, Nekrassov, in his life-work thenational epic, _Who can be Happy in Russia?_

There are few literate persons in Russia who do not know whole pages ofthis poem by heart. It will live as long as Russian literature exists;and its artistic value as an instrument for the depiction of Russiannature and the soul of the Russian people can be compared only with thatof the great epics of Homer with regard to the legendary life ofancient Greece. 

Nekrassov seemed destined to dwell from his birth amid such surroundingsas 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 lostthe 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 tothe other in the fulfilment of his military duties he became acquaintedwith 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 parentsof the girl, however, were horrified at the notion of marrying theirdaughter to a "Muscovite savage, " and her father threatened her with hiscurse if ever again she held communication with her lover. So the matterwas secretly arranged between the two, and during a ball which the youngPolish beauty was attending she suddenly disappeared. Outside the housethe lover waited with his sledge. They sped away, and were married atthe first church they reached. 

The bride, with her father's curse upon her, passed straight from hersheltered existence in her luxurious home to all the unsparing rigoursof Russian camp-life. Bred in an atmosphere of maternal tenderness andPolish refinement she had now to share the life of her rough, unculturedRussian husband, to content herself with the shallow society of thewives of the camp officers, and soon to be crushed by the knowledge thatthe man for whom she had sacrificed everything was not even faithfulto her. 

During their travels, in 1821, Nicholas Nekrassov the future poet wasborn, and three years later his father left military service and settledin his estate in the Yaroslav Province, on the banks of the great riverVolga, and close to the Vladimirsky highway, famous in Russian historyas the road along which, for centuries, chained convicts had been drivenfrom European Russia to the mines in Siberia. The old park of the manor, with its seven rippling brooklets and mysterious shadowy linden avenuesmore than a century old, filled with a dreamy murmur at the slighteststir of the breeze, stretched down to the mighty Volga, along the banksof which, during the long summer days, were heard the piteous, pantingsongs of the _burlaki_, the barge-towers, who drag the heavy, loadedbarges 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 inthe linden avenues of the garden, often shedding tears over a letter sheread, which was headed by a coronet and written in a fine, delicatehand; the spreading green fields, the broad mighty river, the deep blueskies of Russia, --such were the reminiscences which Nekrassov retainedfrom his earliest childhood. He loved his sad young mother with achildish passion, and in after years he was wont to relate how jealoushe had been of that letter[1] she read so often, which always seemed tofill her with a sorrow he could not understand, making her at momentseven forget that he was near her. 

The sight and knowledge of deep human suffering, framed in the softvoluptuous beauty of nature in central Russia, could not fail to sow theseed of future poetical powers in the soul of an emotional child. Hismother, who had been bred on Shakespeare, Milton, and the other greatpoets and writers of the West, devoted her solitary life to thedevelopment of higher intellectual tendencies in her gifted little son. And from an early age he made attempts at verse. His mother haspreserved for the world his first little poem, which he presented to herwhen he was seven years of age, with a little heading, roughly to thefollowing 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 ofcontrasting pictures. His father, when he had abandoned his militarycalling and settled upon his estate, became the Chief of the districtpolice. He would take his son Nicholas with him in his trap as he drovefrom village to village in the fulfilment of his new duties. Thecontinual change of scenery during their frequent journeys along countryroads, through forests and valleys, past meadows and rivers, the varioustypes of people they met with, broadened and developed the mind oflittle Nekrassov, just as the mind of the child Ruskin was formed andexpanded during his journeys with his father. But Ruskin's educationlacked features with which young Nekrassov on his journeys soon becamefamiliar. While acquiring knowledge of life and accumulating impressionsof the beauties of nature, Nekrassov listened, perforce, to the brutal, blustering speeches addressed by his father to the helpless, tremblingpeasants, and witnessed the cruel, degrading corporal punishments heinflicted upon them, while his eyes were speedily opened to his father'saddiction to drinking, gambling, and debauchery. These experiences wouldmost certainly have demoralised and depraved his childish mind had itnot been for the powerful influence the refined and cultured mother hadfrom the first exercised upon her son. The contrast between his parentswas so startling that it could not fail to awaken the better side of thechild's nature, and to imbue him with pure and healthy notions of thetruer and higher ideals of humanity. In his poetical works of lateryears Nekrassov repeatedly returns to and dwells upon the memory of thesorrowful, sweet image of his mother. The gentle, beautiful lady, withher wealth of golden hair, with an expression of divine tenderness inher blue eyes and of infinite suffering upon her sensitive lips, remained for ever her son's ideal of womanhood. Later on, during yearsof manhood, in moments of the deepest moral suffering and despondency, it was always of her that he thought, her tenderness and spiritualconsolation he recalled and for which he craved. 

When Nekrassov was eleven years of age his father one day drove him tothe town nearest their estate and placed him in the localgrammar-school. Here he remained for six years, gradually, thoughwithout distinction, passing upwards from one class to another, devotinga moderate amount of time to school studies and much energy to thewriting of poetry, mostly of a satirical nature, in which his teachersfigured with unfortunate conspicuity. 

One day a copy-book containing the most biting of these productions fellinto the hands of the headmaster, and young Nekrassov was summarilyejected from the school. 

His angry father, deciding in his own mind that the boy was good fornothing, despatched him to St. Petersburg to embark upon a militarycareer. The seventeen-year-old boy arrived in the capital with acopy-book of his poems and a few roubles in his pocket, and with aletter of introduction to an influential general. He was filled withgood intentions and fully prepared to obey his father's orders, butbefore he had taken the final step of entering the nobleman's regimenthe met a young student, a former school-mate, who captivated hisimagination by glowing descriptions of the marvellous sciences to bestudied in the university, and the surpassing interest of student life. The impressionable boy decided to abandon the idea of his militarycareer, and to prepare for his matriculation in the university. He wroteto 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 asan unmatriculated student. And that was the beginning of his longacquaintance 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 ofthat, but some days I did not eat at all. I often went to a certainrestaurant in the Morskaya, where one is allowed to read the paperwithout ordering food. You can hold the paper in front of you and nibbleat a piece of bread behind it. . . . "

While sunk in this state of poverty, however, Nekrassov got into touchwith some of the richest and most aristocratic families in St. Petersburg; for at that time there existed a complete comradeship andequality among the students, whether their budget consisted of a fewfarthings or unlimited wealth. Thus here again Nekrassov was given theopportunity of studying the contrasts of life. 

For several years after his arrival in St. Petersburg the true gifts ofthe poet were denied expression. The young man was confronted with aterrible uphill fight to conquer the means of bare subsistence. He hadno 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 offeredhim, and to execute it with a promptitude necessitated by therequirements of his daily bill of fare. During the first years of hisliterary career he wrote an amazing number of prose reviews, essays, short stories, novels, comedies and tragedies, alphabets and children'sstories, which, put together, would fill thirty or forty volumes. Healso issued a volume of his early poems, but he was so ashamed of themthat he would not put his name upon the fly-leaf. Soon, however, hispoems, "On the Road" and "My Motherland, " attracted the attention ofByelinsky, when the young poet brought some of his work to show thegreat critic. With tears in his eyes Byelinsky embraced Nekrassov andsaid to him:

"Do you know that you are a poet, a true poet?"

This decree of Byelinsky brought fame to Nekrassov, for Byelinsky's wordwas law in Russia then, and his judgement was never known to fail. Hisapproval gave Nekrassov the confidence he lacked, and he began to devotemost 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 greatrevival of idealism in Russia. The iron reaction of the then EmperorNicholas I. Made independent political activity an impossibility. Butthe horrible and degrading conditions of serfdom which existed at thattime, and which cast a blight upon the energy and dignity of the Russiannation, nourished feelings of grief and indignation in the noblest mindsof the educated classes, and, unable to struggle for their principles inthe field of practical politics, they strove towards abstract idealism. They devoted their energies to philosophy, literature, and art. It wasthen that Tolstoy, Turgenieff, and Dostoyevsky embarked upon theirphenomenal careers in fiction. It was then that the impetuous essayist, Byelinsky, with his fiery and eloquent pen, taught the true meaning andobjects of literature. Nekrassov soon joined the circles of literarypeople dominated by the spirit of Byelinsky, and he too drank at thefountain of idealism and imbibed the gospel of altruistic toil for hiscountry and its people, that gospel of perfect citizenship expounded byByelinsky, Granovsky, and their friends. It was at this period that hispoetry became impregnated with the sadness which, later on, was embodiedin the lines:

My verses! Living witnesses of tears Shed for the world, and born Inmoments of the soul's dire agony, Unheeded and forlorn, Like waves thatbeat against the rocks, You plead to hearts that scorn. 

Nekrassov's material conditions meanwhile began to improve, and heactually developed business capacities, and soon the greatest writers ofthe time were contributing to the monthly review _Sovremenik_ (theContemporary) which Nekrassov bought in 1847. Turgenieff, Herzen, Byelinsky, Dostoyevsky gladly sent their works to him, and Nekrassovsoon became the intellectual leader of his time. His influence becameenormous, but he had to cope with all the rigours of the censorshipwhich had become almost insupportable in Russia, as the effect of theTsar's fears aroused by the events of the French Revolution of 1848. 

Byelinsky died in that year from consumption in the very presence of thegendarmes who had come to arrest him for some literary offence. Dostoyevsky was seized, condemned to death, and when already on thescaffold, with the rope around his neck, reprieved and sent for life tothe Siberian mines. The rigours still increased during the Crimean War, and it was only after the death of Nicholas I. , the termination of thewar, and the accession of the liberal Tsar, Alexander II. , thatNekrassov and Russian literature in general began to breathe morefreely. The decade which followed upon 1855 was one of the brightperiods of Russian history. Serfdom was abolished and many great reformswere passed. It was then that Nekrassov's activity was at its height. His review _Sovremenik_ was a stupendous success, and brought him greatfame and wealth. During that year some of his finest poems appeared init: "The Peasant Children, " "Orina, the Mother of a Soldier, " "TheGossips, " "The Pedlars, " "The Rail-way, " and many others. 

Nekrassov became the idol of Russia. The literary evenings at which heused to read his poems aloud were besieged by fervent devotees, and themost brilliant orations were addressed to him on all possible occasions. His greatest work, however, the national epic, _Who can be Happy inRussia?_ was written towards the latter end of his life, between1873 and 1877. 

Here he suffered from the censor more cruelly than ever. Long extractsfrom the poem were altogether forbidden, and only after his death it wasallowed, in 1879, to appear in print more or less in its entirety. 

When gripped in the throes of his last painful illness, and practicallyon his deathbed, he would still have found consolation in work, in thedictation of his poems. But even then his sufferings were aggravated bythe harassing coercions of the censor. His last great poem was writtenon 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 myfirst lines they were hacked to pieces by the censor's scissors--thatwas thirty-seven years ago; and now, when I am dying, and have writtenmy last lines, I am again confronted by the scissors. "

For many months he lay in appalling suffering. His disease was theoutcome, he declared, of the privations he had suffered in his youth. The whole of Russia seemed to be standing at his bedside, watching withanguish his terrible struggle with death. Hundreds of letters andtelegrams arrived daily from every corner of the immense empire, and thedying 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, whetherthey love us and are our friends. We learn in moments like this. . . . "

It was a bright, frosty December day when Nekrassov's coffin was carriedto the grave on the shoulders of friends who had loved and admired him. The orations delivered above it were full of passionate emotion calledforth by the knowledge that the speakers were expressing not only theirown sentiments, but those of a whole nation. 

Nekrassov is dead. But all over Russia young and old repeat and love hispoetry, so full of tenderness and grief and pity for the Russian peopleand their endless woe. Quotations from the works of Nekrassov are asabundant and widely known in Russia as those from Shakespeare inEngland, and no work of his is so familiar and so widely quoted as thenational epic, now presented to the English public, _Who can be Happyin 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 disputedOf who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

Luká said, "The pope, " [2] And Román, "The Pomyéshchick, " [3]Demyán, "The official, " "The round-bellied merchant, " Said both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan. 20 Pakhóm, who'd been lostIn profoundest reflection, Exclaimed, looking downAt 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 themYou cannot dislodge it 30 Although you should beat themWith stout wooden cudgels: They stick to their folly, And nothing can move them. They raised such a clamourThat those who were passing Thought, "Surely the fellowsHave 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 hasteTo fetch Father Prokóffy To christen his baby. Pakhóm had some honey To sell in the market;The two brothers Goóbin Were seeking a horseWhich had strayed from their herd. 50

Long since should the peasants Have turned their steps homewards, But still in a row They are hurrying onwardsAs 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. 60In quarrel they mark notThe fiery-red sunset Which blazes in HeavenAs evening is falling, And all through the nightThey 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 laughterShe slashed at her horses And galloped away. 

The peasants are startled, Stand still, in confusion, Since long night has fallen, 80 The numberless starsCluster bright in the heavens, The moon gliding onwards. Black shadows are spreadOn 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, 90Entice, or embrace you!

Pakhóm, the old fellow, Gazed long at the wood, At the sky, at the roadway, Gazed, silently searchingHis 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 returningTo-night; we must wait Till the sun rise to-morrow. "

Thus, blaming the devil, The peasants make readyTo sleep by the roadside. They light a large fire, And collecting some farthings 110 Send two of their numberTo buy them some vodka, The rest cutting cupsFrom the bark of a birch-tree. The vodka's provided, Black bread, too, besides, And they all begin feasting: Each munches some breadAnd drinks three cups of vodka-- But then comes the question 120Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

Luká cries, "The pope!" And Román, "The Pomyéshchick!"And Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"And Demyán, "The official!" "The round-bellied merchant!"Bawl both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan. Pakhóm shrieks, "His Lordship, 130 His most mighty Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"

The obstinate peasants Grow more and more heated, Cry louder and louder, Swear hard at each other;I really believe They'll attack one another!Look! now they are fighting! Román and Pakhom close, 140Demyán clouts Luká, While the two brothers GoóbinAre drubbing fat Prov, And they all shout together. Then wakes the clear echo, Runs hither and thither, Runs calling and mockingAs if to encourage The wrath of the peasants. The trees of the forest 150 Throw furious words back:

"The Tsar!" "The Pomyéshchick!" "The pope!" "The official!"Until the whole coppice Awakes in confusion;The birds and the insects, The swift-footed beastsAnd the low crawling reptiles Are chattering and buzzingAnd stirring all round. 160 The timid grey hareSpringing out of the bushes Speeds startled away;The hoarse little jackdaw Flies off to the topOf a birch-tree, and raises A harsh, grating shriek, A most horrible clamour. A weak little peewitFalls headlong in terror 170From out of its nest, And the mother comes flyingIn search of her fledgeling. She twitters in anguish. Alas! she can't find it. The crusty old cuckooAwakes and bethinks him To call to a neighbour:Ten times he commences And gets out of tune, 180But he won't give it up. . . . 

Call, call, little cuckoo, For all the young cornfieldsWill 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 themselvesTo 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 treeIn the light of the fire, Praying hard to the devilThat one of the wranglers, 200 At least, should be beatenTo death in the tumult. A cow with a bellWhich had strayed from its fellows The evening before, Upon hearing men's voices Comes out of the forestAnd into the firelight, And fixing its eyes, Large and sad, on the peasants, 210 Stands listening in silenceSome 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 echoMaliciously mocks them-- The impudent echo 220Who 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 owlCalled the Duchess of Moscow 230 Comes plunging aboutIn the midst of the peasants, Now circling above them, Now striking the bushesAnd 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 forgottenThe cause of the strife. 

But after awhile Having pummelled each other 250Sufficiently soundly, They come to their senses;They drink from a rain-pool And wash themselves also, And then they feel sleepy. And, meanwhile, the peewit, The poor little fledgeling, With short hops and flights Had come fluttering towards them. Pakhóm took it up 260 In his palm, held it gentlyStretched 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 waftedRight into the flames. 270 One flick from my fingerWould 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 discoverThe man who in Russia-- Is happy and free. "

"No wings would be needful If we could be certainOf bread every day; For then we could travelOn foot at our leisure, " 290 Said Prov, of a suddenGrown weary and sad. 

"But not without vodka, A bucket each morning, "Cried both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan, Who dearly loved vodka. 

"Salt cucumbers, also, Each morning a dozen!"The peasants cry, jesting. 300

"Sour qwass, [5] too, a jug To refresh us at mid-day!"

"A can of hot tea Every night!" they say, laughing. 

But while they were talking The little bird's motherWas flying and wheeling In circles above them;She listened to all, And descending just near them 310She chirruped, and making A brisk little movementShe said to Pakhóm In a voice clear and human:"Release my poor child, I will pay a great ransom. "

"And what is your offer?"

"A loaf each a day And a bucket of vodka, Salt cucumbers also, 320 Each morning a dozen. At mid-day sour qwass And hot tea in the evening. "

"And where, little bird, " Asked the two brothers Goóbin, "And where will you find Food and drink for all seven?"

"Yourselves you will find it, But I will direct youTo where you will find it. " 330 "Well, speak. We will listen. "

"Go straight down the road, Count the poles until thirty:Then enter the forestAnd walk for a verst. By then you'll have comeTo a smooth little lawn With two pine-trees upon it. Beneath these two pine-trees Lies buried a casket 340Which you must discover. The casket is magic, And in it there lies An enchanted white napkin. Whenever you wish it This napkin will serve youWith food and with vodka: You need but say softly, 'O napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants!' 350At once, at your bidding, Through my intercessionThe napkin will serve you. And now, free my child. "

"But wait. We are poor, And we're thinking of makingA very long journey, " Pakhóm said. "I noticeThat you are a bird Of remarkable talent. 360So charm our old clothing To keep it upon us. "

"Our coats, that they fall not In tatters, " Román said. 

"Our laputs, [6] that they too May last the whole journey, "Demyan next demanded. 

"Our shirts, that the fleas May not breed and annoy us, "Luká added lastly. 370

The little bird answered, "The magic white napkinWill mend, wash, and dry for you. Now free my child. "

Pakhóm then spread open His palm, wide and spacious, Releasing the fledgeling, Which fluttered awayTo a hole in a pine-tree. The mother who followed it 380Added, 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 injunctionYour wish shall be granted; The third time, take warning: 390Misfortune will follow. "

The peasants set off In a file, down the road, Count the poles until thirty And enter the forest, And, silently countingEach footstep, they measure A verst as directed. They find the smooth lawn With the pine-trees upon it, 400They 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 floatingFrom 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 gatherAround the white napkin 420 To hold a great banquet. In joy, they embrace One another, and promiseThat never again Will they beat one anotherWithout sound reflection, But settle their quarrelsIn reason and honour As God has commanded;That nought shall persuade them 430To turn their steps homewards To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until they have settledFor 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 slumberAs 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-treesWinds 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 hamletsAnd 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 scantyIs painful to see. 

 "'Twas not without meaning 20That 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 30Its voice is uplifted: The fields are all coveredWith loud, rushing waters, No roads can be traversedFor bringing manure To the aid of the cornfields;The season is late For the sweet month of MayIs already approaching. " The peasant is saddened 40At 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, 50And 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, -- 60What joy can be his?

As evening is falling Appears on the high-roadA pope in his cart. The peasants uncoverTheir heads, and draw up In a line on the roadway, Thus barring the passage In front of the gelding. The pope raised his head, 70Looked inquiringly at them. "Fear not, we won't harm you, "Luká said in answer. (Luká was thick-bearded, Was heavy and stolid, Was obstinate, stupid, And talkative too; He was like to the windmillWhich differs in one thing Alone from an eagle: 80No matter how boldly It waves its broad pinionsIt 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, ' 90From 'Harvestless' also, Are striving to settleA thing of importance;A trouble torments us, It draws us awayFrom our wives and our children, Away from our work, Kills our appetites too. Pray, give us your promiseTo answer us truly, 100 Consulting your conscienceAnd searching your knowledge, Not feigning nor mocking The question we put you. If not, we will go Further on. "

 "I will promiseIf you will but put me A serious questionTo 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 outOn particular errands, And met in the roadway. Then one asked another:Who is he, --the man 120 Free and happy in Russia?And I said, 'The pope, ' And Román, 'The Pomyéshchick, 'And Prov said, 'The Tsar, ' And Demyán, 'The official';'The round-bellied merchant, ' Said both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan; Pakhóm said, 'His Lordship, The Tsar's Chief Adviser. ' 130

 "Like bulls are the peasants;Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge itAlthough 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 decidedThat never again Would we turn our steps homewardTo 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 foreverThe 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 meThe 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 oughtTo begin from my childhood, For how does the sonOf the pope gain his learning, And what is the priceThat he pays for the priesthood? 180 'Tis best to be silent. " [9]

 * * * * *

 "Our roadways are poorAnd 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 bodyNeed suffer alone! But no, --every momentThe heart's deepest feelings Are strained and tormented. Believe me, my children, Some things on this earthOne can never get used to: 200 No heart there existsThat 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 waitedTo let the pope rest, 210 Then enquired with a bow:"And what more will you tell us?" "Well, now let us seeIf 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 cursedStallion breed?' Can you tell me?"

 The peasants stand silent 221In 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 shufflingTheir feet in confusion. 

 "Of whom do you makeLittle scandalous stories? 230 Of whom do you singRhymes 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 derisionWhen once you are past him?"

The peasants cast downwards Their eyes and keep silent. 240The 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 springtimePlay round the great sun Like small grandchildren friskingAround a hale grandsire, And now, on his right side 250A bright little cloud Has grown suddenly dismal, Begins to shed tears. The grey thread is hangingIn rows to the earth, While the red sun is laughingAnd beaming upon it Through torn fleecy clouds, Like a merry young girl Peeping out from the corn. 260The cloud has moved nearer, The rain begins here, And the pope puts his hat on. But on the sun's right sideThe joy and the brightnessAgain are established. The rain is now ceasing. . . . It stops altogether, And God's wondrous miracle, Long golden sunbeams, 270 Are streaming from HeavenIn radiant splendour. 

