"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 peopleReplied to them shortly,"Not here will you find one.But go to the village'Stripped-Naked'—a woman 10Lives 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 risingLike tall graceful columns,With gilded heads nodding,And whispering softlyIn gentle low voices.Oh, beautiful summer!No time is so gorgeous, 30So regal, so rich.
You full yellow cornfields,To look at you nowOne would never imagineHow sorely God's peopleHad toiled to array youBefore you arose,In the sight of the peasant,And stood before him,Like a glorious army 40n 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 oatsAnd 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 growingSo sweetly and bravely:"Ai! you little mite!You are caught and entangled!"A poor little larkIn 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 upwardsTo see it rejoiceIn the freedom above…. 70The peas have come on, too;Like locusts, the peasantsAttack 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. 80The 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 slippersAll 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 upLike a beggar on crutches;The thatch from the roofsHas made food for the cattle;The huts are like feebleOld skeletons standing, 100Like desolate rooks' nestsWhen young birds forsake them.When wild Autumn windsHave dismantled the birch-trees.The people are allIn the fields; they are working.Behind the poor villageA manor is standing;It's built on the slopeOf a hill, and the peasants 110Are making towards itTo look at it close.
The house is gigantic,The courtyard is huge,There's a pond in it too;A watch-tower arisesFrom over the house,With a gallery round it,A flagstaff upon it.
They meet with a lackey 120Near one of the gates:He seems to be wearingA 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 130The edge of his shoulders!"Heh! here's a fine joke!"They are hotly discussingWhat kind of a mantleThe lackey is wearing,Till clever PakhómHas 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 frozenIn cold empty hutsBy the pitiless peasants.The servants are crawlingAll over the courtyard.Their master long sinceHas forgotten about them,And left them to live 150As 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 comeTo the end of the feast!"
"Do try to get five!"Says a pale, pregnant woman,Who's fervently blowingA fire near the pond.
"And what are those prettyCarved poles you are burning?They're balcony railings, 170I 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 victualsTo cook in the pot!"
"I'm waiting and waiting,And Mítyenka sickensBecause 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 babyWho sits by her sideIn a little brass basin,A button-nosed mite.
"The boy will take cold there,The basin will chill him," 190Says 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 seeThat'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 labourProceeding around them:One man, it appears,To the door has got fastened;He's toiling awayTo unscrew the brass handles,His hands are so weak 210He can scarcely control them.Another is huggingSome 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 examineThe park for a long time;Such wonders are seen here,Such cunning inventions:In one place a mountainIs 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, 240And 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, 250And 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 swansWhich were once on the water,The thieving old rascalsHave stuffed in their maws. 270Like church without pastor,Like fields without peasants,Are all these fine gardensWithout 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 resoundingLike blasts of a trumpet.The heads of the peasantsAre 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 balmySoft air of the evening,The bass, like a hugeSilver bell, is vibrating,And throbbing it entersThe 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 womanNow 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 PomyéshchickHas been in strange partsAnd forgotten his promise;And now the poor fellowWould be but too glad 320To get back to his village.There's nothing to do here,He hasn't a farthing,There's nothing before himAnd nothing behind himExcepting his voice.You have not really heard it;You will if you stay hereTill sunrise to-morrow:Some three versts away 330There is living a deacon,And he has a voice too.They greet one another:Each morning at sunriseWill our little singerClimb up to the watch-tower,And call to the other,'Good-morrow to FatherIpát, and how fares he?'(The windows all shake 340At the sound.)From the distanceThe 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 airWill hang quivering around usFor more than an hour, 350Like the neigh of a stallion."
The cattle are nowComing home, and the eveningIs filled with the fragranceOf milk; and the woman,The mother of Mítyenka,Sighs; she is thinking,"If only one cowWould turn into the courtyard!"But hark! In the distance 360Some 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 filledWith relief; because afterThe whining old servantsThe people who meet themReturning from work 370In the fields seem such healthyAnd beautiful people.The men and the womenAnd pretty young girlsAre all singing together.
