Dedicated to Serge Petrovitch Botkin
A very old willowThere is at the endOf the village of "Earthworms,"Where most of the folkHave been diggers and delversFrom times very ancient(Though some produced tar).This willow had witnessedThe lives of the peasants:Their holidays, dances, 10Their communal meetings,Their floggings by day,In the evening their wooing,And now it looked downOn a wonderful feast.
The feast was conductedIn Petersburg fashion,For Klímka, the peasant(Our former acquaintance),Had seen on his travels 20Some noblemen's banquets,With toasts and orations,And he had arranged it.
The peasants were sittingOn tree-trunks cut newlyFor building a hut.With them, too, our seven(Who always were readyTo see what was passing)Were sitting and chatting 30With Vlass, the old Elder.As soon as they fanciedA drink would be welcome,The Elder called outTo his son, "Run for Trifon!"With Trifon the deacon,A jovial fellow,A chum of the Elder's,His sons come as well.
Two pupils they are 40Of the clerical collegeNamed Sava and Grisha.The former, the eldest,Is nineteen years old.He looks like a churchmanAlready, while GrishaHas fine, curly hair,With a slight tinge of red,And a thin, sallow face.Both capital fellows 50They are, kind and simple,They work with the ploughshare,The scythe, and the sickle,Drink vodka on feast-days,And mix with the peasantsEntirely as equals….
The village lies closeTo the banks of the Volga;A small town there isOn the opposite side. 60(To speak more correctly,There's now not a traceOf the town, save some ashes:A fire has demolished itTwo days ago.)
Some people are waitingTo cross by the ferry,While some feed their horses(All friends of the peasants).Some beggars have crawled 70To the spot; there are pilgrims,Both women and men;The women loquacious,The men very silent.
The old Prince YutiátinIs dead, but the peasantsAre not yet awareThat instead of the hayfieldsHis heirs have bequeathed themA long litigation. 80So, drinking their vodka,They first of all argueOf how they'll disposeOf the beautiful hayfields.
You were not all cozened,[54]You people of Russia,And robbed of your land.In some blessed spotsYou were favoured by fortune!By some lucky chance— 90The Pomyéshchick's long absence,Some slip of posrédnik's,By wiles of the commune,You managed to captureA slice of the forest.How proud are the peasantsIn such happy corners!The Elder may tapAt the window for taxes,The peasant will bluster,— 100One answer has he:"Just sell off the forest,And don't bother me!"
So now, too, the peasantsOf "Earthworms" decidedTo part with the fieldsTo the Elder for taxes.They calculate closely:"They'll pay both the taxesAnd dues—with some over, 110Heh, Vlásuchka, won't they?"
"Once taxes are paidI'll uncover to no man.I'll work if it please me,I'll lie with my wife,Or I'll go to the tavern.""Bravo!" cry the peasants,In answer to Klímka,"Now, Vlásuchka, do youAgree to our plan?" 120
"The speeches of KlímkaAre short, and as plainAs the public-house signboard,"Says Vlásuchka, joking."And that is his manner:To start with a womanAnd end in the tavern."
"Well, where should one end, then?Perhaps in the prison?Now—as to the taxes, 130Don't croak, but decide."
But Vlásuchka reallyWas far from a croaker.The kindest soul livingWas he, and he sorrowedFor all in the village,Not only for one.His conscience had pricked himWhile serving his haughtyAnd rigorous Barin, 140Obeying his orders,So cruel and oppressive.While young he had alwaysBelieved in 'improvements,'But soon he observedThat they ended in nothing,Or worse—in misfortune.So now he mistrustedThe new, rich in promise.The wheels that have passed 150O'er the roadways of MoscowAre fewer by farThan the injuries doneTo the soul of the peasant.There's nothing to laugh atIn that, so the ElderPerforce had grown gloomy.But now, the gay pranksOf the peasants of "Earthworms"Affected him too. 160His thoughts became brighter:No taxes … no barschin …No stick held above you,Dear God, am I dreaming?Old Vlásuchka smiles….A miracle surely!Like that, when the sunFrom the splendour of HeavenMay cast a chance rayIn the depths of the forest: 170The dew shines like diamonds,The mosses are gilded.
"Drink, drink, little peasants!Disport yourselves bravely!"'Twas gay beyond measure.In each breast awakensA wondrous new feeling,As though from the depthsOf a bottomless gulfOn the crest of a wave, 180They've been borne to the surfaceTo find there awaits themA feast without end.
Another pail's started,And, oh, what a clamourOf voices arises,And singing begins.
And just as a dead man'sRelations and friendsTalk of nothing but him 190Till the funeral's over,Until they have finishedThe funeral banquetAnd started to yawn,—So over the vodka,Beneath the old willow,One topic prevails:The "break in the chain"Of their lords, the Pomyéshchicks.
The deacon they ask, 200And his sons, to oblige themBy singing a songCalled the "Merry Song" to them.
(This song was not reallyA song of the people:The deacon's son GrishaHad sung it them first.But since the great dayWhen the Tsar, Little Father,Had broken the chains 210Of his suffering children,They always had dancedTo this tune on the feast-days.The "popes" and the house-serfsCould sing the words also,The peasants could not,But whenever they heard itThey whistled and stamped,And the "Merry Song" called it.)