 * * * * *

 "It isn't our own fault;It comes from our parents, " Say, after long silence, The two brothers Goóbin. The others approve him:"It isn't our own fault, It comes from our parents. "

The pope said, "So be it! 280 But pardon me, Christians, It is not my meaning To censure my neighbours;I spoke but desiring To tell you the truth. You see how the pope Is revered by the peasants;The gentry--" "Pass over them, Father--we know them. " 290 "Then let us considerFrom whence the pope's riches. In times not far distantThe great Russian Empire Was filled with estatesOf wealthy Pomyéshchicks. [11] They lived and increased, And they let us live too. What weddings were feasted!What numbers and numbers 300 Of children were bornIn each rich, merry life-time! Although they were haughtyAnd 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 PomyéshchickShould 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 suddenlyFar from the village, An order was foundIn his papers, most surely, 320 That he should be buriedAt home with his fathers. Then see--the black carWith the six mourning horses, -- The heirs are conveyingThe dead to the graveyard; And think--what a liftFor the pope, and what feasting All over the village!But now that is ended, 330 Pomyéshchicks are scatteredLike Jews over Russia And all foreign countries. They seek not the honourOf lying with fathers And mothers together. How many estates Have passed into the pocketsOf rich speculators! O you, bones so pampered 340Of 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 peopleAre Orthodox churchmen. But districts there areWhere the whole population Consists of dissenters--Then how can the pope live?

 "But all in this worldIs subjected to changes: The laws which in old daysApplied to dissenters 360 Have now become milder;And that in itself Is a check to pope's income. I've said the PomyéshchicksAre gone, and no longer They seek to returnTo the home of their childhood; And then of their ladies(Rich, pious old women), How many have left us 370To live near the convents! And nobody now Gives the pope a new cassockOr 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-- 380Themselves they have nothing; And who can take gladlyThe 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 EarthChance at times to be kinder, That too is misfortune: 390 The market is crowded, They sell for a trifleTo 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: 400We 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] rainbowTo shine in Thy heavens!"

 Then taking his hat offHe 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 handsOn the fruits of such labour. 

 "At times you are sent for 420To pray by the dying, But Death is not reallyThe 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 430Comes tottering towards you, And stretching her bonyAnd 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; 440Your words of condolence Are frozen, and blindly, Like one deep insulted, You make your way homeward. Amen. . . . "

 * * * * *

 The pope finishedHis 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 agreementAttack poor Luká With indignant reproaches. 

"Now, what have you got?-- You great obstinate blockhead, You log of the village! You too must needs argue;Pray what did you tell us? 460 'The popes live like princes, The lords of the belfry, Their palaces risingAs high as the heavens, Their bells set a-chimingAll 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 madeAnd 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 swollenAnd booming like church bells. '

 "Well, there's your pope's life, -- 480There's your 'strawberry, ' boaster! For that you've been shoutingAnd making us quarrel, You limb of the Devil!Pray is it because Of your beard like a shovelYou think you're so clever? If so, let me tell youThe goat walked in Eden With just such another 490Before Father Adam, And yet down to our timeThe 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 500At a rise in the road. 

CHAPTER II

THE VILLAGE FAIR

 No wonder the peasantsDislike a wet spring-tide: The peasant needs greatlyA spring warm and early. This year, though he howlLike a wolf, I'm afraid That the sun will not gladdenThe 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-clothesBeneath the dull heavens. 21 One pities the peasant;Still more, though, his cattle: For when they have eatenThe 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? 30Nor settled the weather Until it was nearingThe feast of St. Nichol, And then the poor cattleEnjoyed 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, 40We 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 oldestOf all the old women. 50 The wickets are fastenedSecurely with padlocks; The padlock's a loyalAnd vigilant watch-dog; It barks not, it bites not, But no one can pass it. 

 They walk through the villageAnd see a clear mirror Beset with green framework--A pond full of water; 60 And over its surfaceAre hovering swallows And all kinds of insects;The gnats quick and meagre Skip over the waterAs though on dry land; And in the laburnumsWhich grow on the banksides The landrails are squeaking. 

A raft made of tree-trunks 70 Floats near, and upon itThe 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 80The 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 fastenedA rope of some yards length, Held tight in the teethOf 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 itIs tossing and heaving. 100

 The horse with the peasantAstride 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 thereThe happy, the free one. " 120

 The village KousminskyIs 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 itNot 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-boardOf "Barber and Bleeder. " A dirty inn alsoThere is, with its sign-board 140 Adorned by a picture:A great nosy tea-pot With plump little tea-cupsHeld out by a waiter, Suggesting a fat gooseSurrounded by goslings. A row of small shops, too, There is in the village. 

 The peasants go straightTo the market-place, find there 150 A large crowd of peopleAnd goods in profusion. How strange!--notwithstandingThere's no church procession The men have no hats on, Are standing bare-headed, As though in the presenceOf 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 roadsideFor selling of vodka. And though in each tentThere are five agile waiters, All young and most active, They find it quite hopeless To try to get change right. 170Just look how the peasants Are stretching their hands out, With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia, Unquenchable, endlessYou 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 waistcoatsAnd shirts of all colours; The women wear scarlet;The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; 190They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water. Some beauties are even Attired in the fashionOf Petersburg ladies; Their dresses spread stifflyOn 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 youGreat fishermen's baskets!

 A woman dissenterLooks darkly upon them, And whispers with malice:"A famine, a famine Most surely will blight us. The young growths are sodden, The floods unabated; 210Since women have taken To red cotton dressesThe 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-sideAre piled ploughs and harrows, With rakes, spades, and hatchets, And all kinds of iron-ware, And pliable woodTo make rims for the cart-wheels. 230 And, oh, what a hubbubOf bargaining, swearing, Of jesting and laughter!And who could help laughing?

 A limp little peasantIs bending and testing The wood for the wheel-rims. One piece does not please him; He takes up anotherAnd 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 meThe least little service. The whole of your lifeYou spend bowing before me, 260 And yet you insult me!"

 Our peasants determineTo see the shop windows, The handkerchiefs, ribbons, And stuffs of bright colour; And near to the boot-shopIs fresh cause for laughter; For here an old peasantMost eagerly bargains For small boots of goat-skin 270To give to his grandchild. He asks the price five times; Again and againHe 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 280The 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 VavilBegin to boast grandly, 300 To promise a presentTo old and to young. But now his last farthingIs swallowed in vodka, And how can he dareShow 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 commencesThe story againOf the poor little grandchild. He's very dejected. A crowd listens round him, Not laughing, but troubledAt sight of his sorrow. 

If they could have helped him 320With bread or by labour They soon would have done so, But money is money, And who has got tenpenceTo spare? Then came forward Pavlóosha Varénko, The "gentleman" nicknamed. (His origin, past life, Or calling they knew not, But called him the 'Barin'. ) 330He 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 340To 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 givenTo each one a rouble. 

The peasants next visit The picture and book stall; 350The 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 peasantsKnow one from another? 370 A shabby one--he wantsAn expert to sell him, But trust me to part withThe 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 380As round as a barrel, And seventeen medals. 

The merchant is serving With greatest politeness, Displaying and praising, With patience unyielding, --A thief of the first-class He is, come from Moscow. Of Blücher he sells them A hundred small pictures, 390As many of Fótyi[17] The archimandrite, And of Sipko[17] the brigand; A book of the sayingsOf 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, 400Until they find rest On the wall of some peasant--The devil knows why!

Oh, may it come quickly The time when the peasantWill make some distinction Between book and book, Between picture and picture; Will bring from the market, Not picture of Blücher, 410 Not stupid "Milord, "But Belinsky and Gógol!Oh, say, Russian people, These names--have you heard them?They're great. They were borne By your champions, who loved you, Who strove in your cause, 'Tis _their_ little portraitsShould hang in your houses!

 "I'd walk into Heaven 420But can't find the doorway!" Is suddenly shoutedBy 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, 430A goat for the drummer; Real music is playing--No common accordion. The play is not too deep, But not stupid, either. A bullet shot deftlyRight into the eye Of the hated policeman. The tent is quite crowded, The audience cracking 440Their 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 throwingA right witty word Into Peterkin's speeches, 450Which _you'd_ never hit on, Although you should swallowYour pen and your pad!. . . 

 Some folk there are alwaysWho 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 usAlone is our Master!" "Well spoken, my brothers; Enough time you've wastedAmusing 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 riverComes rolling to meet them; They'll treat the musiciansMore handsomely, far, Than their masters of old. 

It is not the rushing Of furious whirlwinds, Not Mother Earth shaking-- 480 'Tis shouting and singingAnd swearing and fightingAnd falling and kissing-- The people's carouse!It seems to the peasants That all in the villageWas reeling around them! That even the churchWith the very tall, steeple Had swayed once or twice! 490

When things are in this state, A man who is soberFeels nearly as awkward As one who is naked. . . . 

The peasants recrossing The market-place, quittedThe 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 buildingOf wood, with iron gratings In small narrow windows. The broad, sandy high-road, With borders of birch-trees, Spread out straight behind it-- 10 The grim étape--prison. [19]On week-days deserted It is, dull and silent, But now it is not so. All over the high-road, In neighbouring pathways, Wherever the eye falls, Are lying and crawling, Are driving and climbing, The numberless drunkards; 20 Their shout fills the skies. 

 The cart-wheels are screeching, And like slaughtered calves' heads Are nodding and waggingThe pates limp and helpless Of peasants asleep. 

 They're dropping on all sides, As if from some ambush An enemy firingIs shooting them wholesale. 30 The quiet night is falling, The moon is in Heaven, And God is commencingTo write His great letter Of gold on blue velvet;Mysterious message, Which neither the wise manNor foolish can read. 

The high-road is humming Just like a great bee-hive; 40The people's loud clamour Is swelling and fallingLike waves in the ocean. 

 "We paid him a rouble--The clerk, and he gave us A written petitionTo send to the Governor. "

 "Hi, you with the waggon, Look after your corn!"

 "But where are you off to, 50Olyénushka? Wait now-- I've still got some cakes. You're like a black flea, girl, You eat all you want toAnd 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!" 60The exciseman dashes Amongst them, his brass plateAttached 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 loudlyTo busy Pavloósha, The village policeman. 

"An accident's happened Down here, and a man's killed. "

"God pardon our sins!"

"How thin you've got, Dashka!"

"The spinning-wheel fattens By turning forever; 80I 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 90A meek little fellow Most busily diggingA 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 awayAt a stick held between them. This soon fails to please them:"Let's try with our beards!" And each man then clutches 110The 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 themTwo women are squabbling; One cries, "To go home now 120Were 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 130My rouble in silver. The youngest--he alwaysIs up with his knife out. He'll kill me for sure!"

"Enough, enough, darling!Now don't you be angry!" Is heard not far distantFrom over a hillock-- "Come on, I'm all right!"

 A mischievous night, this; 140On 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 thrillingWith nightingales' voices. And later, the high-roadGets more and more ugly, And more and more often 150The people are falling, Are staggering, crawling, Or lying like corpses. As always it happensOn feast days in Russia-- No word can be utteredWithout a great oath. And near to the tavernIs quite a commotion; Some wheels get entangled 160And terrified horses Rush off without drivers. Here children are crying, And sad wives and mothersAre anxiously waiting; And is the task easyOf getting the peasant Away from his drink?

 Just near to the sign-postA 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 openTheir hearts to the Barin; If some song should please himThey'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 helplessAnd lie about tipsy, It's painful to see. " 190

They listen in silence. The Barin commencesTo write something down In the little black note-bookWhen, all of a sudden, A small, tipsy peasant, Who up to that moment Has lain on his stomachAnd gazed at the speaker, Springs up straight before him 200And 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 heartOf the peasant rejoices? At times we drink hard, 210But 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 thirdAnd you'll find they won't touch it! One family drinks, 221While another drinks nothing, Drinks nothing--and suffersAs much as the drunkards: They, wisely or foolishly, Follow their conscience; And see how misfortune, The peasants' misfortune, Will swallow that householdHard-working and sober! 230 Pray, have you seen everThe 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 downWith the stroke of a feather!

 "Sweet food is the peasant's! 250But stomachs aren't mirrors, And so we don't whimperTo see what we've eaten. 

 "We work single-handed, But when we have finished Three partners[20] are waitingTo 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 MoscowAnd 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 littleWe stuff in our bellies? To count all the peopleThat live in the village Upon his five fingers. He did not _ask how much The fire feeds the wind withOf 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 grumbleAt each of his burdens, He'll set out to meet it, And struggle to bear it; 290 The peasant does not flinchAt life-wasting labour, And tremble for fearThat his health may be injured. Then why should he numberEach cupful of vodka For fear that an odd oneMay topple him over? You say that it's painfulTo 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 peasantsIs toiling in danger, 310 Is springing from one clodOf 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 330Is black as a storm-cloud, Its thunder should pealAnd its blood rain in torrents; But all ends in drink--For after one cupful The soul of the peasantIs 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 standingOn top of a hillock, And stamping his feet, And after being silent 350 A moment, and gazingWith 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 villageLives 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 himTo get him to law With a very rich merchant;How after the prison He'd come back amongst themAll stripped, like a linden, And taken to ploughing. For thirty years since On his narrow allotmentHe'd worked in all weathers, 380 The harrow his shelterFrom sunshine and storm. He lived with the sokha, [23]And when God would take him He'd drop from beneath itJust like a black clod. 

 An accident happenedOne year to old Jacob: He bought some small picturesTo 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 roublesWere melted together In one lump of silver. Old Jacob was offered 410 Eleven such roublesFor 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, 420Examining Jacob, The toiler, the earth-worm, His chest thin and meagre, His stomach as shrunkAs though something had crushed it, His eyes and mouth circledBy numberless wrinkles, Like drought-shrivelled earth. And he altogether Resembled the earth, 430Thought the Barin, while noting His throat, like a dry lumpOf 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, remarkingThat old Jacob's speech Had not angered the Barin, 440Themselves 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 vodkaAnd drink it together. To Jacob the BarinHas 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 garbageAnd never sees Heaven!"

 Then suddenly singingIs 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 youthsAnd the beauty of maidens . . . A hush falls all overThe road, and it listens; And only the singingIs heard, broadly rolling In waves, sweet and tuneful, Like wind-ruffled corn. 480 The hearts of the peasantsAre touched with wild anguish, And one little womanGrows pensive and mournful, And then begins weepingAnd sobs forth her grief: "My life is like day-timeWith no sun to warm it! My life is like nightWith no glimmer of moon! 490 And I--the young woman-- Am like the swift steedOn 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 suddenSprings down from the waggon! "Where now?" cries her husband, The jealous old man. And just as one liftsBy 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 softlyBy 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 520With a nice little wife! Cries Ívan, "I love you, "And Mariushka, "I you!" Cries Ívan, "Press closer!"And Mariushka, "Kiss me!" Cries Ívan, "The night's cold, "And Mariushka, "Warm me!"

 They think of this song now, And all make their minds up To shorten the journey. 530

 A birch-tree is growingAlone 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 floatingFrom no one sees where, 540 Place a bucket of vodka, A large pile of bread, On the magic white napkin, And dwindle away. 

 The peasants feel strengthened, And leaving Román there On guard near the vodka, They mix with the people, To try to discoverThe one who is happy. 550

 They're all in a hurryTo turn towards home. 

CHAPTER IV

THE HAPPY ONES

 In crowds gay and noisyOur peasants are mixing, Proclaiming their mission:"Let any man here Who esteems himself happyStand forth! If he prove it A pailful of vodkaIs at his disposal; As much as he wishesSo much he shall have!" 10

 This fabulous promiseSets sober folk smiling; The tipsy and wise onesAre ready to spit In the beards of the pushingImpertinent strangers! But many are willingTo drink without payment, And so when our peasants Go back to the birch-tree 20A 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 peacefulAnd undisturbed conscience. That all the dominionsOf land-owners, nobles, And Tsars are but earthlyAnd limited treasures; But he who is godlyHas 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 womanComes next, bent and pock-marked, And bowing before themShe says she is happy; 50 That in her allotmentA 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 beenThrough 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 meFor 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 hammerSwung over his shoulder: "I live in content, "He declares, "with my wife And beloved old mother; 90We'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 straightAs midnight draws near, I can shatter a mountain!Before now, it's happened That, working one day, 100I've piled enough stones up To earn my five roubles!"

 Pakhóm tries to lift it--The "happiness. " After Prodigiously strainingAnd cracking all over, He sets it down, gladly, And pours out some vodka. 

 "Well, weighty it is, man!But will you be able 110To 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 shrivelledLike that of a dead man, His eyes bright and sunken, His hands like a rake-- Stiffened, scraggy, and bony, 120His legs long and narrow Like spokes of a wheel, A human mosquito. )

 "I was not a worse manThan he, the young mason, And boasted of _my_ strength. God punished me for it! The manager knewI was simple--the villain! He flattered and praised me. 130I was but a youngster, And pleased at his noticeI laboured like four men. One day I had mountedSome bricks to my shoulder, When, just then, the devilMust bring him in sight. 

 "'What's that!' he said laughing, 'Tis surely not Trifon With such a light burden? 140Ho, 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 hourI stood while he piled them, He piled them--the dog!I felt my back breaking, But would not give way, 150And that devilish burden I carried right upTo 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, 160You've carried up there!'

 "I _did_ know; my heartStruck my breast like a hammer, The blood stood in circlesRound 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 villageTo die. And when coming From Petersburg, afterThe 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 carriageWere workmen, as I was, And ill of the fever;And all yearned for one thing: To reach their own homesBefore death overcame them. 190 'Twas then I was lucky;The heat then was stifling, And so many sick headsMade 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 leftAt 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 dreamingOf 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 partyIn that hellish waggon 220 Come quivering round me, Their throats cut, and spurtingWith 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 struggledTo keep myself silent. At last the day ended, 230And with it the journey, And God had had pityUpon 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 lackeyWith legs weak and gouty. 240 "Treat me, little brothers, I'm happy, God sees it! For I was the chief serfOf Prince Pereméteff, A rich prince, and mighty, My wife, the most favoured By him, of the women;My daughter, together With his, the young lady, Was taught foreign languages, 250 French and some others;And she was permitted To _sit_, and not stand, In her mistress's presence. Good Lord! How it bites!"(He stoops down to rub it, The gouty right knee-cap. )The peasants laugh loudly! "What laugh you at, stupids?"He cries, getting angry, 260 "I'm ill, I thank God, And at waking and sleeping I pray, 'Leave me everMy honoured complaint, Lord! For that makes me noble!'I've none of your low things, Your peasants' diseases, My illness is lofty, And only acquiredBy the most elevated, 270 The first in the Empire;I suffer, you villains, From gout, gout its name is!It's only brought on By the drinking of claret, Of Burgundy, champagne, Hungarian syrup, By thirty years' drinking! For forty years, peasants, I've stood up behind it-- 280 The chair of His Highness, The Prince Pereméteff, And swallowed the leavingsIn 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! 290It wouldn't suit _you_!" A bent, yellow-haired manSteals 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 usIn what you are happy. "

 "In bread I am happy; 300At home, in White Russia, The bread is of barley, All gritty and weedy. At times, I can tell you, I've howled out aloud, Like a woman in labour, With pains in my stomach! But now, by God's mercy, I work for Gubónine, And there they give rye-bread, 310I'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 thresholdThe 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 quicklyAnd brings to the window A loaf and a knife. And then we sing loudly, 'Oh, give us the whole loaf, It cannot be cut And it cannot be crumbled, For you it is quicker, For us it is better!'"

The peasants observe 350 That their vodka is wasted, The pail's nearly empty. They say to the people, "Enough of your chatter, You, shabby and ragged, You, humpbacked and corny, Go, get you all home!"

"In your place, good strangers, " The peasant, Fedócy, From "Swallow-Smoke" village, 360 Said, sitting beside them, "I'd ask Érmil Gírin. If he will not suit you, If he is not happy, Then no one can help you. "

 "But who is this Érmil, A noble--a prince?"

 "No prince--not a noble, But simply a peasant. "

 "Well, tell us about him. " 370

 "I'll tell you; he rentedThe mill of an orphan, Until the Court settledTo sell it at auction. Then Érmil, with others, Went into the sale-room. The small buyers quicklyDropped out of the bidding; Till Érmil alone, With a merchant, Altérnikoff, 380 Kept up the fight. The merchant outbid him, Each time by a farthing, Till Érmil grew angry And added five roubles;The merchant a farthing And Érmil a rouble. The merchant gave in then, When suddenly somethingUnlooked for occurred: 390 The sellers demandedA third of the money Paid down on the spot;'Twas one thousand roubles, And Érmil had not broughtSo much money with him; 'Twas either his error, Or else they deceived him. The merchant said gaily, 'The mill comes to me, then?' 400 'Not so, ' replied Érmil;He went to the sellers; 'Good sirs, will you waitThirty 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 verstsTo the mill; in an hour now 410 The sales will be finished. '

 "'You'll wait half an hour, sirs?''An hour, if you wish. ' Then Érmil departed, The sellers exchangingSly looks with the merchant, And grinning--the foxes!But Érmil went out And made haste to the market-placeCrowded with people 420 ('Twas market-day, then), And he mounted a waggon, And there he stood crossingHimself, 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 stillAnd 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 hereTo ask if there _would_ be A second day's bidding, They answered, 'There will. ' You know that the peasantWon'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 meThere'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 doIn 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_ worthTo _their_ treasury, think you? Like fish in the oceanThe 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 youThe very last farthing. It's not that I careFor the mill--it's the insult! Whoever knows Érmil, Whoever believes him, Will give what he can. '

 "A miracle happened; 470The coat of each peasant Flew up on the leftAs though blown by a wind! The peasants are bringingTheir money to Érmil, Each gives what he can. Though Érmil's well lettered He writes nothing down;It's well he can count it So great is his hurry. 480They gather his hat full Of all kinds of money, From farthings to bank-notes, The notes of the peasantAll crumpled and torn. He has the whole sum now, But still the good people Are bringing him more. 