"Good health to you! Which isAmong you the womanMatróna Korchágin?"The peasants demand.
"And what do you want 380With Matróna Korchágin?"
The woman MatrónaIs tall, finely moulded,Majestic in bearing,And strikingly handsome.Of thirty-eight yearsShe appears, and her black hairIs mingled with grey.Her complexion is swarthy,Her eyes large and dark 390And severe, with rich lashes.A white shirt, and shortSarafán[44] she is wearing,She walks with a hay-forkSlung over her shoulder.
"Well, what do you wantWith Matróna Korchágin?"The peasants are silent;They wait till the othersHave gone in advance, 400And then, bowing, they answer:
"We come from afar,And a trouble torments us,A trouble so greatThat for it we've forsakenOur homes and our work,And our appetites fail.We're orthodox peasants,From District 'Most Wretched,'From 'Destitute Parish,' 410From neighbouring hamlets—'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,''Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'And 'Harvestless,' too.We met in the roadwayAnd argued aboutWho is happy in Russia.Luká said, 'The pope,'And Demyán, 'The Pomyéshchick,'And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420And 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 itAlthough 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 againWould we turn our steps homewardsTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people, 440Until we have foundThe reply to our question,Of who can in RussiaBe 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 usThatyou'refree and happy.Then say, in God's name,If the rumour be true."
Matróna KorcháginDoes not seem astonished,But only a sad look 460Creeps into her eyes,And her face becomes thoughtful.
"Your errand is surelyA foolish one, brothers,"She says to the peasants,"For this is the seasonOf work, and no peasantFor chatter has time."
"Till now on our journeyThroughout 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 clearlyEnough that this offerMust not be rejected;"Agreed," she said, smiling,"To such lusty fellowsAs you, we may well lookFor ten sheaves apiece."
"You give us your promiseTo open your heart to us?"
"I will hide nothing." 490
Matróna KorcháginNow enters her cottage,And while she is workingWithin it, the peasantsDiscover a veryNice 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 themA fine plot of turnips,And spreading above themA wonderful oak-tree,A king among oaks.They're sitting beneath it,And now they're producingThe 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 GoóbinAre chuckling together,For they have just pilfered 520A 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 arisenAnd sails high above them;The woman MatrónaComes out of the cottageTo tell them her tale. 530
"My girlhood was happy,For we were a thriftyArid diligent household;And I, the young maiden,With Father and MotherKnew nothing but joy.My father got upAnd went out before sunrise,He woke me with kissesAnd 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 softlyAnd whisper to me:
"'Sleep on, little dove,Gather strength—you will need it—You will not stay alwaysWith Father and Mother, 40And when you will leave themTo 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 basketAnd 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 yearsI 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 nightfallReturned to the cottageAll covered with grime.But what's the hot bath for?And thanks to the bathAnd boughs of the birch-tree,And icy spring water,Again I was cleanAnd refreshed, and was readyTo take out my spinning-wheel, 80And with companionsTo sing half the night.
"I never ran afterThe youths, and the forwardI checked very sharply.To those who were gentleAnd shy, I would whisper:'My cheeks will grow hot,And sharp eyes has my mother;Be wise, now, and leave me 90Alone'—and they left me.