The Merry Song
* * * * *
The "Merry Song" finished,They struck up a chorus,A song of their own,A wailing lament(For, as yet, they've no others).And is it not strangeThat in vast Holy Russia,With masses and massesOf people unnumbered,No song has been born 10Overflowing with joyLike a bright summer morning?Yes, is it not striking,And is it not tragic?O times that are coming,You, too, will be paintedIn songs of the people,But how? In what colours?And will there be everA smile in their hearts? 20
"Eh, that's a fine song!'Tis a shame to forget it."Our peasants regretThat their memories trick them.And, meanwhile, the peasantsOf "Earthworms" are saying,"We lived but for 'barschin,'Pray, how would you like it?You see, we grew up'Neath the snout of the Barin, 30Our noses were gluedTo the earth. We'd forgottenThe faces of neighbours,Forgot how to speak.We got tipsy in silence,Gave kisses in silence,Fought silently, too."
"Eh, who speaks of silence?We'd more cause to hate itThan you," said a peasant 40Who came from a VolostNear by, with a waggonOf hay for the market.(Some heavy misfortuneHad forced him to sell it.)"For once our young lady,Miss Gertrude, decidedThat any one swearingMust soundly be flogged.Dear Lord, how they flogged us 50Until we stopped swearing!Of course, not to swearFor the peasant means—silence.We suffered, God knows!Then freedom was granted,We feasted it finely,And then we made upFor our silence, believe me:We swore in such styleThat Pope John was ashamed 60For the church-bells to hear us.(They rang all day long.)What stories we told then!We'd no need to seekFor the words. They were writtenAll over our backs."
"A funny thing happenedIn our parts,—a strange thing,"Remarked a tall fellowWith bushy black whiskers. 70(He wore a round hatWith a badge, a red waistcoatWith ten shining buttons,And stout homespun breeches.His legs, to contrastWith the smartness above them,Were tied up in rags!There are trees very like him,From which a small shepherdHas stripped all the bark off 80Below, while aboveNot a scratch can be noticed!And surely no ravenWould scorn such a summitFor building a nest.)
"Well, tell us about it."
"I'll first have a smoke."
And while he is smokingOur peasants are asking,"And who is this fellow? 90What sort of a goose?"
"An unfortunate footmanInscribed in our Volost,A martyr, a house-serfOf Count Sinegúsin's.His name is Vikénti.He sprang from the foot-boardDirect to the ploughshare;We still call him 'Footman.'He's healthy enough, 100But his legs are not strong,And they're given to trembling.His lady would driveIn a carriage and fourTo go hunting for mushrooms.He'll tell you some stories:His memory's splendid;You'd think he had eatenThe eggs of a magpie." [55]
Now, setting his hat straight, 110Vikénti commencesTo tell them the story.
The Dutiful Serf—Jacob the Faithful
Once an official, of rather low family,Bought a small village from bribes he had stored,Lived in it thirty-three years without leaving it,Feasted and hunted and drank like a lord.Greedy and miserly, not many friends he made,Sometimes he'd drive to his sister's to tea.Cruel was his nature, and not to his serfs alone:On his own daughter no pity had he, 120Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both pennilessOut of his house; not a soul dare resist.Jacob, his dutiful servant,Ever of orders observant,Often he'd strike in the mouth with his fist.
Hearts of men born into slaverySometimes with dogs' hearts accord:Crueller the punishments dealt to themMore they will worship their lord. 129
Jacob, it seems, had a heart of that quality,Only two sources of joy he possessed:Tending and serving his Barin devotedly,Rocking his own little nephew to rest.So they lived on till old age was approaching them,Weak grew the legs of the Barin at last,Vainly, to cure them, he tried every remedy;Feast and debauch were delights of the past.
Plump are his hands and white,Keen are his eyes and bright,Rosy his cheek remains, 140But on his legs—are chains!
Helpless the Barin now lies in his dressing-gown,Bitterly, bitterly cursing his fate.Jacob, his "brother and friend,"—so the Barin says,—Nurses him, humours him early and late.Winter and summer they pass thus in company,Mostly at card-games together they play,Sometimes they drive for a change to the sister's house,Eight miles or so, on a very fine day.Jacob himself bears his lord to the carriage then, 150Drives him with care at a moderate pace,Carries him into the old lady's drawing-room….So they live peacefully on for a space.
Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes,Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed.""Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir."Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!"Looking at her he had often bethought himself,"Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!" 159So, though the uncle entreated his clemency,Grisha to serve in the army he sent.Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny,Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell:Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate,No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!"Hate in each bosom since long has been festering:Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay,Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities,Two quite unbearable weeks pass away.Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170Straight at the feet of his master he fell,Pity has softened his heart to the legless one,Who can look after the Barin so well?"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty,While I am living my cross I'll embrace."Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown,Jacob, once more, is restored to his place.Brother again the Pomyéshchick has christened him."Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he."Barin, there's something that stings … in my memory…." 180Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea,Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries,Next for a drive to the sister's they start,See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly,Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart.Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly,Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack,"Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly,"Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack.)Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice,Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss," 191Jacob turns into the wood by the side of it.Queries his lord, "What's the meaning of this?"Jacob replies not. The path here is difficult,Branches and ruts make their steps very slow;Rustling of trees is heard. Spring waters noisilyCast themselves into the hollow below.Then there's a halt,—not a step can the horses move:Straight in their path stand the pines like a wall;Jacob gets down, and, the horses unharnessing,Takes of the Barin no notice at all. 201
Vainly the Barin's exclaiming and questioning,Jacob is pale, and he shakes like a leaf,Evilly smiles at entreaties and promises:"Am I a murderer, then, or a thief?No, Barin,youshall not die. There's another way!"Now he has climbed to the top of a pine,Fastened the reins to the summit, and crossed himself,Turning his face to the sun's bright decline.Thrusting his head in the noose … he has hanged himself! 210Horrible! Horrible! See, how he swaysBackwards and forwards…. The Barin, unfortunate,Shouts for assistance, and struggles and prays.Twisting his head he is jerking convulsively,Straining his voice to the utmost he cries,All is in vain, there is no one to rescue him,Only the mischievous echo replies.