 "'Here, take this, too, Érmil, You'll pay it back later!' 490

 "He bows to the peopleIn 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 speechlessAnd stare in amazement, The merchant turns green 500As the money is counted And laid on the table. 

 "The sellers come round himAll craftily praising His excellent bargain. But Érmil sees through them; He gives not a farthing, He speaks not a word. 

 "The whole town assemblesAt market next Friday, 510 When Érmil is payingHis debt to the people. How can he rememberTo whom he must pay it? No murmur arises, No sound of discussion, As each man tells quietlyThe sum to be paid him. 

 "And Érmil himself said, That when it was finished 520 A rouble was lyingWith no one to claim it; And though till the eveningHe went, with purse open, Demanding the owner, It still was unclaimed. The sun was just settingWhen Érmil, the last one To go from the market, Assembled the beggars 530 And gave them the rouble. " . . . 

 "'Tis strange!" say the peasants, "By what kind of magic Can one single peasantGain such a dominion All over the country?"

 "No magic he usesSave truthfulness, brothers! But say, have you everHeard tell of Prince Yurloff's 540 Estate, Adovshina?"

 "We have. What about it?" "The manager thereWas a Colonel, with stars, Of the Corps of Gendarmes. He had six or seven Assistants beneath him, And Érmil was chosen As principal clerk. He was but a boy, then, 550 Of nineteen or twenty;And though 'tis no fine post, The clerk's--to the peasantsThe clerk is a great man; To him they will goFor advice and with questions. Though Érmil had power to, He asked nothing from them; And if they should offerHe never accepted. 560 (He bears a poor conscience, The peasant who covets The mite of his brother!)Well, five years went by, And they trusted in Érmil, When all of a sudden The master dismissed himFor sake of another. And sadly they felt it. The new clerk was grasping; 570 He moved not a fingerUnless it was paid for; A letter--three farthings!A question--five farthings! Well, he was a pope's sonAnd 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 voicesCried out, 'Érmil Gírin!' As though they were one. Then Érmil was sent for 590 To speak with the Barin, And after some minutes The Barin came outOn the balcony, standing In face of the people;He cried, 'Well, my brothers, Your choice is electedWith my princely sanction! But answer me this:Don't you think he's too youthful?' 600

 "'No, no, little Father!He's young, but he's wise!'

 "So Érmil was Elder, For seven years ruled In the Prince's dominion. Not once in that time Did a coin of the peasantsCome under his nail, Did the innocent suffer, The guilty escape him, 610 He followed his conscience. "

"But stop!" exclaimed hoarselyA shrivelled grey pope, Interrupting the speaker, "The harrow went smoothly Enough, till it happenedTo strike on a stone, Then it swerved of a sudden. In telling a story Don't leave an odd word out 620 And alter the rhythm!Now, if you knew Érmil You knew his young brother, Knew Mítyenka, did you?"

 The speaker considered, Then said, "I'd forgotten, I'll tell you about it: It happened that onceEven Érmil the peasant Did wrong: his young brother, 630Unjustly exempted From serving his time, On the day of recruiting; And we were all silent, And how could we argue When even the BarinHimself would not order The Elder's own brotherTo unwilling service? And only one woman, 640Old Vlásevna, shedding Wild tears for her son, Went bewailing and screaming: 'It wasn't our turn!'Well, of course she'd be certain To scream for a time, Then leave off and be silent. But what happened then? The recruiting was finished, But Érmil had changed; 650 He was mournful and gloomy;He ate not, he drank not, Till one day his fatherWent into the stable And found him there holdingA rope in his hands. Then at last he unbosomedHis heart to his father: 'Since Vlásevna's sonHas 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 summonedTo witness or judge Such peculiar proceedings. 

 "And Érmil's relationsDid not beg for mercy And lenient treatment, 680But rather for firmness: 'Bring Vlásevna's son backOr Érmil will hang himself, Nothing will save him!'And then appeared Érmil Himself, pale and bare-foot, With ropes bound and handcuffed, And bowing his headHe spoke low to the people: 'The time was when I was 690Your judge; and I judged you, In all things obeyingMy conscience. But I now Am guiltier farThan were you. Be my judges!' He bowed to our feet, The demented one, sighing, Then stood up and crossed himself, Trembling all over;It pained us to witness 700 How he, of a sudden, Fell down on his knees there At Vlásevna's feet. Well, all was put right soon, The nobles have fingersIn every small corner, The lad was brought backAnd young Mítyenka started; They say that his serviceDid not weigh too heavy, 710 The prince saw to that. And we, as a penance, Imposed upon ÉrmilA fine, and to Vlásevna One part was given, To Mítya another, The rest to the villageFor vodka. However, Not quickly did ÉrmilGet over his sorrow: 720 He went like a lost oneFor full a year after, And--though the whole districtImplored him to keep it-- He left his position. He rented the mill, then, And more than of oldWas beloved by the people. He took for his grindingNo more than was honest, 730 His customers neverKept 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 beenSince long in that district, 740 But often the peopleHave told me about him. And never could praise himEnough. So in your place I'd go and ask Érmil. "

"Your time would be wasted, " The grey-headed pope, Who'd before interrupted, Remarked to the peasants, "I knew Érmil Gírin, 750 I chanced in that districtSome 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 peasantUnique, I bear witness, And all things he ownedThat 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 wastedIn going to Érmil: 770 In prison he lies. "

 "How's that?"

 "God so willed it. You've heard how the peasantsOf 'Log' the Pomyéshchick Of Province 'Affrighted, 'Of District 'Scarce-Breathing, ' Of village 'Dumbfounded, 'Revolted 'for causesEntirely 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 hurryTo speak to the people. His epaulettes roseTo his ears as he coaxed themAnd 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 tiredOf these peaceable measures Of calming the riots, 810At length he decided On giving the orderOf 'Fire' to the soldiers; When all of a suddenA bright thought occurred To the clerk of the Volost:[28]'The people trust Gírin, The people will hear him!'

 "'Then let him be brought!'" [29]

 * * * * *

 A cry has arisen 820"Have mercy! Have mercy!" A check to the story;They hurry off quickly To see what has happened;And there on a bank Of a ditch near the roadside, Some peasants are birching A drunken old lackey, Just taken in thieving. A court had been summoned, 830The 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 upAnd made off, in a twinkling, He took to his heelsWithout 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 illnessFrom 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 dayAnd finish it then. . . . "

 The people disperseAs the dawn is approaching. Our peasants beginTo bethink them of sleeping, 860 When all of a suddenA "troika" [30] comes flying From no one sees where, With its silver bells ringing. Within it is sittingA plump little Barin, His little mouth smokingA little cigar. The peasants draw upIn a line on the roadway, 870 Thus barring the passageIn front of the horses; And, standing bareheaded, Bow low to the Barin. 

CHAPTER V

THE POMYÉSHCHICK

 The "troika" is drawingThe local Pomyéshchick-- Gavríl Afanásich Obólt-Oboldoóeff. A portly Pomyéshchick, With long grey moustaches, Some sixty years old. His bearing is stately, His cheeks very rosy, He wears a short top-coat, 10Tight-fitting and braided, Hungarian fashion;And very wide trousers. Gavríl AfanásichWas probably startled At seeing the peasants Unflinchingly barringThe way to his horses; He promptly producesA loaded revolver 20 As bulky and roundAs 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 30Do 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, 40Not sneering, nor feigning The question we put you, And then we will tell youThe cause of our trouble. "

 "I promise. I give youThe oath of a noble. "

 "No, don't give us that--Not the oath of a noble! We're better contentWith 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, 60But 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, 70Who is he--the man Free and happy in Russia?Luká said, 'The pope, ' And Roman, 'The Pomyéshchick, 'Demyán, 'The official. ' 'The round-bellied merchant, 'Said both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan;Pakhóm said, 'His Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser, ' 80And 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, 90While quarrelling fought, Till at last we decidedThat never againWould we turn our steps homeward To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until we have settledThe subject of discord; Until we have foundThe reply to our question-- 100 Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

 "Now tell us, Pomyéshchick, Is your life a sweet one? And is the PomyéshchickBoth happy and free?"

 Gavríl AfanásichSprings 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 searchinglyInto their faces, Then clasps his plump sidesAnd stands shaking with laughter. The clear, hearty laughOf the healthy Pomyéshchick Peals out in the pleasantCool air of the morning: 120 "Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!"Till he stops from exhaustion. And then he addressesThe 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. 140Having finished the sherry, Thus speaks the Pomyéshchick:

 "I gave you my promiseTo answer your question. . . . The task is not easy, For though you are highly Respectable people, You're not very learned. Well, firstly, I'll tryTo explain you the meaning 150 Of Lord, or Pomyéshchick. Have you, by some chance, Ever heard the expression The 'Family Tree'? Do you know what it means?"

 "The woods are not closed to us. We have seen all kinds Of trees, " say the peasants. "Your shot has miscarried!I'll try to speak clearly; 160 I come of an ancient, Illustrious family; One, Oboldoóeff, My ancestor, is Amongst those who were mentionedIn old Russian chronicles Written for certainTwo hundred and fifty Years back. It is written, ''Twas given the Tartar, 170Obólt-Oboldoóeff, A piece of cloth, valueTwo roubles, for having Amused the TsaritsaUpon the Tsar's birthday By fights of wild beasts, Wolves and foxes. He also Permitted his own bearTo fight with a wild one, Which mauled Oboldoóeff, 180And hurt him severely. ' And now, gentle peasants, Did you understand?"

 "Why not? To this dayOne can see them--the loafers Who stroll about leadingA bear!"

 "Be it so, then!But now, please be silent, And hark to what follows: 190From this Oboldoóeff My family sprang;And this incident happened Two hundred and fiftyYears back, as I told you, But still, on my mother's side, Even more ancientThe family is: Says another old writing:'Prince Schépin, and one 200 Vaska Goóseff, attemptedTo burn down the city Of Moscow. They wantedTo 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 appleWhich 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 yourselvesUnderstand--the more ancient A family is 220The more noble its members. Is that so, good peasants?"

"That's so, " say the peasants. "The black bone and white boneAre 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 bosomOf 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 centreOf 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-stemsRejoicing, will curtsey With winning caresses, Will hail you as Master. The little fish sportsIn the cool little river; Get fat, little fish, At the will of the Master! 260 The little hare speedsThrough 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 existBut to gladden the Master. Each wee blade of grassWhispers 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-sidesAnd gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and thatWas the nobleman's manor. 280 Adjoining the manorWere glass-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it. On each of the buildingsGay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guestTo partake of the pleasures 290 Of rich hospitality. Never did Frenchmen In dreams even pictureSuch 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, 300We 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 310Pomyéshchick broke down here, And hastened to buryHis face in the cushion. . . . "Hey, Proshka!" he cried, And then quickly the lackey Poured out and presentedA glassful of brandy. The glass was soon empty, And when the Pomyéshchick Had rested awhile, 320He again began speaking: "Ah, then, Mother Russia, How gladly in autumn Your forests awokeTo the horn of the huntsman! Their dark, gloomy depths, Which had saddened and faded, Were pierced by the clearRinging blast, and they listened, Revived and rejoiced, 330To the laugh of the echo. The hounds and the huntsmenAre gathered together, And wait on the skirtsOf the forest; and with them The Master; and fartherWithin the deep forest The dog-keepers, roaringAnd shouting like madmen, The hounds all a-bubble 340Like 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! 350The knowing hounds crouch, And each lithe body quivers, Suppressing the fire That is blazing within it:'Dear guests of our hearts, _Do_ come nearer and greet us, We're panting to meet you, We, hale little fellows!Come nearer to us And away from the bushes!' 360

"They're off! Now, my horse, Let your swiftness not fail me!My hounds, you are staunch And you will not betray me!Hoo-loo! Faster, faster! Now, _at him_, my children!". . . Gavríl Afanásich Springs up, wildly shouting, His arms waving madly, He dances around them! 370He's certainly after A fox in the forest!

The peasants observe him In silent enjoyment, They smile in their beards. . . . 

 "Eh . . . You, mad, merry hunters!Although he forgets Many things--the Pomyéshchick--Those hunts in the autumn Will not be forgotten. 380'Tis not for our own loss We grieve, Mother Russia, But you that we pity; For you, with the huntingHave lost the last traces Of days bold and warlikeThat made you majestic. . . . 

 "At times, in the autumn, A party of fifty Would start on a hunting tour; 390Then each Pomyéshchick Brought with him a hundredFine dogs, and twelve keepers, And cooks in abundance. And after the cooks Came a long line of waggonsContaining provisions. And as we went forwardWith music and singing, You might have mistaken 400Our band for a fine troop Of cavalry, moving! The time flew for usLike a falcon. " How lightly The breast of the noblemanRose, while his spirit Went back to the daysOf Old Russia, and greeted The gallant Boyárin. [32] . . . 

"No whim was denied us. 410 To whom I desireI show mercy and favour; And whom I dislikeI 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, 420The 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 knowThat 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 longerWe look now upon him With fatherly feelings. Yes, I was severe too At times, but more oftenI turned hearts towards me With patience and mildness. 

"Upon Easter Sunday 440 I kissed all the peasants Within my domain. A great table, loaded With 'Paska' and 'Koólich'[33]And eggs of all colours, Was spread in the manor. My wife, my old mother, My sons, too, and evenMy 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 ThanksgivingWas held by the pope. My serfs were invitedWith 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 finishWe brought all the women-folk Out of a villageTo scrub down the floors. You see 'twas a cleansingOf 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 persuadingWith sticks though, I warrant, To get them to prayIn your Lordship's fine manor!"

 "I'll say, without boasting, They loved me--my peasants. 480 In my large SurminskyEstate, where the peasants Were mostly odd-jobbers, Or very small tradesmen, It happened that theyWould get weary of staying At home, and would askMy permission to travel, To visit strange partsAt the coming of spring. 490 They'd often be absentThrough summer and autumn. My wife and the childrenWould argue while guessing The gifts that the peasantsWould bring on returning. And really, besidesLawful 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 herA neat little packet! And then for the childrenAre sweetmeats and toys; 510 For me, the old toper, Is wine from St. Petersburg-- Mark you, the rascalWon't go to the Russian For that! He knows better--He runs to the Frenchman! And when we have finishedAdmiring the presents I go for a strollAnd 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 wasThat I lived with my peasants. Now, wasn't that nice?"

 "Yes, " answer the peasants;"Yes, well might one envy The noble Pomyéshchick!His life was so sweet There was no need to leave it. "

"And now it is past. . . . It has vanished for ever! 540Hark! 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 morningIs borne from Kusminsky. . . . 

"Sweet peace to the peasant!God greet him in Heaven!"

 The peasants say softly, 550And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful PomyéshchickUncovers his head, As he piously crossesHimself, and he answers: "'Tis not for the peasantThe knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost lifeOf the stricken Pomyéshchick. Farewell to the past, 560And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradledThe happy Pomyéshchick, Thy place has been stolenAnd filled by another!. . . Heh, Proshka!" (The brandyIs given, and quickly He empties the glass. )"Oh, it isn't consolingTo witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland!Truly one fancies The whole race of noblesHas suddenly vanished! Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrédnik, '[36] 580Or Poles who've been banished. One sees the troops passing, And then one can guessThat a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankfulAnd dutiful spirit. . . . ' In old days, these roadsWere 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 troopOf the jolly Pomyéshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters;One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness. And now?. . . What distraction Has life? And what joyDoes it bring the Pomyéshchick? At each step, you meetSomething new to revolt you; And when in the airYou can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are passingA nobleman's manor! 610 My Lord!. . . They have pillagedThe beautiful dwelling! They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fashioned The bricks into hideouslyAccurate columns! The broad shady parkOf the outraged Pomyéshchick, The fruit of a hundred years'Careful attention, 620 Is falling away'Neath the axe of a peasant! The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logsWhich his labour will bring him. His dark soul is closedTo refinement of feeling, And what would it matterTo him, if you told him 630 That this stately oakWhich his hatchet is felling My grandfather's handHad once planted and tended;That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Gánushka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side;That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed meThat little Gavrióushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against meAnd bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosomAs red as a cherry. . . . It is to his profitTo ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him. It makes one ashamed now To pass through a village;The peasant sits stillAnd he dreams not of bowing. One feels in one's breastNot the pride of a noble But wrath and resentment. The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, 660It 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, 670Our hearts bleed for thee: Like a widow thou standestIn helpless affliction With tresses dishevelledAnd grief-stricken face. . . . They have blighted the forest, The noisy low tavernsHave risen and flourished. They've picked the most worthlessAnd loose of the people, 680 And given them powerIn the posts of the Zemstvos; They've seized on the peasantAnd 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 peasantWith 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 writersMust needs shout in chorus: 'But whose fault, then, is it, That you thus exhausted And wasted your country?'But I say--you duffers! Who _could_ foresee this?They babble, 'Enough Of your lordly pretensions!It's time that you learnt something, 710 Lazy Pomyéshchicks!Get up, now, and work!'

 "Work! To whom, in God's name, Do you think you are speaking? I am not a peasantIn '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 classesAre not taught to work. Why, the meanest official Will not raise a fingerTo clear his own table, Or light his own stove!I can say, without boasting, That though I have lived 730Forty 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 PomyéshchicksHave really mistaken Our duty and calling, If really our mission Is not, as in old days, 740To keep up the hunting, To revel in luxury, Live on forced labour, Why did they not tell usBefore? Could I learn it? For what do I see?I've worn the Tsar's livery, 'Sullied the Heavens, ' And 'squandered the treasuryGained by the people, ' 750 And fully imaginedTo do so for ever, And now . . . God in Heaven!". . . The Barin is sobbing!. . . 

 The kind-hearted peasantsCan hardly help crying Themselves, and they think:"Yes, the chain has been broken, The strong links have snapped, And the one end recoiling 760 Has struck the Pomyéshchick, The other--the peasant. "

PART II. 

THE LAST POMYÉSHCHICK

PROLOGUE

The day of St. Peter-- And very hot weather;The mowers are all At their work in the meadows. The peasants are passing A tumble-down village, Called "Ignorant-Duffers, " Of Volost "Old-Dustmen, "Of Government "Know-Nothing. ' They are approaching 10The 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 nakedAs any youth's cheek After yesterday's shaving, 20The Princes Volkonsky[37] Are haughtily standing, And round them their children, Who (unlike all others)Are born at an earlier Date than their sires. 

"The fields are enormous, "Remarks old Pakhóm, "Why, the folk must be giants. "The two brothers Goóbin 30 Are smiling at something:For some time they've noticed A very tall peasantWho 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 togetherAnd look at the haystack. Not much has been altered:The peasant is standing With body bent backAs before, --but the pitcher 50 Has turned bottom upwards. . . . 

The strangers go farther. The camps are thrown outOn the banks of the river; And there the old peopleAnd children are gathered, And horses are waitingWith big empty waggons; And then, in the fieldsBehind those that are finished, 60 The distance is filledBy 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 70The long line of mowers, The poise of the scythesAnd their sweep through the sunshine. The rhythmical swellOf melodious murmur. 

 The timid grass standsFor a moment, and trembles, Then falls with a sigh. . . . 

 On the banks of the VolgaThe grass has grown high 80And the mowers work gladly. The peasants soon feelThat 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 workIs devouring our peasants; Like teeth in a ravenous 90Mouth they are working-- The muscular arms, And the long grass is falling To songs that are strangeTo this part of the country, To songs that are taughtBy 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 cravingFor work is appeased They sit down by a haystack. 

"From whence have you come?" A grey-headed old peasant(The one whom the women Call Vlásuchka) asks them, "And where are you going?" 110

 "We are--" say the peasants, Then suddenly stop, There's some music approaching!

"Oh, that's the Pomyéshchick Returning from boating!"Says Vlásuchka, running To busy the mowers:"Wake up! Look alive there! And mind--above all things, Don't heat the Pomyéshchick 120 And don't make him angry!And if he abuse you, Bow low and say nothing, And if he should praise you, Start lustily cheering. You women, stop cackling! And get to your forks!"A big burly peasantWith beard long and bushy Bestirs himself also 130To busy them all, Then puts on his "kaftan, " [38]And runs away quickly To meet the Pomyéshchick. 

And now to the bank-side Three boats are approaching. In one sit the servants And band of musicians, Most busily playing; The second one groans 140'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse, Who dandles a baby, A withered old dry-nurse, A motionless bodyOf ancient retainers. And then in the thirdThere are sitting the gentry: Two beautiful ladies(One slender and fair-haired, One heavy and black-browed) 150And two moustached Barins And three little Barins, And last--the Pomyéshchick, A very old manWearing 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 160As 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 poodlesWith 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 carpetSpread out by the servants. And then he arises To visit the mowers, To pass through the fields On a tour of inspection. He leans on the arm-- 180 Now of one of the Barins, And now upon those Of the beautiful ladies. And so with his suite-- With the three little Barins, The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse, The ancient retainers, The woolly white poodles, --Along through the hayfields Proceeds the Pomyéshchick. 190

The peasants on all sides Bow down to the ground;And the big, burly peasant (The Elder he isAs the peasants have noticed) Is cringing and bendingBefore the Pomyéshchick, Just like the Big DevilBefore the high altar:"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200 It's done, at your bidding!"I think he will soon fall Before the PomyéshchickAnd roll in the dust. . . . 

