"As serfs we used onlyTo 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, 470Sweet 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 rushingOf 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 peasantsThat all in the villageWas reeling around them!That even the churchWith the very tall, steepleHad swayed once or twice! 490
When things are in this state,A man who is soberFeels nearly as awkwardAs one who is naked….
The peasants recrossingThe market-place, quittedThe turbulent villageAt evening's approach.
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 gratingsIn small narrow windows.The broad, sandy high-road,With borders of birch-trees,Spread out straight behind it— 10The grim étape—prison.[19]On week-days desertedIt 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; 20Their shout fills the skies.
The cart-wheels are screeching,And like slaughtered calves' headsAre nodding and waggingThe pates limp and helplessOf peasants asleep.
They're dropping on all sides,As if from some ambushAn enemy firingIs shooting them wholesale. 30The quiet night is falling,The moon is in Heaven,And God is commencingTo write His great letterOf gold on blue velvet;Mysterious message,Which neither the wise manNor foolish can read.
The high-road is hummingJust like a great bee-hive; 40The people's loud clamourIs swelling and fallingLike waves in the ocean.
"We paid him a rouble—The clerk, and he gave usA 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 quicklyBefore 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 dashesAmongst them, his brass plateAttached to his coat-front,And bells all a-jangle.
"God save us, Parasha,Don't go to St. Petersburg!Iknow 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 happenedDown here, and a man's killed."
"God pardon our sins!"
"How thin you've got, Dashka!"
"The spinning-wheel fattensBy 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 fellowMost busily diggingA hole in the road.
"Now, what are you doing?""A grave I am diggingTo 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 meAnd left a rib broken;The second made offWith 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 horsesRush off without drivers.Here children are crying,And sad wives and mothersAre anxiously waiting;And is the task easyOf getting the peasantAway from his drink?
Just near to the sign-postA voice that's familiar 170Is heard by the peasants;They see there the Barin(The same that helped Vavil,And bought him the bootsTo 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 writtenEnough, 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 downIn the little black note-bookWhen, all of a sudden,A small, tipsy peasant,Who up to that momentHas lain on his stomachAnd gazed at the speaker,Springs up straight before him 200And snatches his pencilRight 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 villageA 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! 230Pray, have you seen everThe time of the harvestIn 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 240At nightfall, perchance,When the work has been finished?He's piled up great mountainsOf 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 finishedThree partners[20] are waitingTo share in the profits;A fourth[21] one there is, too,Who eats like a Tartar—Leaves nothing behind. 260The other day, only,A mean little fellowLike 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 anotherTo put us his questions:How much do we work for? 270How much and how littleWe stuff in our bellies?To count all the peopleThat live in the villageUpon his five fingers.He did notask how muchThe fire feeds the wind withOf peasants' hard work.Our drunkenness, maybe,Can never be measured, 280But 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; 290The peasant does not flinchAt life-wasting labour,And tremble for fearThat his health may be injured.Then why should he numberEach cupful of vodkaFor fear that an odd oneMay topple him over?You say that it's painfulTo see him lie tipsy?— 300Then go to the bog;You'll see how the peasantIs squeezing the corn out,Is wading and crawlingWhere no horse or rider,No man, though unloaded,Would venture to tread.You'll see how the armyOf profligate peasantsIs toiling in danger, 310Is springing from one clodOf earth to another,Is pushing through bog-slimeWith backs nearly breaking!The sun's beating downOn the peasants' bare heads,They are sweating and coveredWith mud to the eyebrows,Their limbs torn and bleedingBy sharp, prickly bog-grass! 320
"Does this picture please you?You say that you suffer;At least suffer wisely.Don't use for a peasantA gentleman's judgement;We are not white-handedAnd tender-skinned creatures,But men rough and lustyIn 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 cupfulThe soul of the peasantIs kindly and smiling;But don't let that hurt you!Look round and be joyful!Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens! 340You know how to foot it!Their bones may be aching,Their limbs have grown weary,But youth's joy and daringIs not quite extinguished,It lives in them yet!"