"No matter how cleverI was to avoid them,The one came at lastI was destined to wed;And he—to my bitterRegret—was a stranger:Young Phílip Korchágin,A builder of ovens.He came from St. Petersburg. 100Oh, how my motherDid weep: 'Like a fishIn 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 strangerAre not built of sugar,Are not spread with honey, 110Their 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 talkingAnd 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 findIn the maiden to please you?And where have you seen her?Perhaps in the sledgesWith merry young friendsFlying down from the mountain?Then you were mistaken,O son of your father,It was but the frost 130And the speed and the laughterThat brought the bright tintsTo the cheeks of the maiden.Perhaps at some feastIn the home of a neighbourYou saw her rejoicingAnd clad in bright colours?But then she was plumpFrom her rest in the winter;Her rosy face bloomed 140Like the scarlet-hued poppy;But wait!—have you beenTo the hut of her fatherAnd seen her at workBeating 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 150And six colours of worsted,And tassels of blue.I will make a fine curtain,Embroider each cornerWith Tsar and Tsaritsa,With Moscow and Kiev,And Constantinople,And set the great sunShining bright in the middle,And this I will hang 160In 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 170When he came in the evening;'I will not be foolishEnough to abandonMy freedom in orderTo enter your service.God sees me—I will notDepart from my home!'
"'Do come,' said young Phílip,'So far have I travelledTo fetch you. Don't fear me— 180I will not ill-treat you.'I begged him to leave me,I wept and lamented;But neverthelessI was still a young maiden:I did not forgetSidelong glances to castAt the youth who thus wooed me.And Phílip was handsome,Was rosy and lusty, 190Was 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 rosyYoung face, and bethink you: 200Will you not regret it,Won't my heart be broken,And shall I not weepDay and night if I trust youAnd go with you, leavingMy parents forever?'
"'Don't fear, little pigeon,We shall not regret it,'Said Phílip, but stillI was timid and doubtful. 210'Do go,' murmured I, and he,'When you come with me.'Of course I was fairerAnd sweeter and dearerThan any that lived,And his arms were about me….Then all of a suddenI 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 firmlyYou 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 230In those fleeting momentsWhen softly we whisperedAnd argued together;I think that we neverWere 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, 250I am not hung with pearls,Not decked with silver.'
"'Silver your chastity,Golden your beauty shines,O my belovèd,White pearls are falling nowOut of your weeping eyes,Falling like tear-drops.'
"My father gave ordersTo bring forth the wine-cups, 260To set them all outOn 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 foreverThe freedom of girlhoodRolled down from my head…."
"Ah, that means a wedding,"Cry both brothers Goóbin,"Let's drink to the healthOf the happy young pair!"
"Well said! We'll beginWith the bride," say the others.
"Will you drink some vodka, 280Matróna Korchágin?"
"An old woman, brothers,And not drink some vodka?"
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 songHappened now to me.Do you know the song? 30Have 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! 60Up, up, up, lie-abed!Lazy-head!Lie-abed!Slut!
"A quarrelsome householdIt 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 ironWith cold water—it hisses!'With father and motherAnd 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 workLike a slave for her pleasure.And Father-in-law tooOne had to look after,Or else all his clothesTo redeem from the tavern. 90In all that one didThere was need to be careful,Or Mother-in-law'sSuperstitions were troubled(One never could please her).Well, some superstitionsOf course may be right;But they're most of them evil.And one day it happenedThat Mother-in-law 100Murmured low to her husbandThat corn which is stolenGrows faster and better.So Father-in-lawStole away after midnight….It chanced he was caught,And at daybreak next morningBrought back and flung downLike 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 meA pretty silk scarf;And one feast-day he took meTo drive in the sledges; 120And quickly my sorrowsWere lost and forgotten:I sang as in old daysAt home, with my father.For I and my husbandWere both of an age,And were happy togetherWhen only they left usAlone, but rememberA husband like Phílip 130Not often is found."
"Do you mean to sayThat he never once beat you?"
Matróna was plainlyConfused 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 dayCame to visit her parents.She found she had holesIn her boots, and it vexed her.Then Phílip said, 'Wife,Fetch some boots for my sister.'And I did not answerAt once; I was lifting 150A large wooden tub,So, of course, couldn't speak.But Phílip was angryWith me, and he waitedUntil I had hoistedThe 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 knownHow the baggage would treat you!'…Whined Mother-in-law.
"And again Phílip struck me! 170
"Well, that is the story.'Tis surely not fittingFor 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," 180The peasants say, smiling.