 So moves the procession, Until it stops short In the front of a haystackOf 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 writhingIn great agitation: 220 "I was not quite carefulEnough, and it _is_ damp. It's my fault, Your Highness!"He summons the peasants, Who run with their pitchforksTo punish the monster. And soon they have spread itIn small heaps around, At the feet of the master;His wrath is appeased. 230

 (In the meantime the strangersExamine 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 boatsComes an outburst of musicTo greet the Pomyéshchick. 

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

 "Our Pomyéshchick, The great Prince Yutiátin. "

"But why is he fussing 260 About in that manner?For things are all changed now, And he seems to thinkThey are still as of old. The hay is quite dry, Yet he told you to dry it!"

 "But funnier stillThat 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 mattersWhich do not concern him? For are you not free?"

"Why, yes, by God's mercy The order is changed nowFor us as for others; But ours is a special case. "

"Tell us about it. " 280 The old man lay downAt the foot of the haystack And answered them--nothing. 

 The peasants producing The magic white napkinSit down and say softly, "O napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants!"The napkin unfolds, And two hands, which come floatingFrom 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 wishingTo question old Vlásuchka, Wisely present himA cupful of vodka: "Now come, little Uncle, 300Be gracious to strangers, And tell us your story. "

"There's nothing to tell you. You haven't told me yetWho _you_ are and whenceYou 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 discoverA 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 himAbout their chance meeting, Their argument, quarrel, Their vow, and decision; 320 Of how they had soughtIn the Government "Tight-Squeeze" And Government "Shot-Strewn"The man who, in Russia, Is happy and free. . . . 

 Old Vlásuchka listens, Observing them keenly. "I see, " he remarks, When the story is finished, "I see you are very 330Peculiar 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 vodkaHis tongue becomes loosened, Old Vlásuchka tells themThe following story. 

I

THE DIE-HARD

"The great prince, Yutiátin, The ancient Pomyéshchick, Is very eccentric. His wealth is untold, And his titles exalted, His family ranksWith the first in the Empire. The whole of his lifeHe has spent in amusement, Has known no control 10Save his own will and pleasure. When we were set freeHe refused to believe it: 'They lie! the low scoundrels!'There came the posrédnik And Chief of Police, But he would not admit them, He ordered them outAnd 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 ragingAll over the house, 30 And he got so excitedThat 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 pocketThat pinched, but his pride That was touched and enraged him. He lost but a mite 40 And would never have missed it. "

"Ah, that's what it means, friends, To be a Pomyéshchick, The habit gets into The blood, " says Mitródor, "And not the Pomyéshchick'sAlone, for the habit Is strong in the peasantAs well, " old Pakhóm said. "I once on suspicion 50Was put into prison, And met there a peasantCalled Sédor, a strange man, Arrested for horse-stealing, If I remember; And he from the prisonWould send to the Barin His taxes. (The prisoner'sIncome is scanty, He gets what he begs 60Or a trifle for working. ) The others all laughed at him;'Why should you send them And you off for lifeTo 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 happensTo be in the eye! The Pomyéshchick lay senseless, And many were sure That he'd never recover. His children were sent for, Those black-moustached footguards(You saw them just now With their wives, the fine ladies), The eldest of them 80 Was to settle all mattersConcerning his father. He called the posrédnikTo 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 timeAgo, and it happened That I was then Elder, And chanced to have entered The house on some errand, And I heard myself How he cursed the Pomyéshchicks;The words that he spoke I have never forgotten:'The Jews are reproached 100 For betraying their Master;But what are _you_ doing? The rights of the noblesBy centuries sanctioned You fling to the beggars!'He said to his sons, 'Oh, you dastardly cowards!My children no longer! It is for small reptiles--The pope's crawling breed-- 110 To take bribes from vile traitors, To purchase base peasants, And they may be pardoned!But you!--you have sprung From the house of Yutiátin, The Princes Yu-tiá-tin You are! Go!. . . Go, leave me!You pitiful puppies!'The heirs were alarmed; How to tide matters over 120Until 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 itA question of nothing Whose shoulders shall bear them;We know that our father Has three 'private' daughters 130In Petersburg living, To Generals married, So how do we know That they may not inheritHis wealth?. . . The Pomyéshchick Once more is prostrated, His death is a question Of time, and to make itRun smoothly till then An agreement was come to, 140A plan to deceive him:So one of the ladies(The fair one, I fancy, She used at that timeTo attend the old master And rub his left sideWith a brush), well, she told him That orders had comeFrom the Government lately That peasants set free 150Should return to their bondage. And he quite believed it. (You see, since his illness The Prince had becomeLike 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 160In 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 canedAnd the peasants were punished. The heirs had, of course, Set things right with the servants, 170 A good understandingThey came to, and one man (You saw him go runningJust now with the napkin) Did not need persuading---He so loved his Barin. His name is Ipát, And when we were made free He refused to believe it;'The great Prince Yutiátin 180 Be left without peasants!What pranks are you playing?' At last, when the 'OrderOf Freedom' was shown him, Ipát said, 'Well, well, Get you gone to your pleasures, But I am the slaveOf the Princes Yutiátin!' He cannot get overThe old Prince's kindness 190 To him, and he's told usSome curious stories Of things that had happenedTo him in his childhood, His youth and old age. (You see, I had often To go to the PrinceOn 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 PrinceSpent his holidays sometimes At home, and would dip me(His meanest slave, mind you) Right under the iceIn the depths of the Winter. 210 He did it in suchA remarkable way, too! He first made two holesIn the ice of the river, In one he would lowerMe down in a net-- Pull me up through the other!'And when I began To grow old, it would happenThat sometimes I drove 220 With the Prince in the Winter;The snow would block up Half the road, and we usedTo drive five-in-a-file. Then the fancy would strike him(How whimsical, mark you!) To set me astrideOn the horse which was leading, Me--last of his slaves!Well, he dearly loved music, 230 And so he would throw meA fiddle: 'Here! play now, Ipát. ' Then the driverWould 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, 240Ipát, like a sillyOld noodle, would tumble. Of course, if he landedRight under the horses The sledge must go overHis ribs, --who could help it? But that was a trifle;The cold was the worst thing, It bites you, and youCan do nothing against it! 250 The snow lay all roundOn the vast empty desert, I lay looking upAt the stars and confessing My sins. But--my friends, This is true as the Gospel-- I heard before longHow the sledge-bells came ringing, Drew nearer and nearer:The Prince had remembered, 260 And come back to fetch me!'

 "(The tears began fallingAnd rolled down his face At this part of the story. Whenever he told itHe always would cry Upon coming to this!)'He covered me up With some rugs, and he warmed me, He lifted me up, 270 And he placed me beside him, Me--last of his slaves-- Beside his Princely Person!And so we came home. '"

 They're amused at the story. 

Old Vlásuchka, when He has emptied his fourth cup, Continues: "The heirs came And called us together--The peasants and servants; 280 They said, 'We're distressedOn account of our father. These changes will kill him, He cannot sustain them. So humour his weakness: Keep silent, and act stillAs if all this trouble Had never existed;Give way to him, bow to him Just as in old days. 290For each stroke of barschin, For all needless labour, For every rough wordWe will richly reward you. He cannot live long now, The doctors have told us That two or three monthsIs the most we may hope for. Act kindly towards us, And do as we ask you, 300 And we as the priceOf your silence will give you The hayfields which lieOn the banks of the Volga. Think well of our offer, And let the posrédnik Be sent for to witnessAnd settle the matter. '

 "Then gathered the communeTo argue and clamour; 310 The thought of the hayfields(In which we are sitting), With promises boundlessAnd plenty of vodka, Decided the question:The commune would wait For the death of the Barin. 

"Then came the posrédnik, And laughing, he said:'It's a capital notion! 320 The hayfields are fine, too, You lose nothing by it; You just play the foolAnd the Lord will forgive you. You know, it's forbiddenTo 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 hatAnd bow low, and say nothing, 340 And then you walk outAnd the thing's at an end. The old man is ill, He is weak and forgetful, And nothing will stayIn 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 thresholdAnd bowed to the Barin? Enough for my pleasure!I said, 'If the commune Is pleased to be ruledBy a crazy Pomyéshchick To ease his last momentsI don't disagree, 360 I have nothing against it;But then, set me free From my duties as Elder. '

"The whole matter nearly Fell through at that moment, But then Klímka Lávin said, 'Let _me_ be Elder, I'll please you on both sides, The master and you. The Lord will soon take him, 370 And then the fine hayfieldsWill come to the commune. I swear I'll establishSuch order amongst you You'll die of the fun!'

"The commune took long To consider this offer:A desperate fellow Is Klímka the peasant, A drunkard, a rover, 380 And not very honest, No lover of work, And acquainted with gipsies; A vagabond, knowingA lot about horses. A scoffer at thoseWho work hard, he will tell you: 'At work you will neverGet rich, my fine fellow; You'll never get rich, -- 390But 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 wasThat he ever returned! He's clever enough, 400But he can't keep a farthing; He's sharp--but he's alwaysIn 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 foreheadHe'll swallow the vodka. A bottle at onceHe'll consume, like a mouthful. He'll fall at your feetFor a bottle of vodka. But if he has moneyHe'll share with you, freely; The first man he meets 420May partake of his drink. He's clever at shoutingAnd cheating and fooling, At showing the best sideOf goods which are rotten, At boasting and lying; And when he is caughtHe'll slip out through a cranny, And throw you a jest, Or his favourite saying: 430 'A crack in the jawWill your honesty bring you!'

 "Well, after much thinkingThe commune decided That I must remainThe responsible Elder; But Klímka might actIn my stead to the Barin As though he were Elder. Why, then, let him do it! 440 The right kind of ElderHe is for his Barin, They make a fine pair! Like putty his conscience;Like Meenin's[41] his beard, So that looking upon himYou'd think a sedater, More dutiful peasantCould never be found. The heirs made his kaftan, 450And he put it on, And from Klímka the 'scapegrace'He suddenly changed Into Klím, Son-of-Jacob, [42]Most worthy of Elders. So that's how it is;-- And to our great misfortuneThe Barin is ordered A carriage-drive daily. Each day through the village 460 He drives in a carriageThat'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 peasantAt work in the fields, 470 And he swears we are lazyAnd lie-abed sluggards (Though never worked peasantWith 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 peasantHas something to tell 480 Of the crazy Pomyéshchick;His ears burn, I warrant, When we come together!And Klím, Son-of-Jacob, Will run, with the mannerOf bearing the commune Some news of importance(The pig has got proud Since he's taken to scratchingHis sides on the steps 490 Of the nobleman's manor). He runs and he shouts: 'A command to the commune! I told the PomyèshchickThat Widow Teréntevna's Cottage had fallen. And that she is begging Her bread. He commands you To marry the widowTo Gabriel Jóckoff; 500 To rebuild the cottage, And let them reside there And multiply freely. '

"The bride will be seventy, Seven the bridegroom!Well, who could help laughing?Another command: 'The dull-witted cows, Driven out before sunrise, Awoke the Pomyéshchick 510By foolishly mooing While passing his courtyard. The cow-herd is ordered To see that the cowsDo not moo in that manner!'"

The peasants laugh loudly. 

 "But why do you laugh so?We all have our fancies. Yakútsk was once governed, I heard, by a General; 520 He had a likingFor 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 peopleThat he was a madman. 530

 "Another strict orderWas sent to the commune: 'The dog which belongsTo Sofrónoff the watchman Does not behave nicely, It barked at the Barin. Be therefore SofrónoffDismissed. Let EvrémkaBe watchman to guard The estate of the Barin. ' 540(Another loud laugh, For Evremka, the 'simple, 'Is known as the deaf-mute And fool of the village). But Klímka's delighted:At last he's found something That suits him exactly. He bustles about And in everything meddles, And even drinks less. 550 There's a sharp little womanWhose name is Orévna, And she is Klím's gossip, And finely she helps him To fool the old Barin. And as to the women, They're living in clover:They run to the manor With linen and mushroomsAnd strawberries, knowing 560 The ladies will buy themAnd pay what they ask them And feed them besides. We laughed and made game Till we fell into dangerAnd nearly were lost: There was one man among us, Petrov, an ungracious And bitter-tongued peasant;He never forgave us 570 Because we'd consentedTo humour the Barin. 'The Tsar, ' he would say, 'Has had mercy upon you, And now, you, yourselvesLift 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 needsFling him straight at the Barin. One morning Petrov Had set out to the forestTo pilfer some logs (For the night would not serve him, It seems, for his thieving, He must go and do itIn 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 alreadyIs 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 intoPetrov, like a corkscrew. 

"The peasants are patient, 610 But even their patienceMust come to an end. Petrov was out early, Had eaten no breakfast, Felt dizzy already, And now with the words Of the Barin all buzzingLike 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 unmuzzledHe let enough words out To stuff the PomyéshchickWith Fathers and Grandfathers Into the bargain. The oaths of the lords Are like stings of mosquitoes, 630But those of the peasant Like blows of the pick-axe. The Barin's dumbfounded! He'd safely encounterA 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 swollenWith pride, you old dotard, You scum of the pig-sty?Have done with your jabber! You've lost your strong gripOn the soul of the peasant, The last one you are. By the will of the peasant Because he is foolish 650They treat you as master To-day. But to-morrowThe ball will be ended; A good kick behindWe will give the Pomyéshchick, And tail between legsSend 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 summonThe village together 670 To witness the punishmentDealt to the rebel Before the Pomyéshchick. . . . The heirs and the ladies Come running in terrorTo Klím, to Petrov, And to me: 'Only save us!'Their faces are pale, 'If the trick is discoveredWe're lost!' 680 It is Klím's placeTo deal with the matter: He drinks with PetrovAll 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 moveFrom the balcony, thanks To his yesterday's shaking. And Klím is well pleased. 

 "He leads Petrov intoThe stable and sets him 700 In front of a gallonOf 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 soundLike the loveliest music. And who could help laughingTo 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 720He is perfectly helpless, And four peasants carry himOut of the stable. His state is so sorryThat even the Barin Has pity upon him, And says to him sweetly, 'Your own fault it is, Little peasant, you know!'"

"You see what a kind heart 730 He has, the Pomyéshchick, "Says Prov, and old Vlásuchka Answers him quietly, "A saying there is: 'Praise the grass--in the haystack, The lord--in his coffin. '

 "Twere well if God took him. Petrov is no longer Alive. That same eveningHe started up, raving, 740At midnight the pope came, And just as the day dawnedHe died. He was buried, A cross set above him, And God alone knows What he died of. It's certainThat 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 happenedPetrov would be living. You see, friends, the peasantWas 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! 760The thing went off well, But Petrov had not wished it. I think he was frightened To anger the communeBy not giving in, And the commune is foolish, It soon will destroy you. . . . The ladies were readyTo kiss the old peasant, They brought fifty roubles 770For him, and some dainties. 'Twas Klímka, the scamp, The unscrupulous sinner, Who worked his undoing. . . . 

 "A servant is comingTo us from the Barin, They've finished their lunch. Perhaps they have sent him To summon the Elder. I'll go and look on 780 At the comedy there. "

II

KLÍM, THE ELDER

With him go the strangers, And some of the womenAnd men follow after, For mid-day has sounded, Their rest-time it is, So they gather togetherTo stare at the gentry, To whisper and wonder. They stand in a row At a dutiful distance 10Away from the Prince. . . . 

 At a long snowy tableQuite covered with bottles And all kinds of dishesAre sitting the gentry, The old Prince presidingIn dignified state At the head of the table;All white, dressed in white, With his face shrunk awry, 20His dissimilar eyes; In his button-hole fastenedA little white cross (It's the cross of St. George, Some one says in a whisper);And standing behind him, Ipát, the domestic, The faithful old servant, In white tie and shirt-front Is brushing the flies off. 30Beside the Pomyéshchick On each hand are sittingThe 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 40And glow, in the sunshine!) Then perched on three high chairsThe three little Barins, Each wearing his napkinTucked 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, 50The black-moustached footguards Are sitting together. Behind each chair standing A young girl is serving, And women are waving The flies off with branches. The woolly white poodles Are under the table, The three little Barins Are teasing them slyly. 60

 Before the Pomyéshchick, Bare-headed and humble, The Elder is standing. "Now tell me, how soon Will the mowing be finished?"The Barin says, talking And eating at once. 

 "It soon will be finished. Three days of the week Do we work for your Highness; 70A man with a horse, And a youth or a woman, And half an old woman From every allotment. To-day for this weekIs the Barin's term finished. "

 "Tut-tut!" says the Barin, Like one who has noticed Some crafty intentOn the part of another. 80 "'The Barin's term, ' say you?Now, what do you mean, pray?" The eye which is brightHe has fixed on the peasant. 

 The Elder is hangingHis head in confusion. "Of course it must beAs your Highness may order. In two or three days, If the weather be gracious, 90 The hay of your HighnessCan surely be gathered. That's so, --is it not?"

(He turns his broad face round And looks at the peasants. )And then the sharp woman, Klím's gossip, Orévna, Makes answer for them: "Yes, Klím, Son-of-Jacob, The hay of the Barin 100 Is surely more preciousThan ours. We must tend it As long as the weather lasts;Ours may come later. "

 "A woman she is, But more clever than you, " The Pomyéshchick says smiling, And then of a sudden Is shaken with laughter:"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110 Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool!It's the 'Barin's term, ' say you? Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha!The Barin's term, slave, Is the whole of your life-time;And you have forgotten That I, by God's mercy, By Tsar's ancient charter, By birth and by merit, Am your supreme master!" 120

 The strangers remark hereThat Vlásuchka gently Slips down to the grass. 

 "What's that for?" they ask him. "We may as well rest now; He's off. You can't stop him. For since it was rumoured That we should be givenOur freedom, the Barin Takes care to remind us 130That till the last hour Of the world will the peasantBe clenched in the grip Of the nobles. " And reallyAn hour slips away And the Prince is still speaking;His tongue will not always Obey him, he spluttersAnd hisses, falls over His words, and his right eye 140So 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 FathersThrough ages respected, His services, merits, His name and possessions, The Barin rehearses. 150

God's curse, the Tsar's anger, He hurls at the headsOf obstreperous peasants. And strictly gives orderTo sweep from the commune All senseless ideas, Bids the peasants remember That they are his slavesAnd must honour their master. 

 "Our Fathers, " cried Klím, 160And his voice sounded strangely, It rose to a squeakAs if all things within him Leapt up with a passionateJoy of a sudden At thought of the mightyAnd noble Pomyéshchicks, "And whom should we serve Save the Master we cherish?And whom should we honour? 170 In whom should we hope?We feed but on sorrows, We bathe but in tear-drops, How can we rebel?

 "Our tumble-down hovels, Our weak little bodies, Ourselves, we are yours, We belong to our Master. The seeds which we sowIn the earth, and the harvest, 180 The hair on our heads--All belongs to the Master. Our ancestors fallenTo dust in their coffins, Our feeble old parentsWho nod on the oven, Our little ones lyingAsleep in their cradles Are yours--are our Master's, And we in our homes 190Use our wills but as freely As fish in a net. "

The words of the Elder Have pleased the Pomyéshchick, The right eye is gazing Benignantly at him, The left has grown smaller And peaceful againLike 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 burningLike blood in the sunshine; Klím drinks without protest. Again he is speaking:

 "Our Fathers, " he says, "By your mercy we live now As though in the bosomOf Christ. Let the peasant 210 But try to existWithout grace from the Barin!"(He sips at the goblet. ) "The whole world would perishIf not for the Barin's Deep wisdom and learning. If not for the peasant's Most humble submission. By birth, and God's holy Decree you are bidden 220 To govern the stupidAnd ignorant peasant; By God's holy willIs the peasant commanded To honour and cherishAnd work for his lord!"

 And here the old servant, Ipát, who is standing Behind the PomyéshchickAnd 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 yearsMay be spared to his servants!"The simpleton blubbers, The loving old servant, And raising his hand, Weak and trembling, he crosses 240Himself without ceasing. The black-moustached footguardsLook sourly upon him With secret displeasure. But how can they help it? So off come their hatsAnd they cross themselves also. And then the old PrinceAnd the wrinkled old dry-nurse Both sign themselves thrice, 250And 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 260As had the old servant. ("That's right, now, start whining, Old Widow Terentevna, Sill-y old noodle!" Says Vlásuchka, crossly. )

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

The ancient Pomyéshchick 270 Is moved, and the right eyeIs blinded with tears, Till the golden-haired ladyRemoves them and dries it; She kisses the other eyeHeartily too. 

 "You see!" then remarksThe old man to his children, The two stalwart sonsAnd 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 suddenThe speech of the Barin: A peasant who couldn'tControl 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 watchingTo 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 sittingThe 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 anxiousTo face the Pomyéshchick, Although they would gladlyHave helped the poor peasants. He's mad, the old Barin, So what's to prevent him From beating them too?

 "Well, you go, Román, " 320 Say the two brothers Góobin, "_You_ love the Pomyéshchicks. "

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

"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330

 "Oho!" says Klím sharply, "What lies did I tell? And shan't we be chokedIn the grip of the Barins Until our last dayWhen 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 340Would they find for us there, Klím?"

 "To stir up the fireWhile they boil in the pots!" The others laugh loudly. The sons of the Barin Come hurrying to them;"How foolish you are, Klím! Our father has sent us, He's terribly angry That you are so long, 350And 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 himTo 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 punishedThe 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 laputsInstead 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 happensWe'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 otherHe'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 feetOf the Barin, and trembles, She squeals like a sillyYoung 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 strokesThe white head of the Barin. The black-moustached footguardsAt this put their word in:

 "A fool cannot followThe words of his masters, 430 Especially thoseLike the words of our father, So noble and clever. "

 And Klím--shameless rascal!--Is wiping his eyes On the end of his coat-tails, Is sniffing and whining; "Our Fathers! Our Fathers!The sons of our Father! They know how to punish, 440But better they know How to pardon and pity!"