Gloomy the hollow now lies in its winding-sheet,Black is the night. Hear the owls on the wing,Striking the earth as they pass, while the horses stand 220Chewing the leaves, and their bells faintly ring.Two eyes are burning like lamps at the train's approach,Steadily, brightly they gleam in the night,Strange birds are flitting with movements mysterious,Somewhere at hand they are heard to alight.Straight over Jacob a raven exultinglyHovers and caws. Now a hundred fly round!Feebly the Barin is waving his crutch at them,Merciful Heaven, what horrors abound!
So the poor Barin all night in the carriage lies,Shouting, from wolves to protect his old bones. 231Early next morning a hunter discovers him,Carries him home, full of penitent groans:"Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!"Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave,One figure surely will haunt you incessantly,Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave.
"What sinners! What sinners!"The peasants are saying,"I'm sorry for Jacob, 240Yet pity the Barin,Indeed he was punished!Ah, me!" Then they listenTo two or three more talesAs strange and as fearful,And hotly they argueOn who must be reckonedThe greatest of sinners:"The publican," one says,And one, "The Pomyéshchick," 250Another, "The peasant."This last was a carter,A man of good standingAnd sound reputation,No ignorant babbler.He'd seen many thingsIn his life, his own provinceHad traversed entirely.He should have been heard.The peasants, however, 260Were all so indignantThey would not allow himTo speak. As for Klímka,His wrath is unbounded,"You fool!" he is shouting.
"But let me explain."
"I see you areallfools,"A voice remarks roughly:The voice of a traderWho squeezes the peasants 270For laputs or berriesOr any spare trifles.But chiefly he's notedFor seizing occasionsWhen taxes are gathered,And peasants' possessionsAre bartered at auction."You start a discussionAnd miss the chief point.Why, who's the worst sinner? 280Consider a moment."
"Well, who then? You tell us."
"The robber, of course."
"You've not been a serf, man,"Says Klímka in answer;"The burden was heavy,But not on your shoulders.Your pockets are full,So the robber alarms you;The robber with this case 290Has nothing to do."
"The case of the robberDefending the robber,"The other retorts.
"Now, pray!" bellows Klímka,And leaping upon him,He punches his jaw.The trader repays himWith buffets as hearty,"Take leave of your carcase!" 300He roars.
"Here's a tussle!"The peasants are clearingA space for the battle;They do not prevent itNor do they applaud it.The blows fall like hail.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!Write home to your parents!"
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310Heh, send for the pope!"
The trader, bent doubleBy Klímka, who, clutchingHis hair, drags his head down,Repeating, "He's bowing!"Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"When Klímka has freed himHe sits on a log,And says, wiping his faceWith a broadly-checked muffler, 320"No wonder he conquered:He ploughs not, he reaps not,Does nothing but doctorThe pigs and the horses;Of course he gets strong!"
The peasants are laughing,And Klímka says, mocking,"Here, try a bit more!"
"Come on, then! I'm ready,"The trader says stoutly, 330And rolling his sleeves up,He spits on his palms.
"The hour has now soundedFor me, though a sinner,To speak and unite you,"Ióna pronounces.The whole of the eveningThat diffident pilgrimHas sat without speaking,And crossed himself, sighing. 340The trader's delighted,And Klímka replies not.The rest, without speaking,Sit down on the ground.
We know that in RussiaAre numbers of peopleWho wander at largeWithout kindred or home.They sow not, they reap not,They feed at the fountainThat's common to all,That nourishes likewiseThe tiniest mouseAnd the mightiest army:The sweat of the peasant. 10The peasants will tell youThat whole populationsOf villages sometimesTurn out in the autumnTo wander like pilgrims.They beg, and esteem itA paying profession.The people considerThat misery drives them 20More often than cunning,And so to the pilgrimsContribute their mite.Of course, there are casesOf downright deception:One pilgrim's a thief,Or another may wheedleSome cloth from the wifeOf a peasant, exchangingSome "sanctified wafers" 30Or "tears of the Virgin"He's brought from Mount Athos,And then she'll discoverHe's been but as farAs a cloister near Moscow.One saintly old greybeardEnraptured the peopleBy wonderful singing,And offered to teachThe young girls of the village 40The songs of the churchWith their mothers' permission.And all through the winterHe locked himself upWith the girls in a stable.From thence, sometimes singingWas heard, but more oftenCame laughter and giggles.Well, what was the upshot?He taught them no singing, 50But ruined them all.