Matróna said nothing.The peasants, in orderTo keep the occasionIn manner befitting,Are filling the glasses;And now they are singingIn voices of thunderA rollicking chorus,Of husbands' relations, 190And 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 PhílipWent back to the city;A little while laterOur baby was born.Like a bright-coloured pictureWas he—little Djóma;The sunbeams had givenTheir radiance to him, 230The pure snow its whiteness;The poppies had paintedHis lips; by the sableHis brow had been pencilled;The falcon had fashionedHis eyes, and had lent themTheir wonderful brightness.At sight of his firstAngel smile, all the angerAnd bitterness nursed 240In my bosom was melted;It vanished awayLike the snow on the meadowsAt sight of the smilingSpring sun. And not longerI worried and fretted;I worked, and in silenceI let them upbraid.But soon after thatA misfortune befell me: 250The manager byThe Pomyéshchick appointed,Called Sitnikov, hotlyBegan to pursue me.'My lovely Tsaritsa!'My rosy-ripe berry!'Said he; and I answered,'Be off, shameless rascal!Remember, the berryIs not inyourforest!' 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-lawDragged 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 PhílipTo 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 relationsWho pitied and loved me. 280Say, friends, shall I tell youAbout 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…."
"A mane grey and bushyWhich covered his shoulders,A huge grizzled beardWhich 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 shouldersWere bowed very low,And at first I was frightenedWhenever he enteredThe tiny low cottage:I thought that were heTo stand straight of a suddenHe'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 angryAnd often abused him.His own son would shout at him, 30'Branded one! Convict!'But this did not angerSavyéli, he onlyWould go to his cottageWithout making answer,And, crossing himself,Begin reading the scriptures;Then suddenly cryIn a voice loud and joyful,'Though branded—no slave!' 40When too much they annoyed him,He sometimes would say to them:'Look, the swat's[46] coming!'The unmarried daughterWould fly to the window;Instead of the swat thereA beggar she'd find!And one day he silveredA common brass farthing,And left it to lie 50On the floor; and then straightwayDid Father-in-law runIn joy to the tavern,—He came back, not tipsy,But beaten half-dead!At supper that nightWe were all very silent,And Father-in-law hadA cut on his eyebrow,But Grandfather's face 60Wore a smile like a rainbow!
"Savyéli would gatherThe berries and mushroomsFrom spring till late autumn,And snare the wild rabbits;Throughout the long winterHe lay on the ovenAnd talked to himself.He had favourite sayings:He used to lie thinking 70For whole hours together,And once in an hourYou would hear him exclaiming:
"'Destroyed … and subjected!'Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes!You're fit but for battlesWith old men and women!'
"'Be patient … and perish,Impatient … and perish!'
"'Eh, you Russian peasant, 80You giant, you strong man,The whole of your lifetimeYou'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 90He had,—I forget them.When Father-in-law grewToo noisy I alwaysWould run to Savyéli,And we two, together,Would fasten the door.Then I began working,While Djómushka climbedTo the grandfather's shoulder,And sat there, and looked 100Like a bright little appleThat hung on a hoaryOld tree. Once I asked him:
"'And why do they call youA convict, Savyéli?'
"'I was once a convict,'Said he.
"'You, Savyéli!'