 The old man is cheerfulAgain, and is asking For light frothing wine, And the corks begin poppingAnd shoot in the air To fall down on the women, Who fly from them, shrieking. The Barin is laughing, 450The ladies then laugh, And at them laugh their husbands, And next the old servant, Ipát, begins laughing, The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse, And then the whole partyLaugh loudly together; The feast will be merry!His daughters-in-law At the old Prince's order 460Are 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 himMore good than his physic, " Says Vlásuchka, watching. "He drinks by the glassful, Since long he's lost measureIn revel, or wrath. . . . "

 The music comes floatingTo them from the Volga, The girls now alreadyAre dancing and singing, 480 The old Prince is watching them, Snapping his fingers. He wants to be nearerThe girls, and he rises. His legs will not bear him, His two sons support him; And standing between themHe chuckles and whistles, And stamps with his feetTo the time of the music; 490 The left eye beginsOn 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 500How things went in _his_ time; He's shaking and swayingLike one on the deck Of a ship in rough weather. 

"Sing, Luiba!" he orders. The golden-haired ladyDoes not want to sing, But the old man will have it. The lady is singing A song low and tender, 510It sounds like the breeze On a soft summer eveningIn velvety grasses Astray, like spring raindropsThat kiss the young leaves, And it soothes the Pomyéshchick. The feeble old man: He is falling asleep now. . . . And gently they carry him Down to the water, 520And into the boat, And he lies there, still sleeping. Above him stands, holding A big green umbrella, The faithful old servant, His other hand guardingThe sleeping Pomyéshchick From gnats and mosquitoes. The oarsmen are silent, The faint-sounding music 530Can hardly be heard As the boat moving gentlyGlides on through the water. . . . 

 The peasants stand watching:The bright yellow hair Of the beautiful ladyStreams out in the breeze Like a long golden banner. . . . 

"I managed him finely, The noble Pomyéshchick, " 540 Said Klím to the peasants. "Be God with you, Barin! Go bragging and scolding, Don't think for a moment That we are now freeAnd your servants no longer, But die as you lived, The almighty Pomyéshchick, To sound of our music, To songs of your slaves; 550 But only die quickly, And leave the poor peasants In peace. And now, brothers, Come, praise me and thank me! I've gladdened the commune. I shook in my shoes there Before the Pomyéshchick, For fear I should trip Or my tongue should betray me;And worse--I could hardly 560 Speak plain for my laughter!That eye! How it spins! And you look at it, thinking: 'But whither, my friend, Do you hurry so quickly? On some hasty errandOf yours, or another's? Perhaps with a passFrom the Tsar--Little Father, You carry a message 570From 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 witnessThat I would not take Such an office upon me 580For ten hundred roubles Unless I were certainThat he was the last, That I bore with his blusterTo serve my own ends, Of my own will and pleasure. "

 Old Vlásuchka sadlyAnd thoughtfully answers, "How long, though, how long, though, Have we--not we only 590 But all Russian peasants--Endured the Pomyéshchicks? And not for our pleasure, For money or fun, Not for two or three months, But for life. What has changed, though? Of what are we bragging?For still we are peasants. "

 The peasants, half-tipsy, Congratulate Klímka. 600 "Hurrah! Let us toss him!"And now they are placing Old Widow TeréntevnaNext to her bridegroom, The little child Jóckoff, Saluting them gaily. They're eating and drinking What's left on the table. Then romping and jesting They stay till the evening, 610And 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 villageCalled "Ignorant-Duffers, " Of Volost "Old-Dustmen, "Draw such an intense And unanimous breath. . . . 630Their pleasure, however, Was not very lasting, Because with the death Of the ancient Pomyéshchick, The sweet-sounding words Of his heirs and their bountiesCeased also. Not even A pick-me-up afterThe yesterday's feast Did they offer the peasants. 640And as to the hayfields-- Till now is the law-suitProceeding between them, The heirs and the peasants. Old Vlásuchka was By the peasants appointedTo plead in their name, And he lives now in Moscow. He went to St. Petersburg too, But I don't think 650That much can be done For the cause of the peasants. 

PART III. 

THE PEASANT WOMAN

PROLOGUE

 "Not only to menMust 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 villageMatróna Korchágin--The people there call her 'The Governor's Lady. '" 20The peasants consideredAnd went. . . . 

 Now alreadyThe 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 nowOne would never imagine How sorely God's peopleHad 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-dropsThat you have been moistened, The sweat of the peasantHas fallen upon you. 

 The peasants are gladdenedAt 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 barleyWe 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; 60It struggles for freedom. Pakhóm picks it up, He kisses it tenderly: "Fly, little birdie!" . . . The lark flies awayTo the blue heights of Heaven; The kind-hearted peasantsGaze lovingly upwards To see it rejoiceIn 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 whoeverGoes by must needs pinch them. Now peas are being carriedIn old hands, in young hands, They're spreading abroadOver seventy high-roads. 80 The vegetables--howThey're flourishing also! Each toddler is claspingA radish or carrot, And many are crackingThe seeds of the sunflower. The beetroots are dottedLike little red slippers All over the earth. 

 Our peasants are walking, 90Now 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, 100Like 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 110Are making towards it To look at it close. 

The house is gigantic, The courtyard is huge, There's a pond in it too;A watch-tower arises From over the house, With a gallery round it, A flagstaff upon it. 

 They meet with a lackey 120 Near one of the gates:He seems to be wearing A strange kind of mantle;"Well, what are you up to?" He says to the friends, "The Pomyéshchick's abroad now, The manager's dying. "He shows them his back, And they all begin laughing:A tiger is clutching 130 The edge of his shoulders!"Heh! here's a fine joke!" They are hotly discussingWhat kind of a mantle The lackey is wearing, Till clever Pakhóm Has got hold of the riddle. "The cunning old rascal, He's stolen a carpet, And cut in the middle 140A hole for his head!"

 Like weak, straddling beetlesShut up to be frozen In cold empty hutsBy 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 crowdIn a gipsy encampment. And some are now draggingA net through the pond: "God come to your help!Have you caught something, brothers?" "One carp--nothing more; 160There 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 fasterThan you find the victuals To cook in the pot!"

 "I'm waiting and waiting, And Mítyenka sickens Because of the musty 180Old bread that I give him. But what can I do?This life--it is bitter!" She fondles the headOf a half-naked baby Who sits by her sideIn a little brass basin, A button-nosed mite. 

 "The boy will take cold there, The basin will chill him, " 190 Says Prov; and he wishesTo 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 momentObserve some new marvel; And soon they have noticedA strange kind of labour Proceeding around them:One man, it appears, To the door has got fastened;He's toiling away To unscrew the brass handles, His hands are so weak 210 He can scarcely control them. Another is hugging Some tiles: "See, Yegórshka, I've dug quite a heap out!" Some children are shakingAn apple-tree yonder: "You see, little Uncles, There aren't many left, Though the tree was quite heavy. " "But why do you want them? 220They'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 anotherA ravine yawns deep! A lake has been made too; 230Perhaps at one timeThere were swans on the water? The summer-house has someInscriptions upon it, Demyán begins spellingThem out very slowly. A grey-haired domesticIs watching the peasants; He sees they have veryInquisitive natures, 240 And presently slowlyGoes hobbling towards them, And holding a book. He says, "Will you buy it?" Demyán is a peasantAcquainted with letters, He tries for some timeBut he can't read a word. 

 "Just sit down yourselfOn that seat near the linden, 250 And read the book leisurelyLike a Pomyéshchick!"

 "You think you are clever, "The grey-headed servantRetorts with resentment, "Yet books which are learnedAre wasted upon you. You read but the labelsOn public-house windows, And that which is written 260On every odd corner:'Most strictly forbidden. '"

The pathways are filthy, The graceful stone ladiesBereft 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. 270Like church without pastor, Like fields without peasants, Are all these fine gardens Without a Pomyéshchick, "The peasants remark. For long the PomyéshchickHas gathered his treasures, When all of a sudden. . . . (The six peasants laugh, But the seventh is silent, 280He 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 itA man is now standing; He wears a pope's cassock; 290He 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, 300Of passionate grief, Unending, unfathomed;It wails and laments, It is bitterly sobbing. . . . 

"Pray tell us, good woman, What man is that singing?"Román asks the woman Now feeding her babyWith steaming ukhá. [43]

 "A singer, my brothers, 310A born Little Russian, The Barin once brought himAway from his home, With a promise to send himTo Italy later. But long the Pomyéshchick Has been in strange partsAnd forgotten his promise; And now the poor fellowWould 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 himExcepting 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 singerClimb up to the watch-tower, And call to the other, 'Good-morrow to Father Ipát, and how fares he?'(The windows all shake 340At 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 usFor more than an hour, 350 Like the neigh of a stallion. "

The cattle are now Coming home, and the eveningIs filled with the fragrance Of milk; and the woman, The mother of Mítyenka, Sighs; she is thinking, "If only one cow Would turn into the courtyard!"But hark! In the distance 360 Some voices in chorus!"Good-bye, you poor mourners, May God send you comfort!The people are coming, We're going to meet them. "

The peasants are filled With relief; because afterThe whining old servants The people who meet themReturning from work 370 In the fields seem such healthyAnd beautiful people. The men and the womenAnd pretty young girls Are all singing together. 

"Good health to you! Which is Among you the womanMatróna Korchágin?" The peasants demand. 

"And what do you want 380With Matróna Korchágin?"

The woman Matróna Is tall, finely moulded, Majestic in bearing, And strikingly handsome. Of thirty-eight years She appears, and her black hairIs mingled with grey. Her complexion is swarthy, Her eyes large and dark 390 And severe, with rich lashes. A white shirt, and short Sarafán[44] she is wearing, She walks with a hay-fork Slung over her shoulder. 

"Well, what do you want With Matróna Korchágin?"The peasants are silent; They wait till the othersHave 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 forsakenOur 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 aboutWho is happy in Russia. Luká said, 'The pope, ' And Demyán, 'The Pomyéshchick, 'And Prov said, 'The Tsar, ' 420 And Román, 'The official. ''The round-bellied merchant, 'Said both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan. Pakhóm said, 'His Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser. 'Like bulls are the peasants: Once folly is in themYou cannot dislodge it Although you should beat them 430With stout wooden cudgels, They stick to their follyAnd nothing will move them. We argued and quarrelled, While quarrelling fought, And while fighting decidedThat never again Would we turn our steps homewardsTo kiss wives and children, To see the old people, 440Until we have found The reply to our question, Of who can in Russia Be happy and free?We've questioned the pope, We've asked the Pomyéshchick, And now we ask you. We'll seek the official, The Minister, merchant, We even will go 450To the Tsar--Little Father, Though whether he'll see usWe cannot be sure. But rumour has told usThat _you're_ free and happy. Then say, in God's name, If the rumour be true. "

Matróna Korchágin Does not seem astonished, But only a sad look 460 Creeps into her eyes, And her face becomes thoughtful. 

 "Your errand is surelyA foolish one, brothers, " She says to the peasants, "For this is the season Of work, and no peasantFor chatter has time. "

"Till now on our journey Throughout half the Empire 470We'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'tGet some work done to-morrow!" The peasants reply. 480

Matróna sees clearly Enough that this offerMust not be rejected; "Agreed, " she said, smiling, "To such lusty fellows As you, we may well lookFor ten sheaves apiece. "

 "You give us your promiseTo open your heart to us?"

 "I will hide nothing. " 490

Matróna Korchágin Now enters her cottage, And while she is working Within it, the peasantsDiscover a very Nice spot just behind it, And sit themselves down. There's a barn close beside themAnd two immense haystacks, A flax-field around them; 500And 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!" 510The napkin unfolds, Two hands have come floatingFrom no one sees where, Place a pailful of vodka, A large pile of breadOn the magic white napkin, And dwindle away. The two brothers Goóbin Are chuckling together, For they have just pilfered 520 A very big horse-radishOut of the garden-- It's really a monster!

The skies are dark blue now, The bright stars are twinkling, The moon has arisen And sails high above them;The woman Matróna Comes out of the cottageTo tell them her tale. 530

CHAPTER I

THE WEDDING

"My girlhood was happy, For we were a thriftyArid 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; 10My brother, while dressing, Would sing little verses:'Get up, little Sister, Get up, little Sister, In no little beds nowAre people delaying, In all little churchesThe peasants are praying, Get up, now, get up, It is time, little Sister. 20The shepherd has goneTo the field with the sheep, And no little maidensAre lying asleep, They've gone to pick raspberries, Merrily singing. The sound of the axeIn the forest is ringing. '

"And then my dear mother, When she had done scouring 30The 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, 40And when you will leave them To live among strangersNot 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 bottomA crust. You will chew it, My poor little dove, 50And start working again. . . . '

 "But, brothers, I did notSpend much time in sleeping; And when I was fiveOn the day of St. Simon, I mounted a horseWith the help of my father, And then was no longerA child. And at six years I carried my father 60His 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 degreesI became a great worker, And yet best of allI loved singing and dancing; The whole day I worked 70In the fields, and at nightfall Returned to the cottageAll 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 cleanAnd refreshed, and was ready To take out my spinning-wheel, 80And with companions To sing half the night. 

"I never ran after The youths, and the forwardI checked very sharply. To those who were gentle And shy, I would whisper:'My cheeks will grow hot, And sharp eyes has my mother;Be wise, now, and leave me 90 Alone'--and they left me. 

"No matter how clever I was to avoid them, The one came at last I was destined to wed;And he--to my bitter Regret--was a stranger:Young Phílip Korchágin, A builder of ovens. He came from St. Petersburg. 100 Oh, how my motherDid weep: 'Like a fish In the ocean, my daughter, You'll plunge and be lost; Like a nightingale, strayingAway 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 chillyAnd 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 lateWith 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 sledgesWith 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 laughterThat brought the bright tints To the cheeks of the maiden. Perhaps at some feast In the home of a neighbourYou 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 fatherAnd seen her at work Beating flax in the barn?Ah, what shall I do? I will take brother falconAnd 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 rememberTo seek for the maiden. . . . '

 "And so till the morningI 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 abandonMy freedom in order To enter your service. God sees me--I will not Depart from my home!'

 "'Do come, ' said young Phílip, 'So far have I travelled To fetch you. Don't fear me-- 180 I will not ill-treat you. 'I begged him to leave me, I wept and lamented;But nevertheless I was still a young maiden:I did not forget Sidelong glances to castAt the youth who thus wooed me. And Phílip was handsome, Was rosy and lusty, 190 Was strong and broad-shouldered, With fair curling hair, With a voice low and tender. . . . Ah, well . . . I was won. . . . 

"'Come here, pretty fellow, And stand up against me, Look deep in my eyes-- They are clear eyes and truthful;Look well at my rosy Young face, and bethink you: 200Will you not regret it, Won't my heart be broken, And shall I not weep Day and night if I trust youAnd go with you, leaving My parents forever?'

"'Don't fear, little pigeon, We shall not regret it, 'Said Phílip, but still I was timid and doubtful. 210'Do go, ' murmured I, and he, 'When you come with me. 'Of course I was fairer And sweeter and dearerThan any that lived, And his arms were about me. . . . Then all of a sudden I made a sharp effortTo wrench myself free. 219 'How now? What's the matter?You're strong, little pigeon!' Said Phílip astonished, But still held me tight. 'Ah, Phílip, if you hadNot 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 momentsWhen 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 tenderLike this. . . . " 240

 And the woman, Matróna, sighed deeply, And softly began--Leaning back on the haystack-- To sing to herselfWith her thoughts in the past:

 "'Tell me, young merchant, pray, Why do you love me so-- Poor peasant's daughter? I am not clad in gold, 250 I am not hung with pearls, Not decked with silver. '

 "'Silver your chastity, Golden your beauty shines, O my belovèd, White pearls are falling now Out of your weeping eyes, Falling like tear-drops. '

"My father gave orders To bring forth the wine-cups, 260To 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 270I bowed, and forever The freedom of girlhoodRolled down from my head. . . . "

"Ah, that means a wedding, " Cry both brothers Goóbin, "Let's drink to the health Of the happy young pair!"

"Well said! We'll begin With the bride, " say the others. 

"Will you drink some vodka, 280 Matróna Korchágin?"

"An old woman, brothers, And not drink some vodka?"

CHAPTER II

A SONG

Stand before your judge--And your legs will quake!Stand before the priestOn your wedding-day, --How your head will ache!How your head will ache!You will call to mindSongs of long ago, Songs of gloom and woe:Telling how the guests 10Crowd into the yard, Run to see the brideWhom the husband bringsHomeward at his side. How his parents bothFling themselves on her;How his brothers soonCall her "wasteful one";How his sisters nextCall her "giddy one"; 20How his father growls, "Greedy little bear!"How his mother snarls, "Cannibal!" at her. She is "slovenly"And "disorderly, "She's a "wicked one"!

"All that's in the song Happened now to me. Do you know the song? 30 Have you heard it sung?"

"Yes, we know it well;Gossip, you begin, We will all join in. "

 _Matróna_

So sleepy, so wearyI am, and my heavy headClings to the pillow. But out in the passageMy Father-in-lawBegins stamping and swearing. 40

 _Peasants in Chorus_

 Stamping and swearing!Stamping and swearing! He won't let the poor womanRest for a moment. Up, up, up, lazy-head! Up, up, up, lie-abed! Lazy-head! Lie-abed! Slut!

 _Matróna_

So sleepy, so weary 50I am, and my heavy headClings to the pillow;But out in the passageMy Mother-in-lawBegins scolding and nagging. 

 _Peasants in Chorus_

 Scolding and nagging!Scolding and nagging! She won't let the poor womanRest 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'sTo which I belonged now; And I from my girlhoodStepped straight into Hell. My husband departed 70To work in the city, And leaving, advised meTo 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 heNow left me alone; Not a soul was among them 80To 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. 90In 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 happenedThat Mother-in-law 100 Murmured low to her husbandThat 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 morningBrought back and flung down Like a log in the stable. 

 "But I acted always 110As Phílip had told me: I worked, with the angerHid deep in my bosom, And never a murmurAllowed to escape me. And then with the winterCame Phílip, and brought me A pretty silk scarf;And one feast-day he took me To drive in the sledges; 120And 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 usAlone, but remember A husband like Phílip 130Not often is found. "

"Do you mean to say That he never once beat you?"

Matróna was plainly Confused by the question; "Once, only, he beat me, " She said, very low. 

 "And why?" asked the peasants. 

"Well, you know yourselves, friends, How quarrels arise 140In the homes of the peasants. A young married sisterOf Phílip's one day Came to visit her parents. She found she had holes In her boots, and it vexed her. Then Phílip said, 'Wife, Fetch some boots for my sister. 'And I did not answer At once; I was lifting 150A large wooden tub, So, of course, couldn't speak. But Phílip was angry With me, and he waitedUntil I had hoisted The tub to the oven, Then struck me a blowWith his fist, on my temple. 

"'We're glad that you came, But you see that you'd better 160Keep out of the way, ' Said the other young sisterTo her that was married. 

 "Again Philip struck me!

 "'It's long since I've seen you, My dearly-loved daughter, But could I have known How the baggage would treat you!'. . . Whined Mother-in-law. 

"And again Phílip struck me! 170

 "Well, that is the story. 'Tis surely not fitting For wives to sit countingThe blows of their husbands, But then I had promisedTo keep nothing back. "

 "Ah, well, with these women--The poisonous serpents!-- A corpse would awakenAnd snatch up a horsewhip, " 180 The peasants say, smiling. 

Matróna said nothing. The peasants, in orderTo keep the occasion In manner befitting, Are filling the glasses; And now they are singingIn 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! 220Ai, leli, leli! See the blood spurt!"

 * * * * *

"On Lady-day Phílip Went back to the city;A little while later Our baby was born. Like a bright-coloured picture Was he--little Djóma;The sunbeams had given Their radiance to him, 230The pure snow its whiteness; The poppies had paintedHis lips; by the sable His brow had been pencilled;The falcon had fashioned His eyes, and had lent themTheir wonderful brightness. At sight of his firstAngel smile, all the anger And bitterness nursed 240In my bosom was melted; It vanished awayLike the snow on the meadows At sight of the smilingSpring 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: 250The manager by The Pomyéshchick appointed, Called Sitnikov, hotly Began to pursue me. 'My lovely Tsaritsa! 'My rosy-ripe berry!'Said he; and I answered, 'Be off, shameless rascal!Remember, the berry Is not in _your_ forest!' 260I 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 herTo send him away, But she answered me roughly, 270'And do you want Phílip To serve as a soldier?'I ran to Savyéli, The grandfather, beggingHis aid and advice. 

 "I haven't yet told youA word of Savyéli, The only one livingOf Phílip's relations Who pitied and loved me. 280Say, friends, shall I tell you About him as well?"

"Yes, tell us his tale, And we'll each throw a coupleOf sheaves in to-morrow, Above what we promised. "

"Well, well, " says Matróna, "And 'twould be a pityTo give old SavyéliNo place in the story; 290For he was a happy one, Too--the old man. . . . "

CHAPTER III

SAVYÉLI

"A mane grey and bushy Which covered his shoulders, A huge grizzled beard Which had not seen the scissorsFor twenty odd years, Made Savyéli resembleA shaggy old bear, Especially when heCame out of the forest, So broad and bent double. 10The grandfather's shoulders Were bowed very low, And at first I was frightened Whenever he enteredThe tiny low cottage: I thought that were heTo stand straight of a sudden He'd knock a great holeWith his head in the ceiling. But Grandfather could not 20Stand straight, and they told meThat he was a hundred. He lived all aloneIn his own little cottage, And never permittedThe others to enter; He couldn't abide them. Of course they were angry And often abused him. His own son would shout at him, 30 'Branded one! Convict!'But this did not anger Savyéli, he onlyWould 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 straightwayDid Father-in-law run In joy to the tavern, --He came back, not tipsy, But beaten half-dead!At supper that night We were all very silent, And Father-in-law had A cut on his eyebrow, But Grandfather's face 60 Wore a smile like a rainbow!