Some Masters so skilfulThere are, they will evenLay siege to the ladies.They first to the kitchensMake sure of admission,And then through the maidsGained access to the mistress.See, there he goes, struttingAlong through the courtyard 60And jingling the keysOf the house like a Barin.And soon he will spitIn the teeth of the peasants;The pious old women,Who always beforeAt the house have been welcome,He'll speedily banish.The people, however,Can see in these pilgrims 70A good side as well.For, who begs the moneyFor building the churches?And who keeps the convent'sCollecting-box full?And many, though useless,Are perfectly harmless;But some are uncanny,One can't understand them:The people know Fóma, 80With chains round his middleSome six stones in weight;How summer and winterHe walks about barefoot,And constantly muttersOf Heaven knows what.His life, though, is godly:A stone for his pillow,A crust for his dinner.
The people know also 90The old man, Nikífor,Adherent, most strange,Of the sect called "The Hiders."One day he appearedIn Usólovo villageUpbraiding the peopleFor lack of religion,And calling them forthTo the great virgin forestTo seek for salvation. 100The chief of policeOf the district just happenedTo be in the villageAnd heard his oration:"Ho! Question the madman!"
"Thou foe of Christ Jesus!Thou Antichrist's herald!"Nikífor retorts.The Elders are nudging him:"Now, then, be silent!" 110He pays no attention.They drag him to prison.He stands in the waggon,Undauntedly chidingThe chief of police,And loudly he criesTo the people who follow him:
"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you!Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you!Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"
The people are crossingThemselves. The Nachálnik[56]Is striking the prophet:"Remember the JudgeOf Jerusalem, sinner!"The driver's so frightenedThe reins have escaped him,His hair stands on end….
And when will the people 130Forget Yevressína,Miraculous widow?Let cholera onlyBreak out in a village:At once like an envoyOf God she appears.She nurses and fostersAnd buries the peasants.The women adore her,They pray to her almost. 140
It's evident, then,That the door of the peasantIs easily opened:Just knock, and be certainHe'll gladly admit you.He's never suspiciousLike wealthier people;The thought does not strike himAt sight of the humbleAnd destitute stranger, 150"Perhaps he's a thief!"And as to the women,They're simply delighted,They'll welcome you warmly.
At night, in the Winter,The family gatheredTo work in the cottageBy light of "luchina," [57]Are charmed by the pilgrim'sRemarkable stories. 160He's washed in the steam-bath,And dipped with his spoonIn the family platter,First blessing its contents.His veins have been thawedBy a streamlet of vodka,His words flow like water.The hut is as silentAs death. The old fatherWas mending the laputs, 170But now he has dropped them.
The song of the shuttleIs hushed, and the womanWho sits at the wheelIs engrossed in the story.The daughter, Yevgénka,Her plump little fingerHas pricked with a needle.The blood has dried up,But she notices nothing; 180Her sewing has fallen,Her eyes are distended,Her arms hanging limp.The children, in bedOn the sleeping-planks, listen,Their heads hanging down.They lie on their stomachsLike snug little sealsUpon Archangel ice-blocks.Their hair, like a curtain, 190Is hiding their faces:It's yellow, of course!
But wait. Soon the pilgrimWill finish his story—(It's true)—from Mount Athos.It tells how that sinnerThe Turk had once drivenSome monks in rebellionRight into the sea,—Who meekly submitted, 200And perished in hundreds.
(What murmurs of horrorArise! Do you noticeThe eyes, full of tears?)And now conies the climax,The terrible moment,And even the motherHas loosened her holdOn the corpulent bobbin,It rolls to the ground…. 210And see how cat VaskaAt once becomes activeAnd pounces upon it.At times less enthrallingThe antics of VaskaWould meet their deserts;But now he is pattingAnd touching the bobbinAnd leaping around itWith flexible movements, 220And no one has noticed.It rolls to a distance,The thread is unwound.
Whoever has witnessedThe peasant's delightAt the tales of the pilgrimsWill realise this:Though never so crushingHis labours and worries,Though never so pressing 230The call of the tavern,Their weight will not deadenThe soul of the peasantAnd will not benumb it.The road that's before himIs broad and unending….When old fields, exhausted,Play false to the reaper,He'll seek near the forestFor soil more productive. 240The work may be hard,But the new plot repays him:It yields a rich harvestWithout being manured.A soil just as fertileLies hid in the soulOf the people of Russia:O Sower, then come!
The pilgrim IónaSince long is well known 250In the village of "Earthworms."The peasants contendFor the honour of givingThe holy man shelter.At last, to appease them,He'd say to the women,"Come, bring out your icons!"They'd hurry to fetch them.Ióna, prostratingHimself to each icon, 260Would say to the people,"Dispute not! Be patient,And God will decide:The saint who looks kindestAt me I will follow."And often he'd followThe icon most poorTo the lowliest hovel.That hut would become thenA Cup overflowing; 270The women would run thereWith baskets and saucepans,All thanks to Ióna.
And now, without hurryOr noise, he's beginningTo tell them a story,"Two Infamous Sinners,"But first, most devoutly,He crosses himself.
Two Infamous Sinners
Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280Let us the legend relateTold by a monk in the Priory.Thus did I hear him narrate:
Once were twelve brigands notorious,One, Kudeár, at their head;Torrents of blood of good ChristiansFoully the miscreants shed.
Deep in the forest their hiding-place,Rich was their booty and rare;Once Kudeár from near Kiev Town 290Stole a young maiden most fair.
Days Kudeár with his mistress spent,Nights on the road with his horde;Suddenly, conscience awoke in him,Stirred by the grace of the Lord.