The peasant is standingOn top of a hillock,And stamping his feet,And after being silent 350A moment, and gazingWith glee at the massesOf 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 BarinThe old fellow's story:How shabby old JacobHad lived once in Peter,[22]And got into prison 370Because he bethought himTo get him to lawWith a very rich merchant;How after the prisonHe'd come back amongst themAll stripped, like a linden,And taken to ploughing.For thirty years sinceOn his narrow allotmentHe'd worked in all weathers, 380The harrow his shelterFrom sunshine and storm.He lived with the sokha,[23]And when God would take himHe'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 390For 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, 400But, to his misfortune,He thought of the picturesAnd seized them instead.His wife in the meantimeWas saving the icons.[25]And so, when the cottageFell in, all the roublesWere melted togetherIn one lump of silver.Old Jacob was offered 410Eleven such roublesFor that silver lump.
"O old brother Jacob,You paid for them dearly,The little chap's pictures!I warrant you've hung themAgain 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 altogetherResembled the earth, 430Thought the Barin, while notingHis 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 speechHad 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 drinkBlack gloom would engulf us.If work does not kill usOr 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 460Judge falsely of peasants?Why, only the pigGlues his nose to the garbageAnd never sees Heaven!"
Then suddenly singingIs heard in a chorusHarmonious and bold.A row of young fellows,Half drunk, but not falling,Come staggering onwards, 470All 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 rollingIn waves, sweet and tuneful,Like wind-ruffled corn. 480The 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! 490And I—the young woman—Am like the swift steedOn the curb, like the swallowWith wings crushed and broken;My jealous old husbandIs drunken and snoring,But even while snoringHe 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 peasantsUntouched by your sweetness;They're thinking and longingFor 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 upTo shorten the journey. 530
A birch-tree is growingAlone by the roadside,God knows why so lonely!And under it spreadingThe 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, 540Place a bucket of vodka,A large pile of bread,On the magic white napkin,And dwindle away.
The peasants feel strengthened,And leaving Román thereOn 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.
In crowds gay and noisyOur peasants are mixing,Proclaiming their mission:"Let any man hereWho esteems himself happyStand forth! If he prove itA 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 spitIn the beards of the pushingImpertinent strangers!But many are willingTo drink without payment,And so when our peasantsGo 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 mouthfulOf indistinct maxims:That happiness lies notIn 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 kingdomOf boundless extent:"When warm in the sun, 40With 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; 50That in her allotmentA thousand fine turnipsHave 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 thereTo 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, 80Great 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 wifeAnd beloved old mother; 90We've nought to complain of.""In what are you happy?""In this!"—like a featherHe swings the great hammer."Beginning at sunriseAnd setting my back straightAs midnight draws near,I can shatter a mountain!Before now, it's happenedThat, working one day, 100I've piled enough stones upTo earn my five roubles!"
Pakhóm tries to lift it—The "happiness." AfterProdigiously 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 ageSuch 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 narrowLike spokes of a wheel,A human mosquito.)
"I was not a worse manThan he, the young mason,And boasted ofmystrength.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 TrifonWith such a light burden? 140Ho, does it not shameSuch 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 burdenI 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!'
"Ididknow; 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? 171In 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 meReturn to the villageTo die. And when comingFrom Petersburg, afterThe illness I suffered 180Through 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 overThe floor, like a lunatic,Shouting and ravingOf wife or of mother.And many such fellows 200Were 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 startingAll 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 happenedWe 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 220Come 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 favouredBy him, of the women;My daughter, togetherWith his, the young lady,Was taught foreign languages, 250French and some others;And she was permittedTosit, 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 sleepingI 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, 270The first in the Empire;I suffer, you villains,From gout, gout its name is!It's only brought onBy the drinking of claret,Of Burgundy, champagne,Hungarian syrup,By thirty years' drinking!For forty years, peasants,I've stood up behind it— 280The 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 suityou!"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 comradesWere killed by old Mishka;[26]On me God has mercy."
"Look round to the left side." 320He 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 330Come up to the peasants,Drawn near by the smellOf 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 usRight back to the gate!When we begin singing 340The housewife runs quicklyAnd brings to the windowA loaf and a knife.And then we sing loudly,'Oh, give us the whole loaf,It cannot be cutAnd it cannot be crumbled,For you it is quicker,For us it is better!'"