"Savyéli would gather The berries and mushroomsFrom spring till late autumn, And snare the wild rabbits;Throughout the long winterHe 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 notTake refuge in death, For Hell's torments await you!'

"'At last the Korójins[47] Awoke, and they paid him, They paid him, they paid him, They paid the whole debt!'And many such sayings 90 He had, --I forget them. When Father-in-law grew Too noisy I alwaysWould run to Savyéli, And we two, together, Would fasten the door. Then I began working, While Djómushka climbed To the grandfather's shoulder, And sat there, and looked 100 Like a bright little appleThat hung on a hoary Old tree. Once I asked him:

"'And why do they call you A convict, Savyéli?'

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

 "'You, Savyéli!'

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

"'You're joking, Savyéli!'

 "'Oh no, I'm not joking. I mean it, ' he said, And he told me the story. 

"'The peasants in old days Were serfs as they now are, But our race had, somehow, Not seen its Pomyéshchick; 120No manager knew we, No pert German agent. And barschin we gave not, And taxes we paid notExcept when it pleased us, -- Perhaps once in three yearsOur taxes we'd pay. '

"'But why, little Grandad?'

 "'The times were so blessed, --And folk had a saying 130 That our little villageWas sought by the devil For more than three years, But he never could find it. Great forests a thousandYears old lay about us;And treacherous marshes And bogs spread around us;No horseman and few men On foot ever reached us. 140It happened that once By some chance, our Pomyéshchick, Shaláshnikov, wanted To pay us a visit. High placed in the army Was he; and he startedWith soldiers to find us. They soon got bewilderedAnd lost in the forest, And had to turn back; 150Why, the Zemsky policeman Would only come onceIn a year! They were good times! In these days the BarinLives under your window; The roadways go spreadingAround, like white napkins-- The devil destroy them!We only were troubled By bears, and the bears too 160Were easily managed. Why, I was a worse foeBy far than old Mishka, When armed with a daggerAnd 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 lyingAsleep in her den In the heart of the forest. She flung herself at me, And straight on my bear-spearWas fixed. Like a fowl On the spit she hung twistingAn 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 likeA hook, little Grandchild?'

"'But finish the story. You lived and were not muchAfflicted. What further?'

"'At last our Pomyéshchick Invented a new game: 190He 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, 200In honey and fish; A second time came he, We gave him some bear-skins; And when for the third timeHe came, we gave nothing, -- We said we had nothing. We put on our laputs, We put our old caps on, Our oldest old coats, And we went to Korójin 210(For there was our master now, Stationed with soldiers). ''Your taxes!'' ''We have none, We cannot pay taxes, The corn has not grown, And the fish have escaped us. ''''Your taxes!'' ''We have none. '' He waited no longer;''Hey! Give them the first round!'' He said, and they flogged us. 220

"'Our pockets were not Very easily opened;Shaláshnikov, though, was A master at flogging. Our tongues became parched, And our brains were set whirling, And still he continued. He flogged not with birch-rods, With whips or with sticks, But with knouts made for giants. 230At last we could stand it No longer; we shouted, ''Enough! Let us breathe!'' We unwound our foot-ragsAnd took out our money, And brought to the BarinA ragged old bonnet With roubles half filled. 

"'The Barin grew calm, He was pleased with the money; 240He gave us a glass each Of strong, bitter brandy, And drank some himself With the vanquished Korójins, And gaily clinked glasses. ''It's well that you yielded, ''Said he, ''For I swear I was fully decidedTo strip off the last shred Of skins from your bodies 250And 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! 260Safe 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 ratherWould die of the beating Than feebly give way. It seems the Pomyéshchick Had taken a fancyAt once to our roubles, Because after that 280Every year we were summoned To go to Korójin, We went, and were flogged. 

 "'Shaláshnikov flogged likeA prince, but be certainThe treasures he thrashed from The doughty KorójinsWere not of much weight. The weak yielded soon, But the strong stood like iron 290 For the commune. I alsoBore up, and I thought: ''Though never so stoutlyYou flog us, you dog's son, You won't drag the whole soulFrom out of the peasant; Some trace will be left. ''

"'When the Barin was sated We went from the town, But we stopped on the outskirts 300 To share what was over. And plenty there was, too! Shaláshnikov, heh, You're a fool! It was our turn To laugh at the Barin;Ah, they were proud peasants-- The plucky Korójins!But nowadays show them The tail of a knout, And they'll fly to the Barin, 310 And beg him to takeThe last coin from their pockets. Well, that's why we all livedLike merchants in those days. One summer came tidingsTo 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 fortuneHas 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 butterAt 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, 340For hour after hour He sat peacefully fishing, And striking his nose Or his cheek or his forehead. We laughed: ''You don't like The Korójin mosquitoes?''He'd boat near the bankside And shout with enjoyment, Like one in the bath-house Who's got to the roof. [49] 350

 "'With youths and young maidensHe strolled in the forest (They were not for nothingThose strolls in the forest!)-- ''Well, if you can't payYou should work, little peasants. ''

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

 "'''You should dig some deep ditchesTo 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 drivingTo town with three horses;Look! now he is coming With boxes and bedding, 370And God knows wherefrom Has this bare-footed GermanRaised wife and small children! And now he's establishedA village ispravnik, [50] They live like two brothers. His courtyard at all times Is teeming with strangers, And woe to the peasants-- The fallen Korójins! 380He sucked us all dry To the very last farthing;And flog!--like the soul Of Shaláshnikov flogged he!Shaláshnikov stopped When he got what he wanted;He clung to our backs Till he'd glutted his stomach, And then he dropped down Like a leech from a dog's ear. 390But he had the grip Of a corpse--had this German;Until he had left you Stripped bare like a beggarYou couldn't escape. '

 "'But how could you bear it?'

 "'Ah, how could we bear it?Because we were giants-- Because by their patienceThe people of Russia Are great, little Grandchild. 400You think, then, Matróna, That we Russian peasantsNo warriors are? Why, truly the peasantDoes 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 fieryIs thundering within it; And these things the peasantCan suffer in patience. He bends--but he breaks not; 420He reels--but he falls not; Then is he not trulyA warrior, say?'

 "'You joke, little Grandad;Such warriors, surely, A tiny mouse nibblingCould crumble to atoms, ' I said to Savyéli. 

"'I know not, Matróna, But up till to-day 430He has stood with his burden; He's sunk in the earth'Neath its weight to his shoulders; His face is not moistenedWith sweat, but with heart's blood. I don't know what mayCome to pass in the future, I can't think what willCome to pass--only God knows. For my part, I know 440When 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 rodsThey will pound you to dust!'''

"'But what of the German, 450Savyéli?'

 "'The German?Well, well, though he lived Like a lord in his gloryFor eighteen long years, We were waiting our day. Then the German consideredA factory needful, And wanted a pit dug. 'Twas work for nine peasants. 460 We started at daybreakAnd 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; 470For 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 GermanRespectfully forward, We brought him at lastTo 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 bravelyThat soon not a trace Of the pit was remaining, 500 The earth was as smoothAs before we had touched it; And then we stopped shortAnd we looked at each other. . . . '

 "The old man was silent. 'What further, Savyéli?'

 "'What further? Ah, bad times:The prison in Buy-Town (I learnt there my letters), Until we were sentenced; 510 The convict-mines later;And plenty of lashes. But I never frownedAt 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 notPat my head for their trouble; 520 The Governor was throughSiberia famous For flogging. But had notShaláshnikov flogged us? I spit at the floggingsI got in the prison! Ah, he was a Master!He knew how to flog you! He toughened my hide soYou see it has served me 530 For one hundred years, And 'twill serve me another. But life was not easy, I tell you, Matróna:First twenty years prison, Then twenty years exile. I saved up some money, And when I came home, Built this hut for myself. And here I have lived 540For a great many years now. They loved the old grandadSo long as he'd money, But now it has goneThey would part with him gladly, They spit in his face. Eh, you plucky toy heroes! You're fit to make warUpon old men and women!'

 "And that was as much 550As the grandfather told me. "

 "And now for your story, "They answer Matróna. 

 "'Tis not very bright. From one trouble God In His goodness preserved me;For Sitnikov died Of the cholera. Soon, though, Another arose, I will tell you about it. " 560

"Naddai!" say the peasants (They love the word well), They are filling the glasses. 

CHAPTER IV

DJÓMUSHKA

"The little tree burns For the lightning has struck it. The nightingale's nest Has been built in its branches. The little tree burns, It is sighing and groaning;The nightingale's children Are crying and calling:'Oh, come, little Mother! Oh, come, little Mother! 10Take 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 creatureIs helplessly grieving And cannot find comfort;--The nightingale only Laments for her children. . . . She never will see them Again, though she call themTill breaks the white day. . . . 40I carried my baby Asleep in my bosomTo work in the meadows. But Mother-in-law cried, 'Come, leave him behind you, At home with Savyéli, You'll work better then. ' And I was so timid, So tired of her scolding, I left him behind. 50

"That year it so happened The harvest was richerThan ever we'd known it; The reaping was hard, But the reapers were merry, I sang as I mountedThe sheaves on the waggon. (The waggons are loadedTo laughter and singing; The sledges in silence, 60With thoughts sad and bitter; The waggons convey the cornHome to the peasants, The sledges will bear it Away to the market. )

"But as I was working I heard of a suddenA deep groan of anguish: I saw old SavyéliCreep trembling towards me, 70 His face white as death:'Forgive me, Matróna! Forgive me, Matróna!I sinned. . . . I was careless. ' He fell at my feet. 

"Oh, stay, little swallow! Your nest build not there!Not there 'neath the leafless Bare bank of the river:The water will rise, 80 And your children will perish. Oh, poor little woman, Young wife and young mother, The daughter-in-law And the slave of the household, Bear blows and abuse, Suffer all things in silence, But let not your baby Be torn from your bosom. . . . Savyéli had fallen 90 Asleep in the sunshine, And Djóma--the pigs Had attacked him and killed him. 

"I fell to the ground And lay writhing in torture;I bit the black earth And I shrieked in wild anguish;I called on his name, And I thought in my madnessMy 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 womenAre talking in whispers And nodding together. The Elder is running 110 And tapping each windowIn 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 wrathHas sent guests that are hateful, Has sent unjust judges. 120Perhaps they want money? Their coats are worn threadbare?Perhaps they are hungry?

 "Without greeting ChristThey sit down at the table, They've set up an iconAnd cross in the middle; Our pope, Father John, Swears the witnesses singly. 

 "They question Savyéli, 130And then a policeman Is sent to find me, While the officer, swearing, Is striding aboutLike a beast in the forest. . . . 'Now, woman, confess it, 'He cries when I enter, 'You lived with the peasantSavyéli in sin?'

"I whisper in answer, 140'Kind sir, you are joking. I am to my husbandA wife without stain, And the peasant SavyéliIs 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 SavyéliHad plotted to murder Your child!'

 "Holy Mother!What horrible ravings! My God, give me patience, And let me not strangle The wicked blasphemer!I looked at the doctor 160 And shuddered in terror:Before him lay lancets, Sharp scissors, and knives. I conquered myself, For I knew why they lay there. I answer him trembling, 'I loved little Djóma, I would not have harmed him. '

"'And did you not poison him. Give him some powder?' 170

"'Oh, Heaven forbid!'I kneel to him crying, 'Be gentle! Have mercy!And grant that my baby In honour be buried, Forbid them to thrust The cruel knives in his body!Oh, I am his mother!'

 "Can anything move them?No hearts they possess, 180 In their eyes is no conscience, No cross at their throats. . . . 

 "They have lifted the napkinWhich covered my baby; His little white bodyWith 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 doctorWas piercing the heart Of my little dead baby. 

"'Now, bind her, the vixen!'The officer shouted;-- She's mad!' He beganTo inquire of the peasants, 'Have none of you noticed 240Before that the woman Korchágin is crazy?'

"'No, ' answered the peasants. And then Phílip's parentsHe asked, and their children; They answered, 'Oh, no, sir!We never remarked it. ' He asked old Savyéli, --There's one thing, ' he answered, 'That might make one think 250That Matróna is crazy: She's come here this morningWithout bringing with her A present of moneyOr cloth to appease you. '

 "And then the old manBegan bitterly crying. The officer frowningSat down and said nothing. And then I remembered: 260In truth it was madness-- The piece of new linenWhich I had made ready Was still in my box--I'd forgotten to bring it; And now I had seen themSeize Djómushka's body And tear it to pieces. I think at that moment I turned into marble: 270I watched while the doctor Was drinking some vodkaAnd washing his hands; I saw how he offeredThe 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 facesLike 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 partsAre beggars and drunken; They owe me for countlessConfessions and weddings; They'll take their last farthingTo spend in the tavern; 300 And nothing but sinsDo they bring to their priest. '

 "And then I hear singingIn clear, girlish voices-- I know them all well:There's Natásha and Glásha, And Dáriushka, --JesusHave mercy upon them!Hark! steps and accordion; Then there is silence. 310I think I had fallen Asleep; then I fanciedThat 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, 320And then I remembered No more. In black darknessI 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 HeavenNo moon and no stars, And a great cloud of darkness 330Spread over the village. The huts of the peasantsWere dark; only one hut Was brilliantly lighted, It shone like a palace-- The hut of Savyéli. I ran to the doorway, And then . . . I remembered. 

"The table was gleaming With yellow wax candles, 340And there, in the midst, Lay a tiny white coffin, And over it spread Was a fine coloured napkin, An icon was placed At its head. . . . O you builders, For my little son What a house you have fashioned!No windows you've made 350 That the sunshine may enter, No stove and no bench, And no soft little pillows. . . . Oh, Djómushka will not Feel happy within it, He cannot sleep well. . . . 'Begone!'--I cried harshly On seeing Savyéli;He stood near the coffin And read from the book 360In his hand, through his glasses. I cursed old Savyéli, Cried--'Branded one! Convict! Begone! 'Twas you killed him!You murdered my, Djóma, Begone from my sight!'

 "He stood without moving;He crossed himself thrice And continued his reading. But when I grew calmer 370 Savyéli approached me, And said to me gently, 'In winter, Matróna, I told you my story, But yet there was more. Our forests were endless, Our lakes wild and lonely, Our people were savage; By cruelty lived we:By snaring the wood-grouse, 380By slaying the bears:-- You must kill or you perish!I've told you of Barin Shaláshnikov, alsoOf 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. 390My winter had lasted A century, Grandchild, But your little Djóma Had melted its frosts. One day as I rocked him He smiled of a sudden, And I smiled in answer. . . . A strange thing befell meSome days after that: As I prowled in the forest 400I aimed at a squirrel; But suddenly noticedHow 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, 410And each tiny floweret I loved. I went home thenAnd nursed little Djóma, And played with him, laughing. God knows how I loved him, The innocent babe!And now . . . Through my folly, My sin, . . . He has perished. . . . Upbraid me and kill me, But nothing can help you, 420With God one can't argue. . . . Stand up now, Matróna, And pray for your baby; God acted with reason:He's counted the joys In the life of a peasant!'

"Long, long did Savyéli Stand bitterly speaking, The piteous fate Of the peasant he painted; 430And if a rich Barin, A merchant or noble, If even our Father The Tsar had been listening, Savyéli could not Have found words which were truer, Have spoken them better. . . . 

 "'Now Djóma is happyAnd safe, in God's Heaven, ' He said to me later. 440His tears began falling. . . . 

 "'I do not complainThat God took him, Savyéli, ' I said, --'but the insultThey did him torments me, It's racking my heart. Why did vicious black ravens Alight on his bodyAnd tear it to pieces? Will neither our God 450Nor our Tsar--Little Father-- Arise to defend us?'

"'But God, little Grandchild, Is high, and the TsarFar away, ' said Savyéli. 

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

"But Grandfather answered, 'Now hush, little Grandchild, You woman of sorrow, Bow down and have patience; 460No truth you will find In the world, and no justice. '

 "'But why then, Savyéli?'

"'A bondswoman, Grandchild, You are; and for suchIs no hope, ' said Savyéli. 

 "For long I sat darklyAnd bitterly thinking. The thunder pealed forthAnd the windows were shaken; 470 I started! SavyéliDrew nearer and touched me, And led me to standBy the little white coffin:

"'Now pray that the Lord May have placed little DjómaAmong the bright ranks Of His angels, ' he whispered;A candle he placed In my hand. . . . And I knelt there 480The whole of the night Till the pale dawn of daybreak:The grandfather stood Beside Djómushka's coffinAnd read from the book In a measured low voice. . . . "

CHAPTER V

THE SHE-WOLF

"'Tis twenty years now Since my Djóma was taken, Was carried to sleep 'Neath his little grass blanket;And still my heart bleeds, And I pray for him always, No apple till Spassa[53] I touch with my lips. . . . 

"For long I lay ill, Not a word did I utter, 10My eyes could not suffer The old man, Savyéli. No work did I do, And my Father-in-law thoughtTo 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 nightOn the grave of my Djóma, I dusted it cleanWith 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 outBy 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 togetherWe fought with our grief In the grandfather's hut. "

"The grandfather died, then?"

 "Oh, no, in his cottageFor seven whole days 50 He lay still without speaking, And then he got up And he went to the forest;And there old Savyéli So wept and lamented, The woods were set throbbing. In autumn he left us And went as a pilgrimOn foot to do penance At some distant convent. . . . 60

 "I went with my husbandTo visit my parents, And then began workingAgain. Three years followed, Each week like the other, As twin to twin brother, And each year a child. There was no time for thinkingAnd no time for grieving; Praise God if you have time 70For 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 sorrowAgain; for when sorrow Once lightens upon you 80To 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. 90The 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 standingErect at its head, And a little gilt icon; 100A figure is kneeling Before it--'Savyéli!From whence have you come?'

 "'I have come from Pesótchna. I've prayed for the soul Of our dear little Djóma;I've prayed for the peasants Of Russia. . . . Matróna, Once more do I pray-- Oh, Matróna . . . Matróna. . . . 110I pray that the heart Of the mother, at last, May be softened towards me. . . . Forgive me, Matróna!'

"'Oh, long, long ago I forgave you, Savyéli. '

 "'Then look at me nowAs in old times, Matróna!'

 "I looked as of old. Then up rose Savyéli, 120 And gazed in my eyes;He was trying to straighten His stiffened old back;Like the snow was his hair now. I kissed the old man, And my new grief I told him; For long we sat weepingAnd mourning together. He did not live longAfter that. In the autumn 130 A deep wound appearedIn his neck, and he sickened. He died very hard. For a hundred days, fully, No food passed his lips;To the bone he was shrunken. He laughed at himself:'Tell me, truly, Matróna, Now am I not like A Korójin mosquito?' 140

"At times the old man Would be gentle and patient;At times he was angry And nothing would please him;He frightened us all By his outbursts of fury:'Eh, plough not, and sow not, You downtrodden peasants!You women, sit spinning And weaving no longer! 150However 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: 160The 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 usTo tremble with fear And draw nearer together. . . . He died in the night, And we did as he asked us: 170We laid him to rest In the grave beside Djóma. The Grandfather lived To a hundred and seven. . . . 

"Four years passed away then, The one like the other, And I was submissive, The slave of the household, For Mother-in-law And her husband the drunkard, 180For 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 happenedA pilgrim arrived At our village--a holyAnd pious-tongued woman; She spoke to the people 190Of how to please God And of how to reach Heaven. She said that on fast-daysNo woman should offer The breast to her child. The women obeyed her: On Wednesdays and FridaysThe village was filled By the wailing of babies;And many a mother 200 Sat bitterly weepingTo 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 needfulThe 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 itThrough my little son; My Father-in-lawTo the commune had offered My little FedótkaAs 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 peopleWere gathered together And talking of something. I listened, then elbowed My way through the people;Fedótka was set 230 In their midst, pale and trembling, The Elder was gripping His ear. 'What has happened?And why do you hold him?' I said to the Elder. 

"'I'm going to beat him, -- He threw a young lambTo the wolf, ' he replied. 

 "I snatched my FedótkaAway from their clutches; 240 And somehow the ElderFell down on the ground!

 "The story was strange:It appears that the shepherd Went home for awhile, Leaving little Fedótka In charge of the flock. 'I was sitting, ' he told me, 'Alone on the hillside, When all of a sudden 250 A wolf ran close by meAnd picked Masha's lamb up. I threw myself at her, I whistled and shouted, I cracked with my whip, Blew my horn for Valétka, And then I gave chase. I run fast, little Mother, But still I could never Have followed the robber 260If 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. 270At 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 itAlthough she should kill me. '' I threw myself on herAnd snatched it away, But she did not attack me. 280The lamb was quite dead, She herself was scarce living. She gnashed with her teeth And her breathing was heavy;And two streams of blood ranFrom under her body. Her ribs could be counted, Her head was hung down, But her eyes, little Mother, Looked straight into mine . . . 290 Then she groaned of a sudden, She groaned, and it sounded As if she were crying. I threw her the lamb. . . . '

 "Well, that was the story. And foolish Fedótka Ran back to the villageAnd 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 beatingYourself?' And the woman Whose lamb had been stolenCried, 'Whip the lad soundly, 'Twill teach him a lesson!'Fedótka she pulled from 310 My arms, and he trembled, He shook like a leaf. 

 "Then the horns of the huntsmenWere heard, --the Pomyéshchick Returning from hunting. I ran to him, crying, 'Oh, save us! Protect us!'