Sleep left his couch. Of iniquitySickened his spirit at last;Shades of his victims appeared to him,Crowding in multitudes vast.
Long was this monster most obdurate, 300Blind to the light from above,Then flogged to death his chief satellite,Cut off the head of his love,—
Scattered his gang in his penitence,And to the churches of GodAll his great riches distributed,Buried his knife in the sod,
Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre,Filled with repentance and grief;Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimageBrought to his soul no relief. 311
When he returned to his FatherlandClad like a monk, old and bent,'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite,Life in the forest he spent.
There, from the Maker Omnipotent,Grace day and night did he crave:"Lord, though my body thou castigate,Grant that my soul I may save!"
Pity had God on the penitent, 320Showed him the pathway to take,Sent His own messenger unto himDuring his prayers, who thus spake:
"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference,Not without promptings divine;Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with,Fell it, and grace shall be thine.
"Yea, though the task prove laborious,Great shall the recompense be,Let but the tree fall, and verily 330Thou from thy load shalt be free."
Vast was the giant's circumference;Praying, his task he begins,Works with the tool of atrociousness,Offers amends for his sins.
Glory he sang to the Trinity,Scraped the hard wood with his blade.Years passed away. Though he tarried not,Slow was the progress he made.
'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340How could he hope to prevail?Only a Samson could vanquish it,Not an old man, spent and frail.
Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him:Once of a voice came the sound,"Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?"Crossing himself he looked round.
There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching himOn his brave Arab astride,Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350Known in the whole countryside.
Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him,Filled were his subjects with hate,So the old hermit to caution himTold him his own sorry fate.
"Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively,"Hope of salvation's not mine;These are the things that I estimate—Women, gold, honour, and wine.
"My life, old man, is the only one; 360Many the serfs that I keep;What though I waste, hang, and torture them—You should but see how I sleep!"
Lo! to the hermit, by miracle,Wrath a great strength did impart,Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself,Buried the knife in his heart.
Scarce had the Pan, in his agony,Sunk to the blood-sodden ground,Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate,Trembled the earth at the sound. 371
Lo! and the sins of the anchoritePassed from his soul like a breath."Let us pray God to incline to us,Slaves in the shadow of Death…."
Ióna has finished.He crosses himself,And the people are silent.And then of a sudden
The trader cries loudlyIn great irritation,"What's wrong with the ferry?A plague on the sluggards!Ho, ferry ahoy!"
"You won't get the ferry 10Till sunrise, for evenIn daytime they're frightenedTo cross: the boat's rotten!About Kudeár, now—"
"Ho, ferry ahoy!"
He strides to his waggon.A cow is there tethered;He churlishly kicks her.His hens begin clucking;He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20The calf, which is shiftingAbout in the cart.Gets a crack on the forehead.He strikes the roan mareWith the whip, and departingHe makes for the Volga.The moon is now shining,It casts on the roadwayA comical shadow,Which trots by his side. 30
"Oho!" says the Elder,"He thought himself ableTo fight, but discussionIs not in his line….My brothers, how grievousThe sins of the nobles!"
"And yet not as greatAs the sin of the peasant,"The carter cannot hereRefrain from remarking. 40
"A plaguey old croaker!"Says Klím, spitting crossly;"Whatever arisesThe raven must flyTo his own little brood!What is it, then, tell us,The sin of the peasant?"
The Sin of Gleb the Peasant
A'miral Widower sailed on the sea,Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49Once with the Turk a great battle he fought,His was the victory, gallantly bought.So to the hero as valour's rewardEight thousand souls[59] did the Empress award.A'miral Widower lived on his landRich and content, till his end was at hand.As he lay dying this A'miral boldHanded his Elder a casket of gold."See that thou cherish this casket," he said,"Keep it and open it when I am dead.There lies my will, and by it you will seeEight thousand souls are from serfdom set free." 61Dead, on the table, the A'miral lies,A kinsman remote to the funeral hies.Buried! Forgotten! His relative soonCalls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune.And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill,Learns of the casket, and terms of the will.Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed,Gives him his freedom,—the will is destroyed!Thus, by Gleb's longing for criminal gains,Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well,Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crimeNe'er will be pardoned till end of all time.Peasant, most infamous sinner of all,Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!
Wrathful, relentless,The carter thus finishedThe tale of the peasant 80In thunder-like tones.The others sigh deeplyAnd rise. They're exclaiming,"So, that's what it is, then,The sin of the peasant.He's right. 'Tis indeedA most terrible sin!"
"The story speaks truly;Our grief shall be endless,Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90(His faith in improvementsHas vanished again.)And Klímka, who alwaysIs swayed in an instantBy joy or by sorrow,Despondingly echoes,"A terrible sin!"
The green by the Volga,Now flooded with moonlight,Has changed of a sudden: 100The peasants no longerSeem men independentWith self-assured movements,They're "Earthworms" again—Those "Earthworms" whose victualsAre never sufficient,Who always are threatenedWith drought, blight, or famine,Who yield to the traderThe fruits of extortion 110Their tears, shed in tar.The miserly hagglerNot only ill-pays them,But bullies as well:"For what do I pay you?The tar costs you nothing.The sun brings it oozingFrom out of your bodiesAs though from a pine."