"'Yes I, little Grandchild,Yes, I have been branded. 110I buried a GermanAlive—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 daysWere 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 130That our little villageWas sought by the devilFor more than three years,But he never could find it.Great forests a thousandYears old lay about us;And treacherous marshesAnd bogs spread around us;No horseman and few menOn foot ever reached us. 140It happened that onceBy some chance, our Pomyéshchick,Shaláshnikov, wantedTo pay us a visit.High placed in the armyWas he; and he startedWith soldiers to find us.They soon got bewilderedAnd lost in the forest,And had to turn back; 150Why, the Zemsky policemanWould 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 troubledBy 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 wanderedIn wild, secret woodpaths,And shouted, ''Myforest!''And once, only once,I was frightened by something:I stepped on a huge 170Female bear that was lyingAsleep in her denIn the heart of the forest.She flung herself at me,And straight on my bear-spearWas fixed. Like a fowlOn the spit she hung twistingAn hour before death.It was then that my spine snapped.It often was painful 180When 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 PomyéshchickInvented a new game: 190He sent us an order,''Appear!'' We appeared not.Instead, we lay lowIn our dens, hardly breathing.A terrible droughtHad 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 notVery easily opened;Shaláshnikov, though, wasA 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 itNo longer; we shouted,''Enough! Let us breathe!''We unwound our foot-ragsAnd took out our money,And brought to the BarinA ragged old bonnetWith roubles half filled.
"'The Barin grew calm,He was pleased with the money; 240He gave us a glass eachOf strong, bitter brandy,And drank some himselfWith the vanquished Korójins,And gaily clinked glasses.''It's well that you yielded,''Said he, ''For I swearI was fully decidedTo strip off the last shredOf skins from your bodies 250And use it for makingA 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 peasantsWere chuckling together;They'd two hundred roublesIn notes, the old rascals! 260Safe hidden awayIn 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 270Ashamed of their weakness,And so by the ikonsWe swore all togetherThat next time we ratherWould die of the beatingThan feebly give way.It seems the PomyéshchickHad taken a fancyAt once to our roubles,Because after that 280Every year we were summonedTo go to Korójin,We went, and were flogged.
"'Shaláshnikov flogged likeA prince, but be certainThe treasures he thrashed fromThe doughty KorójinsWere not of much weight.The weak yielded soon,But the strong stood like iron 290For 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 satedWe went from the town,But we stopped on the outskirts 300To share what was over.And plenty there was, too!Shaláshnikov, heh,You're a fool! It was our turnTo laugh at the Barin;Ah, they were proud peasants—The plucky Korójins!But nowadays show themThe tail of a knout,And they'll fly to the Barin, 310And 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 BarinNow 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 bogsAnd 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 goingTo live in the village;He soon settled down.On the banks of the river, 340For hour after hourHe sat peacefully fishing,And striking his noseOr his cheek or his forehead.We laughed: ''You don't likeThe Korójin mosquitoes?''He'd boat near the banksideAnd shout with enjoyment,Like one in the bath-houseWho'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 hewedAs the German directed,And when we look roundThere's a road through the forest!
"'The German went drivingTo town with three horses;Look! now he is comingWith boxes and bedding, 370And God knows wherefromHas 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 timesIs teeming with strangers,And woe to the peasants—The fallen Korójins! 380He sucked us all dryTo the very last farthing;And flog!—like the soulOf Shaláshnikov flogged he!Shaláshnikov stoppedWhen he got what he wanted;He clung to our backsTill he'd glutted his stomach,And then he dropped downLike a leech from a dog's ear. 390But he had the gripOf a corpse—had this German;Until he had left youStripped 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 RussiaAre 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 neverthelessHe's a warrior, child.His hands are bound tight, 410And his feet hung with fetters;His back—mighty forestsHave broken across it;His breast—I will tell you,The Prophet ElijahIn 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 livedLike 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. 460We started at daybreakAnd laboured till mid-day,And then we were goingTo 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 earthWith his boot while he scolded,Not far from the edgeOf the pit. I stood near him.And happened to give himA push with my shoulder;Then somehow a second 480And 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 fellFrom my lips on the instant,The word to which peopleWork gaily in Russia;''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!''And we laboured so bravelyThat soon not a traceOf the pit was remaining, 500The 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; 510The convict-mines later;And plenty of lashes.But I never frownedAt the lash in the prison;They flogged us but poorly.And later I nearlyEscaped to the forest;They caught me, however.Of course they did notPat my head for their trouble; 520The Governor was throughSiberia famousFor 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 530For 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 GodIn His goodness preserved me;For Sitnikov diedOf 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.