"'What's wrong? Call the Elder!' And then, in an instant, The matter is settled: 320'The shepherd is tiny-- His youth and his follyMay well be forgiven. The woman's presumptionYou'll punish severely!'

 "'Oh, Barin, God bless you!'I danced with delight! 'Fedótka is safe now!Run home, quick, Fedótka. '

 "'Your will shall be done, sir, ' 330The Elder said, bowing; 'Now, woman, prepare;You can dance later on!'

 "A gossip then whispered, 'Fall down at the feet Of the Elder--beg mercy!'

"'Fedótka--go home!'

 "Then I kissed him, and told him:'Remember, Fedótka, That I shall be angry 340If 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 catTo Fedótushka's corner That night. He was sleeping, He tossed in his dream. 350One 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 DjómaWhile 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 thereThe 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 themOf all that had happened, But that day I stayedFrom 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 380Amid 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, 410And 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 secretA heart full of fury Is gnawing my breast!"

CHAPTER VI

AN UNLUCKY YEAR

 "Strange stars played that yearOn the face of the Heavens; And some said, 'The Lord ridesAbroad, and His angels With long flaming brooms sweepThe floor of the Heavens In front of his carriage. 'But others were frightened, -- They said, 'It is ratherThe Antichrist coming! 10 It signals misfortune!'And they read it truly. A terrible year came, A terrible famine, When brother deniedTo his brother a morsel. And then I rememberedThe wolf that was hungry, For I was like her, Craving food for my children. 20 Now Mother-in-law foundA new superstition: She said to the neighboursThat I was the reason Of all the misfortune;And why? I had caused it By changing my shirtOn 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 beatenTo death by the people. To play with the starvingIs dangerous, my friends. 

 "The famine was scarcelyAt end, when another Misfortune befell us--The dreaded recruiting. 40 But I was not troubledBy that, because Phílip Was safe: one alreadyHad served of his people. One night I sat working, My husband, his brothers, The family, all hadBeen out since the morning. My Father-in-lawHad 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 heavyWith child. I was ailing, And hourly expectedMy time. When the children Were fed and asleepI lay down on the oven. 60 The women came home soonAnd called for their suppers; But Father-in-lawHad 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! 70I've counted the years To a day--I have proved them;They listen to nothing. They want to take Phílip!I prayed to the commune-- But what is it worth?I ran to the bailiff; He swore he was sorry, But couldn't assist us. I went to the clerk then; 80You might just as well Set to work with a hatchetTo 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! 90If he would but order The commune to show him The lists of the volost, And see how they cheat us!' The mother and daughtersAre 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 childrenAre 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 threatensTo punish my children-- 110 They slap them and pinch them!Be silent, you mother! You wife of a soldier!"

 * * * * *

 "I now have no partIn 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, 130To show me more wisdom, To teach me to liveAnd 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 passingFrom doorway to doorway; We stand by the windowsAnd 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 nothingWe know you'll be angry!'"

 * * * * *

 "To go to God's churchI have made myself tidy; I hear how the neighboursAre laughing around me: 'Now who is she settingHer cap at?' they whisper. "

 * * * * *

"Don't wash yourself clean. And don't dress yourself nicely; 160The neighbours are sharp-- They have eyes like the eagleAnd 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 fieldsAnd the pretty green meadows Are hidden away 170'Neath the snow. Nothing living Is seen in the foldsOf the gleaming white grave-clothes. No friend under HeavenThere 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 180The insults they cast her?Perhaps in the woods?-- But the woods are all withered!Perhaps in the meadows?-- The meadows are frozen!The swift little stream?-- But its waters are sleeping!No, --carry them with you To hide in your grave!"

 * * * * *

"My husband is gone; 190 There is no one to shield me. Hark, hark! There's the drum! And the soldiers are coming!They halt;--they are forming A line in the market. 'Attention!' There's Phílip! There's Phílip! I see him!'Attention! Eyes front!' It's Shaláshnikov shouting. . . . Oh, Phílip has fallen! 200 Have mercy! Have mercy!'Try that--try some physic! You'll soon get to like it!Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!' He is striking my husband!'I flog, not with whips, But with knouts made for giants!'"

 * * * * *

"I sprang from the stove, Though my burden was heavy;I listen. . . . All silent. . . . 210 The family sleeping. I creep to the doorway And open it softly, I pass down the street Through the night. . . . It is frosty. In Domina's hut, Where the youths and young maidensAssemble at night, They are singing in chorusMy favourite song: 220

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Máshenka is there. Her father comes to look for her, He wakens her and coaxes her:''Eh, Máshenka, come home, '' he cries, ''Efeémovna, come home!''

 "'''I won't come, and I won't listen! Black the night--no moon in Heaven! Swift the stream--no bridge, no ferry! Dark the wood--no guards. '' 231

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Máshenka is there. Her mother comes to look for her, She wakens her and coaxes her:''Now, Máshenka, come home, '' she says, ''Efeémovna, come home!''

 "'''I won't come, and I won't listen! Black the night--no moon in Heaven! Swift the stream--no bridge, no ferry! Dark the wood--no guards!'' 242

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Máshenka is there. Young Peter comes to look for her, He wakens her, and coaxes her:''Oh, Máshenka, come home with me!My little dove, Efeémovna, Come home, my dear, with me. '' 250

 "'''I will come, and I will listen, Fair the night--the moon in Heaven, Calm the stream with bridge and ferry, In the wood strong guards. '''"

CHAPTER VII

THE GOVERNOR'S LADY

 "I'm hurrying blindly, I've run through the village; Yet strangely the singingFrom Domina's cottage Pursues me and ringsIn my ears. My pace slackens, I rest for awhile, And look back at the village: I see the white snowdriftO'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 meWhy 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 meI'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 prayOn 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 womenTo 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, 50And quickly my fever Was spent. And when laterI 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 itIn haste to be off To the fair. And I walked now 60The 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 draggingAway from the courtyard; 70 And afterwards theyWill be hungry. I pondered: The horses that workMust 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 sightOf the town. On the outskirts 80 The merchants are cheatingAnd wheedling the peasants, There's shouting and swearing, Abusing and coaxing. 

 "I enter the townAs the bell rings for matins. I make for the marketBefore the cathedral. I know that the gatesOf the Governor's courtyard 90 Are there. It is dark still, The square is quite empty; In front of the courtyardA sentinel paces: 'Pray tell me, good man, Does the Governor rise early?'

 "'Don't know. Go away. I'm forbidden to chatter. ' (I give him some farthings. )'Well, go to the porter; 100 He knows all about it. '

"'Where is he? And what Is his name, little sentry?'

"'Makhár Fedosséich, He stands at the entrance. 'I walk to the entrance, The doors are not opened. I sit on the doorsteps And think. . . . 

"It grows lighter, 110 A man with a ladderIs turning the lamps down. 

 "'Heh, what are you doing?And how did you enter?'

"I start in confusion, I see in the doorwayA bald-headed man In a bed-gown. Then quicklyI come to my senses, And bowing before him 120(Makhár Fedosséich), I give him a rouble. 

"'I come in great need To the Governor, and see himI must, little Uncle!'

 "'You can't see him, woman. Well, well. . . . I'll consider. . . . Return in two hours. '

 "I see in the marketA pedestal standing, 130 A peasant upon it, He's just like Savyéli, And all made of brass:It's Susánin's memorial. While crossing the market I'm suddenly startled--A heavy grey drake From a cook is escaping;The fellow pursues With a knife. It is shrieking. 140My 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 frightenThe cook, --the poor creature! I run from the market, 150I'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 coveredWith 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 sideNot to tread on the carpets; And there, near the entrance, I wait for the porter. 

 "'You're early, my gossip!' 170Again I am startled: A stranger I see, --For at first I don't know him; A livery richlyEmbroidered 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, 190A 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 coveredWith stars. 'Is he gentle?'

 "'That's just as you happen 200To find him. Why, neighbour, The same is with me:To-day I'm obliging, At times I'm as crossAs 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 takenAn odd cup of vodka, The stove is red hot, And the smuts from the candle Have blackened the air, It's a desperate struggle!'

 "There's somebody knocking. Makhár has gone out; 220 I am sitting alone now. I go to the door And look out. In the courtyardA 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 GodMust 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 toreMy 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 sittingA 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 weakenedBy grief and exhaustion, That there, without warning, My labour had seized me. I bless the sweet lady, Elyén Alexándrovna, Only a motherCould bless her as I do. 270 She christened my baby, Lidórushka called him. "

 "And what of your husband?"

"They sent to the village And started enquiries, And soon he was righted. Elyén AlexándrovnaBrought him herself To my side. She was tenderAnd clever and lovely, 280 And healthy, but childless, For God would not grant her A child. While I stayed thereMy baby was never Away from her bosom. She tended and nursed him Herself, like a mother. The spring had set in And the birch trees were budding, Before she would let us 290 Set out to go home. 

 "Oh, how fair and bright In God's world to-day! Glad my heart and gay!

 "Homewards lies our way, Near the wood we pause, See, the meadows green, Hark! the waters play. Rivulet so pure, Little child of Spring, 300 How you leap and sing, Rippling in the leaves! High the little lark Soars above our heads, Carols blissfully! Let us stand and gaze; Soon our eyes will meet, I will laugh to thee, Thou wilt smile at me, Wee Lidórushka! 310

 "Look, a beggar comes, Trembling, weak, old man, Give him what we can. 'Do not pray for us, ' Let us to him say, 'Father, you must pray For Elyénushka, For the lady fair, Alexándrovna!'

 "Look, the church of God! 320 Sign the cross we twain Time and time again. . . . 'Grant, O blessed Lord, Thy most fair reward To the gentle heart Of Elyénushka, Alexándrovna!'

 "Green the forest grows, Green the pretty fields, In each dip and dell 330 Bright a mirror gleams. Oh, how fair it is In God's world to-day, Glad my heart and gay! Like the snowy swan O'er the lake I sail, O'er the waving steppes Speeding like the quail. 

 "Here we are at home. Through the door I fly 340 Like the pigeon grey; Low the family Bow at sight of me, Nearly to the ground, Pardon they beseech For the way in which They have treated me. 'Sit you down, ' I say, 'Do not bow to me. Listen to my words: 350 You must bow to one Better far than I, Stronger far than I, Sing your praise to her. '

 "'Sing to whom, ' you say? 'To Elyénushka, To the fairest soul God has sent on earth: Alexándrovna!'"

CHAPTER VIII

THE WOMAN'S LEGEND

 Matróna is silent. You see that the peasants Have seized the occasion--They are not forgetting To drink to the healthOf the beautiful lady! But noticing soonThat Matróna is silent, In file they approach her. 

"What more will you tell us?" 10

 "What more?" says Matróna, "My fame as the 'lucky one' Spread through the volost, Since then they have called me 'The Governor's Lady. 'You ask me, what further? I managed the household, And brought up my children. You ask, was I happy?Well, that you can answer 20Yourselves. And my children? Five sons! But the peasant'sMisfortunes 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 womenFor happiness, brothers. "

"That's all?"

 "I can tell youThat twice we were swallowed By fire, and that three timesThe plague fell upon us; 40 But such things are commonTo all of us peasants. Like cattle we toiled, My steps were as easy As those of a horseIn the plough. But my troublesWere not very startling: No mountains have movedFrom their places to crush me; And God did not strike me 50With arrows of thunder. The storm in my soulHas been silent, unnoticed, So how can I paint itTo you? O'er the Mother Insulted and outraged, The blood of her first-born As o'er a crushed wormHas been poured; and unanswered The deadly offences 60That many have dealt her; The knout has been raisedUnopposed o'er her body. But one thing I neverHave suffered: I told you That Sítnikov died, That the last, irreparable Shame had been spared me. You ask me for happiness? Brothers, you mock me! 70Go, ask the official, The Minister mighty, The Tsar--Little Father, But never a woman! God knows--among womenYour 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 conqueredBy penance and fasting; She'd bathed in the Jordan, And prayed at the tomb Of Christ Jesus. She told usThe keys to the welfare And freedom of womenHave 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 countedTo 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 bedOf 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 endOf the village of "Earthworms, " Where most of the folkHave been diggers and delversFrom 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 conductedIn Petersburg fashion, For Klímka, the peasant(Our former acquaintance), Had seen on his travels 20Some noblemen's banquets, With toasts and orations, And he had arranged it. 

The peasants were sitting On tree-trunks cut newlyFor 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 collegeNamed Sava and Grisha. The former, the eldest, Is nineteen years old. He looks like a churchman Already, while GrishaHas 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 peasantsEntirely 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 traceOf the town, save some ashes: A fire has demolished itTwo days ago. )

Some people are waiting To cross by the ferry, While some feed their horses (All friends of the peasants). Some beggars have crawled 70 To the spot; there are pilgrims, Both women and men; The women loquacious, The men very silent. 

The old Prince Yutiátin Is dead, but the peasantsAre not yet aware That instead of the hayfieldsHis heirs have bequeathed themA long litigation. 80 So, drinking their vodka, They first of all argue Of how they'll disposeOf the beautiful hayfields. 

You were not all cozened, [54] You people of Russia, And robbed of your land. In some blessed spots You were favoured by fortune!By some lucky chance-- 90 The Pomyéshchick's long absence, Some slip of posrédnik's, By wiles of the commune, You managed to captureA 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" decidedTo part with the fields To the Elder for taxes. They calculate closely: "They'll pay both the taxesAnd dues--with some over, 110 Heh, Vlásuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paid I'll uncover to no man. I'll work if it please me, I'll lie with my wife, Or I'll go to the tavern. ""Bravo!" cry the peasants, In answer to Klímka, "Now, Vlásuchka, do you Agree to our plan?" 120

"The speeches of Klímka Are short, and as plainAs the public-house signboard, " Says Vlásuchka, joking. "And that is his manner: To start with a womanAnd end in the tavern. "

"Well, where should one end, then?Perhaps in the prison? Now--as to the taxes, 130Don't croak, but decide. "

But Vlásuchka really Was far from a croaker. The kindest soul living Was he, and he sorrowedFor all in the village, Not only for one. His conscience had pricked himWhile serving his haughty And rigorous Barin, 140Obeying 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 mistrustedThe new, rich in promise. The wheels that have passed 150O'er the roadways of MoscowAre fewer by far Than the injuries doneTo the soul of the peasant. There's nothing to laugh atIn that, so the Elder Perforce had grown gloomy. But now, the gay pranksOf the peasants of "Earthworms" Affected him too. 160His thoughts became brighter:No taxes . . . No barschin . . . No stick held above you, Dear God, am I dreaming? Old Vlásuchka smiles. . . . A miracle surely! Like that, when the sunFrom the splendour of HeavenMay cast a chance ray In the depths of the forest: 170The dew shines like diamonds, The mosses are gilded. 

"Drink, drink, little peasants! Disport yourselves bravely!"'Twas gay beyond measure. In each breast awakensA wondrous new feeling, As though from the depthsOf a bottomless gulf On the crest of a wave, 180They've been borne to the surfaceTo find there awaits them A feast without end. 

Another pail's started, And, oh, what a clamourOf voices arises, And singing begins. 

And just as a dead man's Relations and friendsTalk of nothing but him 190 Till the funeral's over, Until they have finished The funeral banquetAnd started to yawn, -- So over the vodka, Beneath the old willow, One topic prevails:The "break in the chain" Of their lords, the Pomyéshchicks. 

The deacon they ask, 200 And his sons, to oblige themBy 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 itThey 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 strangeThat in vast Holy Russia, With masses and masses Of people unnumbered, No song has been born 10 Overflowing with joyLike a bright summer morning? Yes, is it not striking, And is it not tragic? O times that are coming, You, too, will be paintedIn 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, 30Our noses were glued To the earth. We'd forgottenThe 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 40Who came from a Volost Near by, with a waggonOf hay for the market. (Some heavy misfortuneHad forced him to sell it. ) "For once our young lady, Miss Gertrude, decided That any one swearingMust soundly be flogged. Dear Lord, how they flogged us 50Until we stopped swearing! Of course, not to swearFor 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 60For the church-bells to hear us. (They rang all day long. )What stories we told then! We'd no need to seekFor 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 waistcoatWith 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 shepherdHas stripped all the bark off 80 Below, while aboveNot a scratch can be noticed! And surely no ravenWould scorn such a summitFor building a nest. )

"Well, tell us about it. "

"I'll first have a smoke. "

And while he is smoking Our peasants are asking, "And who is this fellow? 90 What sort of a goose?"

"An unfortunate footman Inscribed in our Volost, A martyr, a house-serf Of Count Sinegúsin's. His name is Vikénti. He sprang from the foot-boardDirect 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 driveIn a carriage and fourTo go hunting for mushrooms. He'll tell you some stories:His memory's splendid; You'd think he had eatenThe eggs of a magpie. " [55]

Now, setting his hat straight, 110 Vikénti commencesTo 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, 120Horsewhipped 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!" 159So, though the uncle entreated his clemency, Grisha to serve in the army he sent. Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny, Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell:Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate, No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!"Hate in each bosom since long has been festering: Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay, Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities, Two quite unbearable weeks pass away. Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170 Straight at the feet of his master he fell, Pity has softened his heart to the legless one, Who can look after the Barin so well?"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty, While I am living my cross I'll embrace. "Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown, Jacob, once more, is restored to his place. Brother again the Pomyéshchick has christened him. "Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he. "Barin, there's something that stings . . . In my memory. . . . " 180 Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea, Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries, Next for a drive to the sister's they start, See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly, Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart. Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly, Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack, "Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly, "Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack. )Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice, Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss, " 191Jacob 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 swaysBackwards 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. 231Early next morning a hunter discovers him, Carries him home, full of penitent groans:"Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!" Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave, One figure surely will haunt you incessantly, Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave. 

 "What sinners! What sinners!" The peasants are saying, "I'm sorry for Jacob, 240 Yet pity the Barin, Indeed he was punished! Ah, me!" Then they listen To two or three more tales As strange and as fearful, And hotly they argue On who must be reckoned The greatest of sinners: "The publican, " one says, And one, "The Pomyéshchick, " 250 Another, "The peasant. " This last was a carter, A man of good standing And sound reputation, No ignorant babbler. He'd seen many things In his life, his own province Had traversed entirely. He should have been heard. The peasants, however, 260 Were all so indignant They would not allow him To speak. As for Klímka, His wrath is unbounded, "You fool!" he is shouting. 

 "But let me explain. "

 "I see you are _all_ fools, " A voice remarks roughly: The voice of a trader Who squeezes the peasants 270 For laputs or berries Or any spare trifles. But chiefly he's noted For seizing occasions When taxes are gathered, And peasants' possessions Are bartered at auction. "You start a discussion And miss the chief point. Why, who's the worst sinner? 280 Consider a moment. "

 "Well, who then? You tell us. "

 "The robber, of course. "

 "You've not been a serf, man, " Says Klímka in answer; "The burden was heavy, But not on your shoulders. Your pockets are full, So the robber alarms you; The robber with this case 290 Has nothing to do. "

 "The case of the robber Defending the robber, " The other retorts. 

 "Now, pray!" bellows Klímka, And leaping upon him, He punches his jaw. The trader repays him With buffets as hearty, "Take leave of your carcase!" 300 He roars. 

 "Here's a tussle!" The peasants are clearing A space for the battle; They do not prevent it Nor do they applaud it. The blows fall like hail. 

 "I'll kill you, I'll kill you! Write home to your parents!"

 "I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310 Heh, send for the pope!"

 The trader, bent double By Klímka, who, clutching His hair, drags his head down, Repeating, "He's bowing!" Cries, "Stop, that's enough!" When Klímka has freed him He sits on a log, And says, wiping his face With a broadly-checked muffler, 320 "No wonder he conquered: He ploughs not, he reaps not, Does nothing but doctor The pigs and the horses; Of course he gets strong!"

 The peasants are laughing, And Klímka says, mocking, "Here, try a bit more!"

 "Come on, then! I'm ready, " The trader says stoutly, 330 And rolling his sleeves up, He spits on his palms. 

 "The hour has now sounded For me, though a sinner, To speak and unite you, " Ióna pronounces. The whole of the evening That diffident pilgrim Has sat without speaking, And crossed himself, sighing. 340 The trader's delighted, And Klímka replies not. The rest, without speaking, Sit down on the ground. 

CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

We know that in Russia Are numbers of peopleWho wander at large Without kindred or home. They sow not, they reap not, They feed at the fountainThat's common to all, That nourishes likewiseThe tiniest mouse And the mightiest army:The sweat of the peasant. 10 The peasants will tell youThat whole populations Of villages sometimesTurn out in the autumn To wander like pilgrims. They beg, and esteem it A paying profession. The people consider That misery drives them 20More often than cunning, And so to the pilgrimsContribute their mite. Of course, there are casesOf downright deception: One pilgrim's a thief, Or another may wheedle Some cloth from the wifeOf a peasant, exchanging Some "sanctified wafers" 30Or "tears of the Virgin" He's brought from Mount Athos, And then she'll discover He's been but as farAs a cloister near Moscow. One saintly old greybeardEnraptured the people By wonderful singing, And offered to teach The young girls of the village 40The songs of the church With their mothers' permission. And all through the winter He locked himself upWith the girls in a stable. From thence, sometimes singingWas heard, but more often Came laughter and giggles. Well, what was the upshot? He taught them no singing, 50But ruined them all. 

 Some Masters so skilfulThere 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 60And 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 beforeAt the house have been welcome, He'll speedily banish. The people, however, Can see in these pilgrims 70A good side as well. For, who begs the moneyFor building the churches? And who keeps the convent'sCollecting-box full? And many, though useless, Are perfectly harmless; But some are uncanny, One can't understand them: The people know Fóma, 80With chains round his middle Some six stones in weight;How summer and winter He walks about barefoot, And constantly muttersOf Heaven knows what. His life, though, is godly:A stone for his pillow, A crust for his dinner. 