Again the poor peasants 120Are sunk in the depthsOf the bottomless gulf!Dejected and silent,They lie on their stomachsAbsorbed in reflection.But then they start singing;And slowly the song,Like a ponderous cloud-bank,Rolls mournfully onwards.They sing it so clearly 130That quickly our sevenHave learnt it as well.
The Hungry One
The peasant standsWith haggard gaze,He pants for breath,He reels and sways;
From famine food,From bread of bark,His form has swelled,His face is dark. 140
Through endless griefSuppressed and dumbHis eyes are glazed,His soul is numb.
As though in sleep,With footsteps slow,He creeps to whereThe rye doth grow.
Upon his fieldHe gazes long, 150He stands and singsA voiceless song:
"Grow ripe, grow ripe,O Mother rye,I fostered thee,Thy lord am I.
"Yield me a loafOf monstrous girth,A cake as vastAs Mother-Earth. 160
"I'll eat the whole—No crumb I'll spare;With wife, with child,I will not share."
"Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!"A voice exclaims feebly.It's one of the peasants.He fetches a loafFrom his bag, and devours it.
"They sing without voices, 170And yet when you listenYour hair begins rising,"Another remarks.
It's true. Not with voicesThey sing of the famine—But something within them.One, during the singing,Has risen, to show themThe gait of the peasantExhausted by hunger, 180And swayed by the wind.Restrained are his movementsAnd slow. After singing"The Hungry One," thirstingThey make for the bucket,One after anotherLike geese in a file.They stagger and totterAs people half-famished,A drink will restore them. 190"Come, let us be joyful!"The deacon is saying.His youngest son, Grísha,Approaches the peasants."Some vodka?" they ask him.
"No, thank you. I've had some.But what's been the matter?You look like drowned kittens."
"What should be the matter?"(And making an effort 200They bear themselves bravely.)And Vlass, the old Elder,Has placed his great palmOn the head of his godson.
"Is serfdom revived?Will they drive you to barschinOr pilfer your hayfields?"Says Grísha in jest.
"The hay-fields? You're joking!"
"Well, what has gone wrong, then?And why were you singing 211'The Hungry One,' brothers?To summon the famine?"
"Yes, what's all the pother?"Here Klímka bursts outLike a cannon exploding.The others are scratchingTheir necks, and reflecting:"It's true! What's amiss?""Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,'Come, drink and be merry! 221All's well—as we'd have it,Aye, just as we wished it.Come, hold up your noddles!But what about Gleb?"
A lengthy discussionEnsues; and it's settledThat they're not to blameFor the deed of the traitor:'Twas serfdom's the fault. 230For just as the big snakeGives birth to the small ones,So serfdom gave birthTo the sins of the nobles,To Jacob the Faithful'sAnd also to Gleb's.For, see, without serfdomHad been no PomyéshchickTo drive his true servantTo death by the noose, 240No terrible vengeanceOf slave upon masterBy suicide fearful,No treacherous Gleb.
'Twas Prov of all othersWho listened to GríshaWith deepest attentionAnd joy most apparent.And when he had finishedHe cried to the others 250In accents of triumph,Delightedly smiling,"Now, brothers, markthat!""So now, there's an endOf 'The Hungry One,' peasants!"Cries Klímka, with glee.The words about serfdomWere quickly caught upBy the crowd, and went passingFrom one to another: 260"Yes, if there's no big snakeThere cannot be small ones!"And Klímka is swearingAgain at the carter:"You ignorant fool!"They're ready to grapple!The deacon is sobbingAnd kissing his Grísha:"Just see what a headpieceThe Lord is creating! 270No wonder he longsFor the college in Moscow!"Old Vlass, too, is pattingHis shoulder and saying,"May God send thee silverAnd gold, and a healthyAnd diligent wife!"
"I wish not for silverOr gold," replies Grísha."But one thing I wish: 280I wish that my comrades,Yes, all the poor peasantsIn Russia so vast,Could be happy and free!"Thus, earnestly speaking,And blushing as shylyAs any young maiden,He walks from their midst.
The dawn is approaching.The peasants make ready 290To cross by the ferry."Eh, Vlass," says the carter,As, stooping, he raisesThe span of his harness,"Who's this on the ground?"
The Elder approaches,And Klímka behind him,Our seven as well.(They're always most anxiousTo see what is passing.) 300
Some fellow is lyingExhausted, dishevelled,Asleep, with the beggarsBehind some big logs.His clothing is new,But it's hanging in ribbons.A crimson silk scarfOn his neck he is wearing;A watch and a waistcoat;His blouse, too, is red. 310Now Klímka is stoopingTo look at the sleeper,Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughlyStamps straight on his mouth.
The fellow springs up,Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep,And old Vlásuchka strikes him.He squeals like a rat'Neath the heel of your slipper,And makes for the forest 320On long, lanky legs.Four peasants pursue him,The others cry, "Beat him!"Until both the manAnd the band of pursuersAre lost in the forest.
"Who is he?" our sevenAre asking the Elder,"And why do they beat him?"
"We don't know the reason, 330But we have been toldBy the people of TískovTo punish this ShútovWhenever we catch him,And so we obey.When people from TískovPass by, they'll explain it.What luck? Did you catch him?"He asks of the othersReturned from the chase. 340
"We caught him, I warrant,And gave him a lesson.He's run to Demyánsky,For there he'll be ableTo cross by the ferry."