"The little tree burnsFor the lightning has struck it.The nightingale's nestHas been built in its branches.The little tree burns,It is sighing and groaning;The nightingale's childrenAre 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 flyTo the peaceful green forest,Until we can flyTo the far silent valleys….'The poor little tree—It is burnt to grey ashes;The poor little fledgelings 20Are 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. 30The dark night has fallen,The dark world is silent,But one little creatureIs helplessly grievingAnd cannot find comfort;—The nightingale onlyLaments for her children….She never will see themAgain, though she call themTill breaks the white day…. 40I carried my babyAsleep 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 happenedThe 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 itAway to the market.)
"But as I was workingI heard of a suddenA deep groan of anguish:I saw old SavyéliCreep trembling towards me, 70His 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 leaflessBare bank of the river:The water will rise, 80And your children will perish.Oh, poor little woman,Young wife and young mother,The daughter-in-lawAnd the slave of the household,Bear blows and abuse,Suffer all things in silence,But let not your babyBe torn from your bosom….Savyéli had fallen 90Asleep in the sunshine,And Djóma—the pigsHad attacked him and killed him.
"I fell to the groundAnd lay writhing in torture;I bit the black earthAnd 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 windowThe old men and womenAre talking in whispersAnd nodding together.The Elder is running 110And 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 policemanIs 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 hundredYears old;—you can see it.'
"He's stamping aboutLike a horse in the stable;In fury he's thumpingHis fist on the table. 150'Be silent! Confess, then,That you with SavyéliHad plotted to murderYour child!'
"Holy Mother!What horrible ravings!My God, give me patience,And let me not strangleThe wicked blasphemer!I looked at the doctor 160And 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 babyIn honour be buried,Forbid them to thrustThe cruel knives in his body!Oh, I am his mother!'
"Can anything move them?No hearts they possess, 180In their eyes is no conscience,No cross at their throats….
"They have lifted the napkinWhich covered my baby;His little white bodyWith scissors and lancetsThey worry and torture …The room has grown darker,I'm struggling and screaming,'You butchers! You fiends! 190Not on earth, not on water,And not on God's templeMy tears shall be showered;But straight on the soulsOf my hellish tormentors!Oh, hear me, just God!May Thy curse fall and strike them!Ordain that their garmentsMay rot on their bodies!Their eyes be struck blind, 200And 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 210Before? Stop this fooling!Or else I shall orderMy men, here, to bind you.'
"I sank on the bench,I was trembling all over;I shook like a leafAs I gazed at the doctor;His sleeves were rolled backwards,A knife was in one hand,A cloth in the other, 220And blood was upon it;His glasses were fixedOn his nose. All was silent.The officer's penBegan scratching on paper;The motionless peasantsStood gloomy and mournful;The pope lit his pipeAnd sat watching the doctor.He said, 'You are reading 230A heart with a knife.'I started up wildly;I knew that the doctorWas piercing the heartOf 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 womanKorchágin 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 herA 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 readyWas still in my box—I'd forgotten to bring it;And now I had seen themSeize Djómushka's bodyAnd tear it to pieces.I think at that momentI turned into marble: 270I watched while the doctorWas 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 mortalsAre pitiful sinners,—We don't need much urgingTo empty a glass!' 280
"The peasants are standingIn fear, and are thinking:'Now, how did these vulturesGet wind of the matter?Who told them that hereThere 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; 300And 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 fallenAsleep; then I fanciedThat somebody enteringBent over me, saying,'Sleep, woman of sorrows,Exhausted by sorrow,'And making the signOf the cross on my forehead.I felt that the ropesOn my body were loosened, 320And then I rememberedNo more. In black darknessI woke, and astonishedI 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 hutWas brilliantly lighted,It shone like a palace—The hut of Savyéli.I ran to the doorway,And then … I remembered.