The peasants observe 350That 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, 360Said, 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, 380Kept up the fight.The merchant outbid him,Each time by a farthing,Till Érmil grew angryAnd added five roubles;The merchant a farthingAnd Érmil a rouble.The merchant gave in then,When suddenly somethingUnlooked for occurred: 390The sellers demandedA third of the moneyPaid 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 410The 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 outAnd 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 bowingIn 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 merchantBeen wooing the mill,But I'm not such a dullard.Five times have I been hereTo ask if therewouldbeA second day's bidding,They answered, 'There will.'You know that the peasantWon't carry his moneyAll over the by-ways 440Without a good reason,So I have none with me;And look—now they tell meThere's no second biddingAnd ask for the money!The cunning ones tricked meAnd 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 ishisworthTotheirtreasury, think you?Like fish in the oceanThe wealth of the people;You'll draw it and draw it—But not see its end! 460Now, 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 peasantFlew 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 letteredHe writes nothing down;It's well he can count itSo great is his hurry. 480They gather his hat fullOf 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 peopleAre 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 hatFull of money against him,Runs back to the sale-roomAs fast as he can.
"The sellers are speechlessAnd stare in amazement,The merchant turns green 500As the money is countedAnd laid on the table.
"The sellers come round himAll craftily praisingHis excellent bargain.But Érmil sees through them;He gives not a farthing,He speaks not a word.
"The whole town assemblesAt market next Friday, 510When 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 520A 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 oneTo go from the market,Assembled the beggars 530And gave them the rouble." …
"'Tis strange!" say the peasants,"By what kind of magicCan one single peasantGain such a dominionAll over the country?"
"No magic he usesSave truthfulness, brothers!But say, have you everHeard tell of Prince Yurloff's 540Estate, Adovshina?"
"We have. What about it?""The manager thereWas a Colonel, with stars,Of the Corps of Gendarmes.He had six or sevenAssistants beneath him,And Érmil was chosenAs principal clerk.He was but a boy, then, 550Of 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 covetsThe mite of his brother!)Well, five years went by,And they trusted in Érmil,When all of a suddenThe master dismissed himFor sake of another.And sadly they felt it.The new clerk was grasping; 570He 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. 580He came and dismissed them—The manager-colonel,The clerk and assistants,And summoned the peasantsTo 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 590To speak with the Barin,And after some minutesThe Barin came outOn the balcony, standingIn 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 ruledIn the Prince's dominion.Not once in that timeDid a coin of the peasantsCome under his nail,Did the innocent suffer,The guilty escape him, 610He followed his conscience."
"But stop!" exclaimed hoarselyA shrivelled grey pope,Interrupting the speaker,"The harrow went smoothlyEnough, till it happenedTo strike on a stone,Then it swerved of a sudden.In telling a storyDon't leave an odd word out 620And alter the rhythm!Now, if you knew ÉrmilYou 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 peasantDid wrong: his young brother, 630Unjustly exemptedFrom serving his time,On the day of recruiting;And we were all silent,And how could we argueWhen even the BarinHimself would not orderThe Elder's own brotherTo unwilling service?And only one woman, 640Old Vlásevna, sheddingWild tears for her son,Went bewailing and screaming:'It wasn't our turn!'Well, of course she'd be certainTo scream for a time,Then leave off and be silent.But what happened then?The recruiting was finished,But Érmil had changed; 650He was mournful and gloomy;He ate not, he drank not,Till one day his fatherWent into the stableAnd 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, 660I'm weary of living,I wish but to die!'His brothers came also,And they with the fatherBesought 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!' 670And they, fearing worse things,Obeyed him and bound him.The commune assembled,Exclaiming and shouting;They'd never been summonedTo witness or judgeSuch peculiar proceedings.
"And Érmil's relationsDid not beg for mercyAnd lenient treatment, 680But rather for firmness:'Bring Vlásevna's son backOr Érmil will hang himself,Nothing will save him!'And then appeared ÉrmilHimself, 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 nowAm 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 700How he, of a sudden,Fell down on his knees thereAt 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, 710The prince saw to that.And we, as a penance,Imposed upon ÉrmilA fine, and to VlásevnaOne part was given,To Mítya another,The rest to the villageFor vodka. However,Not quickly did ÉrmilGet over his sorrow: 720He 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, 730His customers neverKept waiting a moment,And all men alike:The rich landlord, the workman.The master and servant,The poorest of peasantsWere served as their turn came;Strict order he kept.Myself, I have not beenSince long in that district, 740But often the peopleHave told me about him.And never could praise himEnough. So in your placeI'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, 750I chanced in that districtSome five years ago.I have often been shifted,Our bishop loved vastlyTo 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: 760Peace, riches, and honour,And that kind of honourMost valued and precious,Which cannot be purchasedBy might or by money,But only by righteousness,Wisdom and kindness.But still, I repeat it,Your time will be wastedIn going to Érmil: 770In prison he lies."