"Strange people, to beat himWithout any cause!""And why? If the communeHas told us to do itThere must be some reason!" 350Shouts Klím at the seven."D'you think that the peopleOf Tískov are fools?It isn't long since, mind,That many were flogged there,One man in each ten.Ah, Shútov, you renderedA dastardly service,Your duties are evil,You damnable wretch! 360And who deserves beatingAs richly as Shútov?Not we alone beat him:From Tískov, you know,Fourteen villages lieOn the banks of the Volga;I warrant through eachHe's been driven with blows."
The seven are silent.They're longing to get 370At the root of the matter.But even the ElderIs now growing angry.
It's daylight. The womenAre bringing their husbandsSome breakfast, of rye-cakesAnd—goose! (For a peasantHad driven some geeseThrough the village to market,And three were grown weary, 380And had to be carried.)"See here, will you sell them?They'll die ere you get there."And so, for a trifle,The geese had been bought.
We've often been toldHow the peasant loves drinking;Not many there are, though,Who know how he eats.He's greedier far 390For his food than for vodka,So one man to-day(A teetotaller mason)Gets perfectly drunkOn his breakfast of goose!A shout! "Who is coming?Who's this?" Here's anotherExcuse for rejoicingAnd noise! There's a hay-cartWith hay, now approaching, 400And high on its summitA soldier is sitting.He's known to the peasantsFor twenty versts round.And, cosy beside him,Justínutchka sits(His niece, and an orphan,His prop in old age).He now earns his livingBy means of his peep-show, 410Where, plainly discerned,Are the Kremlin and Moscow,While music plays too.The instrument onceHad gone wrong, and the soldier,No capital owning,Bought three metal spoons,Which he beat to make music;But the words that he knewDid not suit the new music, 420And folk did not laugh.The soldier was sly, though:He made some new words upThat went with the music.
They hail him with rapture!"Good-health to you, Grandad!Jump down, drink some vodka,And give us some music."
"It's true I gotuphere,But how to get-down?" 430
"You're going, I see,To the town for your pension,But look what has happened:It's burnt to the ground."
"Burnt down? Yes, and rightly!What then? Then I'll goTo St. Petersburg for it;For all my old comradesAre there with their pensions,They'll show me the way." 440
"You'll go by the train, then?"
The old fellow whistles:"Not long you've been servingUs, orthodox Christians,You, infidel railway!And welcome you wereWhen you carried us cheaplyFrom Peters to Moscow.(It cost but three roubles.)But now you want seven, 450So, go to the devil!
"Lady so insolent, lady so arrogant!Hiss like a snake as you glide!Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you!Puff at the whole countryside!Crushing and maiming your toll you extort,Straight in the face of the peasant you snort,Soon all the people of Russia you mayCleaner than any big broom sweep away!"
"Come, give us some music," 460Says Vlass to the soldier,"For here there are plentyOf holiday people,'Twill be to your profit.You see to it, Klímka!"(Though Vlass doesn't like him,Whenever there's somethingThat calls for arrangingHe leaves it to Klímka:"You see to it, Klímka!" 470And Klimka is pleased.)
And soon the old soldierIs helped from the hay-cart:He's weak on his legs,—tall,And strikingly thin.His uniform seemsTo be hung from a pole;There are medals upon it.
It cannot be saidThat his face is attractive, 480Especially whenIt's distorted bytic:His mouth opens wideAnd his eyes burn like charcoal,—A regular demon!
The music is started,The people run backFrom the banks of the Volga.He sings to the music.
* * * * *
A spasm has seized him: 490He leans on his niece,And his left leg upraisingHe twirls it aroundIn the air like a weight.His right follows suit then,And murmuring, "Curse it!"He suddenly mastersAnd stands on them both.
"You see to it, Klímka!"Of course he'll arrange it 500In Petersburg fashion:He stands them together,The niece and the uncle;Takes two wooden dishesAnd gives them one each,Then springs on a tree-trunkTo make an oration.
(The soldier can't helpAdding apt little wordsTo the speech of the peasant, 510And striking his spoons.)
* * * * *
The soldier is stampingHis feet. One can hearHis dry bones knock together.When Klímka has finishedThe peasants come crowding,Surrounding the soldier,And some a kopéck give,And others give half:In no time a rouble 520Is piled on the dishes.
The feast was continuedTill morning—a splendid,A wonderful feast!Then the people dispersingWent home, and our peasantsLay down 'neath the willow;Ióna—meek pilgrimOf God—slept there too.And Sáva and Grísha,The sons of the deacon, 10Went home, with their parentUnsteady between them.They sang; and their voices,Like bells on the Volga,So loud and so tuneful,Came chiming together:
"Praise to the heroBringing the nationPeace and salvation!
"That which will surely 20Banish the nightHe[60] has awarded—Freedom and Light!
"Praise to the heroBringing the nationPeace and salvation!
"Blessings from Heaven,Grace from above,Rained on the battle,Conquered by Love. 30
"Little we ask Thee—Grant us, O Lord,Strength to be honest,Fearing Thy word!
"Brotherly living,Sharing in part,That is the roadwayStraight to the heart.
"Turn from that teachingTender and wise— 40Cowards and traitorsSoon will arise.
"People of Russia,Banish the night!You have been grantedThat which is needful—Freedom and Light!"
The deacon was poorAs the poorest of peasants:A mean little cottage 50Like two narrow cages,The one with an ovenWhich smoked, and the otherFor use in the summer,—Such was his abode.No horse he possessedAnd no cow. He had once hadA dog and a cat,But they'd both of them left him.