The people know also 90 The old man, Nikífor, Adherent, most strange, Of the sect called "The Hiders. "One day he appeared In Usólovo villageUpbraiding the people For lack of religion, And calling them forth To the great virgin forestTo seek for salvation. 100 The chief of policeOf the district just happened To be in the villageAnd heard his oration: "Ho! Question the madman!"

"Thou foe of Christ Jesus! Thou Antichrist's herald!"Nikífor retorts. The Elders are nudging him: "Now, then, be silent!" 110He pays no attention. They drag him to prison. He stands in the waggon, Undauntedly chiding The chief of police, And loudly he cries To the people who follow him:

"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you! Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you!Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120 Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"

 The people are crossing Themselves. The Nachálnik[56] Is striking the prophet: "Remember the Judge Of Jerusalem, sinner!" The driver's so frightened The reins have escaped him, His hair stands on end. . . . 

 And when will the people 130 Forget Yevressína, Miraculous widow? Let cholera only Break out in a village: At once like an envoy Of God she appears. She nurses and fosters And buries the peasants. The women adore her, They pray to her almost. 140

 It's evident, then, That the door of the peasant Is easily opened: Just knock, and be certain He'll gladly admit you. He's never suspicious Like wealthier people; The thought does not strike him At sight of the humble And destitute stranger, 150 "Perhaps he's a thief!" And as to the women, They're simply delighted, They'll welcome you warmly. 

 At night, in the Winter, The family gathered To work in the cottage By light of "luchina, " [57] Are charmed by the pilgrim's Remarkable stories. 160 He's washed in the steam-bath, And dipped with his spoon In the family platter, First blessing its contents. His veins have been thawed By a streamlet of vodka, His words flow like water. The hut is as silent As death. The old father Was mending the laputs, 170 But now he has dropped them. 

 The song of the shuttle Is hushed, and the woman Who sits at the wheel Is engrossed in the story. The daughter, Yevgénka, Her plump little finger Has pricked with a needle. The blood has dried up, But she notices nothing; 180 Her sewing has fallen, Her eyes are distended, Her arms hanging limp. The children, in bed On the sleeping-planks, listen, Their heads hanging down. They lie on their stomachs Like snug little seals Upon Archangel ice-blocks. Their hair, like a curtain, 190 Is hiding their faces: It's yellow, of course!

 But wait. Soon the pilgrim Will finish his story-- (It's true)--from Mount Athos. It tells how that sinner The Turk had once driven Some monks in rebellion Right into the sea, -- Who meekly submitted, 200 And perished in hundreds. 

 (What murmurs of horror Arise! Do you notice The eyes, full of tears?) And now conies the climax, The terrible moment, And even the mother Has loosened her hold On the corpulent bobbin, It rolls to the ground. . . . 210 And see how cat Vaska At once becomes active And pounces upon it. At times less enthralling The antics of Vaska Would meet their deserts; But now he is patting And touching the bobbin And leaping around it With flexible movements, 220 And no one has noticed. It rolls to a distance, The thread is unwound. 

 Whoever has witnessed The peasant's delight At the tales of the pilgrims Will realise this: Though never so crushing His labours and worries, Though never so pressing 230 The call of the tavern, Their weight will not deaden The soul of the peasant And will not benumb it. The road that's before him Is broad and unending. . . . When old fields, exhausted, Play false to the reaper, He'll seek near the forest For soil more productive. 240 The work may be hard, But the new plot repays him: It yields a rich harvest Without being manured. A soil just as fertile Lies hid in the soul Of the people of Russia: O Sower, then come!

 The pilgrim Ióna Since long is well known 250 In the village of "Earthworms. " The peasants contend For the honour of giving The holy man shelter. At last, to appease them, He'd say to the women, "Come, bring out your icons!" They'd hurry to fetch them. Ióna, prostrating Himself to each icon, 260 Would say to the people, "Dispute not! Be patient, And God will decide: The saint who looks kindest At me I will follow. " And often he'd follow The icon most poor To the lowliest hovel. That hut would become then A Cup overflowing; 270 The women would run there With baskets and saucepans, All thanks to Ióna. 

 And now, without hurry Or noise, he's beginning To tell them a story, "Two Infamous Sinners, " But first, most devoutly, He crosses himself. 

_Two Infamous Sinners_

Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relateTold by a monk in the Priory. Thus did I hear him narrate:

Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudeár, at their head;Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed. 

Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare;Once Kudeár from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair. 

Days Kudeár with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde;Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord. 

Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last;Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in multitudes vast. 

Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love, --

Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of GodAll his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod, Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief;Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311

When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent. 

There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave:"Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!"

Pity had God on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake:

"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine;Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine. 

"Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free. "

Vast was the giant's circumference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins. 

Glory he sang to the Trinity, Scraped the hard wood with his blade. Years passed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made. 

'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail?Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail. 

Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?" Crossing himself he looked round. 

There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside. 

Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate. 

"Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine;These are the things that I estimate-- Women, gold, honour, and wine. 

"My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep;What though I waste, hang, and torture them-- You should but see how I sleep!"

Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart. 

Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371

Lo! and the sins of the anchorite Passed from his soul like a breath. "Let us pray God to incline to us, Slaves in the shadow of Death. . . . "

CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW

Ióna has finished. He crosses himself, And the people are silent. And then of a sudden

The trader cries loudly In great irritation, "What's wrong with the ferry? A plague on the sluggards!Ho, ferry ahoy!"

"You won't get the ferry 10 Till sunrise, for evenIn daytime they're frightened To cross: the boat's rotten! About Kudeár, now--"

"Ho, ferry ahoy!"

He strides to his waggon. A cow is there tethered;He churlishly kicks her. His hens begin clucking;He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20 The calf, which is shiftingAbout in the cart. Gets a crack on the forehead. He strikes the roan mare With the whip, and departingHe 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 ableTo fight, but discussion Is not in his line. . . . My brothers, how grievous The sins of the nobles!"

"And yet not as great As the sin of the peasant, "The carter cannot here Refrain from remarking. 40

"A plaguey old croaker!" Says Klím, spitting crossly;"Whatever arises The raven must flyTo 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. 49Once 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. " 61Dead, 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, 71Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well, Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crime Ne'er will be pardoned till end of all time. Peasant, most infamous sinner of all, Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!

 Wrathful, relentless, The carter thus finished The tale of the peasant 80 In thunder-like tones. The others sigh deeply And rise. They're exclaiming, "So, that's what it is, then, The sin of the peasant. He's right. 'Tis indeed A most terrible sin!"

 "The story speaks truly; Our grief shall be endless, Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90 (His faith in improvements Has vanished again. ) And Klímka, who always Is swayed in an instant By joy or by sorrow, Despondingly echoes, "A terrible sin!"

 The green by the Volga, Now flooded with moonlight, Has changed of a sudden: 100 The peasants no longer Seem men independent With self-assured movements, They're "Earthworms" again-- Those "Earthworms" whose victuals Are never sufficient, Who always are threatened With drought, blight, or famine, Who yield to the trader The fruits of extortion 110 Their tears, shed in tar. The miserly haggler Not only ill-pays them, But bullies as well: "For what do I pay you? The tar costs you nothing. The sun brings it oozing From out of your bodies As though from a pine. "

 Again the poor peasants 120 Are sunk in the depths Of the bottomless gulf! Dejected and silent, They lie on their stomachs Absorbed in reflection. But then they start singing; And slowly the song, Like a ponderous cloud-bank, Rolls mournfully onwards. They sing it so clearly 130 That quickly our seven Have learnt it as well. 

_The Hungry One_

 The peasant standsWith 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 griefSuppressed and dumb His eyes are glazed, His soul is numb. 

 As though in sleep, With footsteps slow, He creeps to whereThe rye doth grow. 

 Upon his fieldHe gazes long, 150 He stands and singsA voiceless song:

 "Grow ripe, grow ripe, O Mother rye, I fostered thee, Thy lord am I. 

 "Yield me a loafOf monstrous girth, A cake as vastAs 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 loafFrom his bag, and devours it. 

"They sing without voices, 170 And yet when you listenYour 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 peasantExhausted by hunger, 180 And swayed by the wind. Restrained are his movements And slow. After singing"The Hungry One, " thirsting They make for the bucket, One after another Like geese in a file. They stagger and totter As people half-famished, A drink will restore them. 190"Come, let us be joyful!" The deacon is saying. His youngest son, Grísha, Approaches the peasants. "Some vodka?" they ask him. 

"No, thank you. I've had some. But what's been the matter?You look like drowned kittens. "

"What should be the matter?"(And making an effort 200 They bear themselves bravely. )And Vlass, the old Elder, Has placed his great palmOn the head of his godson. 

"Is serfdom revived? Will they drive you to barschinOr pilfer your hayfields?" Says Grísha in jest. 

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

"Well, what has gone wrong, then? And why were you singing 211'The Hungry One, ' brothers? To summon the famine?"

"Yes, what's all the pother?" Here Klímka bursts outLike a cannon exploding. The others are scratchingTheir necks, and reflecting:"It's true! What's amiss?""Come, drink, little 'Earthworms, ' Come, drink and be merry! 221All'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 settledThat they're not to blameFor the deed of the traitor: 'Twas serfdom's the fault. 230For 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 PomyéshchickTo drive his true servant To death by the noose, 240No terrible vengeance Of slave upon masterBy suicide fearful, No treacherous Gleb. 

'Twas Prov of all others Who listened to GríshaWith deepest attentionAnd joy most apparent. And when he had finishedHe cried to the others 250 In accents of triumph, Delightedly smiling, "Now, brothers, mark _that_!""So now, there's an end Of 'The Hungry One, ' peasants!"Cries Klímka, with glee. The words about serfdom Were quickly caught upBy the crowd, and went passing From one to another: 260"Yes, if there's no big snake There cannot be small ones!"And Klímka is swearing Again at the carter:"You ignorant fool!"They're ready to grapple! The deacon is sobbingAnd kissing his Grísha: "Just see what a headpieceThe Lord is creating! 270 No wonder he longsFor the college in Moscow!" Old Vlass, too, is pattingHis shoulder and saying, "May God send thee silverAnd gold, and a healthy And diligent wife!"

"I wish not for silver Or gold, " replies Grísha. "But one thing I wish: 280 I wish that my comrades, Yes, all the poor peasants In Russia so vast, Could be happy and free!" Thus, earnestly speaking, And blushing as shyly As any young maiden, He walks from their midst. 

The dawn is approaching. The peasants make ready 290To cross by the ferry. "Eh, Vlass, " says the carter, As, stooping, he raisesThe span of his harness, "Who's this on the ground?"

The Elder approaches, And Klímka behind him, Our seven as well. (They're always most anxiousTo 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. 310Now Klímka is stoopingTo look at the sleeper, Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughlyStamps straight on his mouth. 

The fellow springs up, Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep, And old Vlásuchka strikes him. He squeals like a rat'Neath the heel of your slipper, And makes for the forest 320On long, lanky legs. Four peasants pursue him, The others cry, "Beat him!" Until both the manAnd 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 toldBy the people of Tískov To punish this ShútovWhenever we catch him, And so we obey. When people from Tískov Pass by, they'll explain it. What luck? Did you catch him?" He asks of the othersReturned from the chase. 340

"We caught him, I warrant, And gave him a lesson. He's run to Demyánsky, For there he'll be ableTo cross by the ferry. "

"Strange people, to beat him Without any cause!""And why? If the commune Has told us to do itThere must be some reason!" 350 Shouts Klím at the seven. "D'you think that the peopleOf Tískov are fools? It isn't long since, mind, That many were flogged there, One man in each ten. Ah, Shútov, you renderedA dastardly service, Your duties are evil, You damnable wretch! 360 And who deserves beatingAs richly as Shútov? Not we alone beat him:From Tískov, you know, Fourteen villages lieOn the banks of the Volga; I warrant through eachHe's been driven with blows. "

The seven are silent. They're longing to get 370At the root of the matter. But even the ElderIs now growing angry. 

It's daylight. The women Are bringing their husbandsSome breakfast, of rye-cakes And--goose! (For a peasantHad 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 drunkOn his breakfast of goose!A shout! "Who is coming? Who's this?" Here's anotherExcuse for rejoicing And noise! There's a hay-cartWith hay, now approaching, 400 And high on its summitA soldier is sitting. He's known to the peasantsFor twenty versts round. And, cosy beside him, Justínutchka sits (His niece, and an orphan, His prop in old age). He now earns his living By means of his peep-show, 410Where, plainly discerned, Are the Kremlin and Moscow, While music plays too. The instrument onceHad gone wrong, and the soldier, No capital owning, Bought three metal spoons, Which he beat to make music; But the words that he knewDid not suit the new music, 420And 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 servingUs, orthodox Christians, You, infidel railway!And welcome you were When you carried us cheaplyFrom 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 mayCleaner than any big broom sweep away!"

"Come, give us some music, " 460 Says Vlass to the soldier, "For here there are plenty Of holiday people, 'Twill be to your profit. You see to it, Klímka!"(Though Vlass doesn't like him, Whenever there's somethingThat calls for arranging He leaves it to Klímka:"You see to it, Klímka!" 470 And Klimka is pleased. )

And soon the old soldier Is helped from the hay-cart:He's weak on his legs, --tall, And strikingly thin. His uniform seems To be hung from a pole;There are medals upon it. 

It cannot be said That his face is attractive, 480Especially 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 backFrom 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 aroundIn the air like a weight. His right follows suit then, And murmuring, "Curse it!" He suddenly mastersAnd stands on them both. 

"You see to it, Klímka!" Of course he'll arrange it 500In Petersburg fashion: He stands them together, The niece and the uncle; Takes two wooden dishesAnd gives them one each, Then springs on a tree-trunkTo make an oration. 

(The soldier can't help Adding apt little wordsTo the speech of the peasant, 510 And striking his spoons. )

 * * * * *

The soldier is stamping His feet. One can hearHis dry bones knock together. When Klímka has finishedThe peasants come crowding, Surrounding the soldier, And some a kopéck give, And others give half:In no time a rouble 520 Is piled on the dishes. 

EPILOGUE

GRÍSHA DOBROSKLONOW

A CHEERFUL SEASON--CHEERFUL SONGS

The feast was continued Till morning--a splendid, A wonderful feast! Then the people dispersingWent home, and our peasants Lay down 'neath the willow;Ióna--meek pilgrim Of God--slept there too. And Sáva and Grísha, The sons of the deacon, 10Went 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 otherFor use in the summer, -- Such was his abode. No horse he possessed And no cow. He had once hadA dog and a cat, But they'd both of them left him. 

His sons put him safely 60 To bed, snoring loudly;Then Sávushka opened A book, while his brotherWent out, and away To the fields and the forest. 

A broad-shouldered youth Was this Grísha; his face, though, Was terribly thin. In the clerical collegeThe students got little 70 To eat. Sometimes GríshaWould lie the whole night Without sleep; only longingFor morning and breakfast, -- The coarse piece of breadAnd the glassful of sbeeten. [61]The village was poor And the food there was scanty, But still, the two brothers Grew certainly plumper 80When 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 commissionsIn town. Though the deacon Was proud of his children, He never had given Much thought to their feeding. 90Himself, the poor deacon, Was endlessly hungry, His principal thought Was the manner of gettingThe next piece of food. He was rather light-mindedAnd vexed himself little; But Dyómna, his wife, Had been different entirely: She worried and counted, 100So God took her soon. The whole of her lifeShe by salt[62] had been troubled: If bread has run shortOne can ask of the neighbours; But salt, which means money, Is hard to obtain. The village with DyómnaHad shared its bread freely; And long, long ago 110Would her two little children Have lain in the churchyardIf not for the peasants. 

And Dyómna was ready To work without ceasingFor 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 darlingHer favourite, Grísha. And many years afterThe death of his mother, His heart would grow heavyAnd sad, when the peasants Remembered one song, And would sing it together 130 As Dyómna had sung it;They called it "The Salt Song. "

_The Salt Song_

 Now none but God Can save my son: He's dying fast, My little one. . . . 

 I give him bread--- He looks at it, He cries to me, "Put salt on it. " 140 I have no salt-- No tiny grain; "Take flour, " God whispers, "Try again. . . . "

 He tastes it once, Once more he tries; "That's not enough, More salt!" he cries. 

 The flour again. . . . My tears fall fast 150 Upon the bread, -- He eats at last!

 The mother smiles In pride and joy: Her tears so salt Have saved the boy. 

 * * * * *

Young Grísha remembered This song; he would sing itQuite low to himself In the clerical college. 160The 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 decidedTo spend his whole life In promoting their welfare, In striving to succour The poor and afflicted. The demon of malice Too long over RussiaHas scattered its hate; The shadow of serfdomHas hidden all paths 180 Save corruption and lying. Another song now Will arise throughout Russia;The angel of freedom And mercy is flyingUnseen o'er our heads, And is calling strong spiritsTo follow the road Which is honest and clean. 

Oh, tread not the road 190So shining and broad:Along it there speedWith feverish treadThe multitudes ledBy infamous greed. 

There lives which are spentWith noble intentAre mocked at in scorn;There souls lie in chains, And bodies and brains 200By passions are torn, By animal thirstFor pleasures accurstWhich pass in a breath. There hope is in vain, For there is the reignOf darkness and death. 

 * * * * *

In front of your eyesAnother road lies--'Tis honest and clean. 210Though steep it appearsAnd sorrow and tearsUpon it are seen:

It leads to the doorOf 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 vainlyWas sung to our Grísha. The years of his studyBeing 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 morningWas filled with the sweetness Of newly-mown hay. Young Grísha was thoughtful, He followed the first roadHe met--an old high-road, An avenue, shadedBy tall curling birch trees. The youth was now gloomy, 240Now 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 sorrowIn store yet, I fear, But you will not perish, I know. 250

"How long since your childrenAs playthings were used, As slaves to base passions and lust;Were bartered like cattle, Were vilely abusedBy masters most cruel and unjust?

"How long since young maidensWere dragged to their shame, Since whistle of whips filled the land, Since 'Service' possessed 260A more terrible fameThan 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 peopleIs stirring at last, To freedom 'twill point them the way. 

"Your burden grows lighter, O Motherland dear, 270Your wounds less appalling to see. Your fathers were slaves, Smitten helpless by fear, But, Mother, your children are free!"

 * * * * *

A small winding footpath Now tempted young Grísha, And guided his steps To a very broad hayfield. The peasants were cutting The hay, and were singing 280His favourite song. Young Grísha was saddenedBy thoughts of his mother, And nearly in angerHe 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 GríshaTo bathe, and he had A good view of the ruinsThat three days before Had been burnt. What a picture!No house is left standing; 301 And only the prisonIs saved; just a few days Ago it was whitewashed; It stands like a littleWhite cow in the pastures. The guards and officialsHave made it their refuge; But all the poor peasantsAre 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 wayTo the tent for some vodka 'Mid tables and cupboardsAnd waggons and bundles. A tailor approachesThe vodka tent also; 320 A shrivelled old fellow. His irons and his scissorsHe 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 holdingHis long shining plait. Down the Volga comes floating 330Some wood-laden rafts, And three ponderous bargesAre anchored beneath The right bank of the river. The barge-tower yesterday Evening had dragged themWith 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 jinglingAloud in his pocket. Young Grísha observes himFor 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. 352He 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 dayHe drives the clinging sweat away. Then leisurely along the quayHe strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360Are sewn into his girdle wide;Some coppers jingle at his side. He thinks awhile, and then he goesTowards the tavern. There he throwsSome 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; 370On presents spends a coin or so:For wife some scarlet calico, A scarf for sister, tinsel toysFor 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 moodTo dabble in blood:To wage a great war. Shall we have gold enough? 390Shall 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, 400O Tsar, is of gold. 

"And strong were the nation, Unyielding its might, If standing for conscience, For justice and right. 

"But summon the countryTo valueless strife, And no man will hastenTo offer his life. 

"So Russia lies sleeping 410In obstinate rest;--But should the spark kindleThat'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 gatherOf strength unsurpassed, With infinite courage 420Will fight to the last. 

"(Thou art so pitiful, Poor, and so sorrowful, Yet of great treasure full, Mighty, all-powerful, Russia, my Mother!)"

 * * * * *

Young Grísha was pleased With his song; and he murmured. "Its message is true; I will sing it to-morrow 430Aloud 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 440He sang the new song, And his brother said, "Splendid!"

 Then Grísha tried vainlyTo sleep; but half dreaming New songs he composed. They grew brighter and stronger. . . . 

 Our peasants would soonHave been home from their travels If they could have knownWhat was happening to Grísha: 450 With what exaltationHis bosom was burning; What beautiful strainsIn his ears began chiming; How blissfully sang heThe wonderful anthem Which tells of the freedomAnd peace of the people. 

FOOTNOTES:

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

[2] Priest. 

[3] Landowner. 

[4] The peasants assert that the cuckoo chokes himself with young earsof 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 thatwere censored in the original. 

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

[11] Landowners

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

[13] There is a Russian superstition that a round rainbow is sent as asign 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 andcollect in the villages so situated, which are often nearly transformedinto 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 theCensor. 

[30] A three-horsed carriage. 

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

[32] The Russian warriors of olden times. 

[33] Russian Easter dishes. 

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

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

[36] The official appointed to arrange terms between the Pomyéshchicksand 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 theseventeenth century. He is always represented with an immense beard. 

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

[43] Ukhá--fish soup. 

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

[45] The marriage agent. 

[46] The marriage agent. 

[47] Inhabitants of the village Korojin. 

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

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

[50] Police-official. 

[51] Heave-to!

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

[53] The Saviour's day. 

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

[55] There is a Russian superstition that a good memory is gained byeating 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 waterand honey. 

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