"How's that?"
"God so willed it.You've heard how the peasantsOf 'Log' the PomyéshchickOf Province 'Affrighted,'Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'Of village 'Dumbfounded,'Revolted 'for causesEntirely unknown,' 780As 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 reasonOf all the disturbance.But things became bad, 790And the soldiers were sent for,The Tsar packed a messengerOff 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 shoutedUntil he was hoarse,While the peasants stood round himAnd listened in wonder.
"But when he was tiredOf these peaceable measuresOf calming the riots, 810At length he decidedOn giving the orderOf 'Fire' to the soldiers;When all of a suddenA bright thought occurredTo 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 quicklyTo see what has happened;And there on a bankOf a ditch near the roadside,Some peasants are birchingA drunken old lackey,Just taken in thieving.A court had been summoned, 830The judges decidingTo birch the offender,That each of the jury(About three and twenty)Should give him a strokeTurn in turn of the rod….
The lackey was upAnd made off, in a twinkling,He took to his heelsWithout stopping to argue, 840On two scraggy legs.
"How he trips it—the dandy!"The peasants cry, laughing;They've soon recognized him;The boaster who pratedSo 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, 860When all of a suddenA "troika" [30] comes flyingFrom 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, 870Thus barring the passageIn front of the horses;And, standing bareheaded,Bow low to the Barin.
The "troika" is drawingThe local Pomyéshchick—Gavríl AfanásichObólt-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 startledAt seeing the peasantsUnflinchingly barringThe way to his horses;He promptly producesA loaded revolver 20As bulky and roundAs himself; and directs itUpon 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 awayFrom our wives, from our children,Away from our work,Kills our appetites too,Do give us your promiseTo answer us truly,Consulting your conscienceAnd searching your knowledge, 40Not sneering, nor feigningThe 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. 50The 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 manFree 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 themYou cannot dislodge it,Although you should beat themWith 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 homewardTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people,Until we have settledThe subject of discord;Until we have foundThe reply to our question— 100Of 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— 110The hand of each one,And carefully feelingThe pulse gazes searchinglyInto their faces,Then clasps his plump sidesAnd stands shaking with laughter.The clear, hearty laughOf the healthy PomyéshchickPeals 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 130In your presence, your worship."
"Sit down, worthycitizens,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 highlyRespectable people,You're not very learned.Well, firstly, I'll tryTo explain you the meaning 150Of Lord, or Pomyéshchick.Have you, by some chance,Ever heard the expressionThe 'Family Tree'?Do you know what it means?"
"The woods are not closed to us.We have seen all kindsOf trees," say the peasants."Your shot has miscarried!I'll try to speak clearly; 160I come of an ancient,Illustrious family;One, Oboldoóeff,My ancestor, isAmongst those who were mentionedIn old Russian chroniclesWritten for certainTwo hundred and fiftyYears back. It is written,''Twas given the Tartar, 170Obólt-Oboldoóeff,A piece of cloth, valueTwo roubles, for havingAmused the TsaritsaUpon the Tsar's birthdayBy fights of wild beasts,Wolves and foxes. He alsoPermitted 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 loafersWho stroll about leadingA bear!"
"Be it so, then!But now, please be silent,And hark to what follows: 190From this OboldoóeffMy family sprang;And this incident happenedTwo 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 200Vaska Goóseff, attemptedTo burn down the cityOf Moscow. They wantedTo plunder the Treasury.They were beheaded.'And this was, good peasants,Full three hundred years back!From these roots it wasThat our Family Tree sprang."
"And you are the … as one 210Might say … little appleWhich hangs on a branchOf the tree," say the peasants.
"Well, apple, then, call it,So long as it please you.At least you appearTo have got at my meaning.And now, you yourselvesUnderstand—the more ancientA 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 mustBe differently honoured."
"Exactly. I see, friends,You quite understand me."The Barin continued:"In past times we lived, 230As they say, 'in the bosomOf Christ,' and we knewWhat it meant to be honoured!Not only the peopleObeyed and revered us,But even the earthAnd the waters of Russia….You knew what it wasTo be One, in the centreOf vast, spreading lands, 240Like the sun in the heavens:The clustering villagesYours, yours the meadows,And yours the black depthsOf 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 250Bend their branches before you.Through meadows you saunter;The slim golden corn-stemsRejoicing, will curtseyWith 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! 260The 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 jewelsOn the slopes of the valleys,Were rivalled by one thingIn glory, and thatWas the nobleman's manor. 280Adjoining the manorWere glass-houses sparkling,And bright Chinese arbours,While parks spread around it.On each of the buildingsGay banners displayingTheir radiant colours,And beckoning softly,Invited the guestTo partake of the pleasures 290Of rich hospitality.Never did FrenchmenIn dreams even pictureSuch sumptuous revelsAs 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 lackeyPoured out and presentedA glassful of brandy.The glass was soon empty,And when the PomyéshchickHad rested awhile, 320He again began speaking:"Ah, then, Mother Russia,How gladly in autumnYour 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 themThe Master; and fartherWithin the deep forestThe 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 ReynardIs flying before us,His bushy tail waving! 350The knowing hounds crouch,And each lithe body quivers,Suppressing the fireThat is blazing within it:'Dear guests of our hearts,Docome nearer and greet us,We're panting to meet you,We, hale little fellows!Come nearer to usAnd away from the bushes!' 360
"They're off! Now, my horse,Let your swiftness not fail me!My hounds, you are staunchAnd you will not betray me!Hoo-loo! Faster, faster!Now,at him, my children!"…Gavríl AfanásichSprings up, wildly shouting,His arms waving madly,He dances around them! 370He's certainly afterA fox in the forest!
The peasants observe himIn silent enjoyment,They smile in their beards….
"Eh … you, mad, merry hunters!Although he forgetsMany things—the Pomyéshchick—Those hunts in the autumnWill not be forgotten. 380'Tis not for our own lossWe grieve, Mother Russia,But you that we pity;For you, with the huntingHave lost the last tracesOf days bold and warlikeThat made you majestic….
"At times, in the autumn,A party of fiftyWould start on a hunting tour; 390Then each PomyéshchickBrought with him a hundredFine dogs, and twelve keepers,And cooks in abundance.And after the cooksCame a long line of waggonsContaining provisions.And as we went forwardWith music and singing,You might have mistaken 400Our band for a fine troopOf cavalry, moving!The time flew for usLike a falcon." How lightlyThe breast of the noblemanRose, while his spiritWent back to the daysOf Old Russia, and greetedThe gallant Boyárin.[32] …
"No whim was denied us. 410To 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 noblemanSuddenly ceases;He lowers his eyesTo 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, 430The links burst asunder;And though we do not beatThe peasant, no longerWe look now upon himWith fatherly feelings.Yes, I was severe tooAt times, but more oftenI turned hearts towards meWith patience and mildness.
"Upon Easter Sunday 440I kissed all the peasantsWithin my domain.A great table, loadedWith '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 scornTo 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 stateroomsThe 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-folkOut of a villageTo scrub down the floors.You see 'twas a cleansingOf souls, and a strengthening 470Of 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. 480In my large SurminskyEstate, where the peasantsWere mostly odd-jobbers,Or very small tradesmen,It happened that theyWould get weary of stayingAt home, and would askMy permission to travel,To visit strange partsAt the coming of spring. 490They'd often be absentThrough summer and autumn.My wife and the childrenWould argue while guessingThe gifts that the peasantsWould bring on returning.And really, besidesLawful dues of the 'Barin'In cloth, eggs, and live stock,The peasants would gladly 500Bring gifts to the family:Jam, say, from Kiev,From Astrakhan fish,And the richer among themSome silk for the lady.You see!—as he kissesHer hand he presents herA neat little packet!And then for the childrenAre sweetmeats and toys; 510For me, the old toper,Is wine from St. Petersburg—Mark you, the rascalWon't go to the RussianFor that! He knows better—He runs to the Frenchman!And when we have finishedAdmiring the presentsI go for a strollAnd a chat with the peasants; 520They talk with me freely.My wife fills their glasses,My little ones gatherAround 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…. 530On such terms it wasThat I lived with my peasants.Now, wasn't that nice?"
"Yes," answer the peasants;"Yes, well might one envyThe noble Pomyéshchick!His life was so sweetThere 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 stillnessWhich settles around them,The slow, solemn soundOn the breeze of the morningIs borne from Kusminsky….