His sons put him safely 60To bed, snoring loudly;Then Sávushka openedA book, while his brotherWent out, and awayTo the fields and the forest.
A broad-shouldered youthWas this Grísha; his face, though,Was terribly thin.In the clerical collegeThe students got little 70To eat. Sometimes GríshaWould lie the whole nightWithout sleep; only longingFor morning and breakfast,—The coarse piece of breadAnd the glassful of sbeeten.[61]The village was poorAnd the food there was scanty,But still, the two brothersGrew certainly plumper 80When home for the holidays—Thanks to the peasants.
The boys would repay themBy all in their power,By work, or by doingTheir little commissionsIn town. Though the deaconWas proud of his children,He never had givenMuch thought to their feeding. 90Himself, the poor deacon,Was endlessly hungry,His principal thoughtWas the manner of gettingThe next piece of food.He was rather light-mindedAnd vexed himself little;But Dyómna, his wife,Had been different entirely:She worried and counted, 100So God took her soon.The whole of her lifeShe by salt[62] had been troubled:If bread has run shortOne can ask of the neighbours;But salt, which means money,Is hard to obtain.The village with DyómnaHad shared its bread freely;And long, long ago 110Would her two little childrenHave lain in the churchyardIf not for the peasants.
And Dyómna was readyTo work without ceasingFor all who had helped her;But salt was her trouble,Her thought, ever present.She dreamt of it, sang of it,Sleeping and waking, 120While washing, while spinning,At work in the fields,While rocking her darlingHer favourite, Grísha.And many years afterThe death of his mother,His heart would grow heavyAnd sad, when the peasantsRemembered one song,And would sing it together 130As Dyómna had sung it;They called it "The Salt Song."
The Salt Song
Now none but GodCan save my son:He's dying fast,My little one….
I give him bread—-He looks at it,He cries to me,"Put salt on it." 140I have no salt—No tiny grain;"Take flour," God whispers,"Try again…."
He tastes it once,Once more he tries;"That's not enough,More salt!" he cries.
The flour again….My tears fall fast 150Upon the bread,—He eats at last!
The mother smilesIn pride and joy:Her tears so saltHave saved the boy.
* * * * *
Young Grísha rememberedThis song; he would sing itQuite low to himselfIn the clerical college. 160The college was cheerless,And singing this songHe would yearn for his mother,For home, for the peasants,His friends and protectors.And soon, with the loveWhich he bore to his mother,His love for the peopleGrew wider and stronger….At fifteen years old 170He was firmly decidedTo spend his whole lifeIn promoting their welfare,In striving to succourThe poor and afflicted.The demon of maliceToo long over RussiaHas scattered its hate;The shadow of serfdomHas hidden all paths 180Save corruption and lying.Another song nowWill arise throughout Russia;The angel of freedomAnd mercy is flyingUnseen o'er our heads,And is calling strong spiritsTo follow the roadWhich is honest and clean.
Oh, tread not the road 190So shining and broad:Along it there speedWith feverish treadThe multitudes ledBy infamous greed.
There lives which are spentWith noble intentAre mocked at in scorn;There souls lie in chains,And bodies and brains 200By passions are torn,
By animal thirstFor pleasures accurstWhich pass in a breath.There hope is in vain,For there is the reignOf darkness and death.
* * * * *
In front of your eyesAnother road lies—'Tis honest and clean. 210Though steep it appearsAnd sorrow and tearsUpon it are seen:
It leads to the doorOf those who are poor,Who hunger and thirst,Who pant without air.Who die in despair—Oh, there be the first!
The song of the angel 220Of Mercy not vainlyWas sung to our Grísha.The years of his studyBeing passed, he developedIn thought and in feeling;A passionate singerOf Freedom became he,Of all who are grieving,Down-trodden, afflicted,In Russia so vast. 230
* * * * *
The bright sun was shining,The cool, fragrant morningWas filled with the sweetnessOf newly-mown hay.Young Grísha was thoughtful,He followed the first roadHe met—an old high-road,An avenue, shadedBy tall curling birch trees.The youth was now gloomy, 240Now gay; the effectOf the feast was still with him;His thoughts were at work,And in song he expressed them:
"I know that you suffer,O Motherland dear,The thought of it fills me with woe:And Fate has much sorrowIn store yet, I fear,But you will not perish, I know. 250
"How long since your childrenAs playthings were used,As slaves to base passions and lust;Were bartered like cattle,Were vilely abusedBy masters most cruel and unjust?
"How long since young maidensWere dragged to their shame,Since whistle of whips filled the land,Since 'Service' possessed 260A more terrible fameThan death by the torturer's hand?
"Enough! It is finished,This tale of the past;'Tis ended, the masters' long sway;The strength of the peopleIs stirring at last,To freedom 'twill point them the way.
"Your burden grows lighter,O Motherland dear, 270Your wounds less appalling to see.Your fathers were slaves,Smitten helpless by fear,But, Mother, your children are free!"
* * * * *
A small winding footpathNow tempted young Grísha,And guided his stepsTo a very broad hayfield.The peasants were cuttingThe hay, and were singing 280His favourite song.Young Grísha was saddenedBy thoughts of his mother,And nearly in angerHe hurried awayFrom the field to the forest.Bright echoes are dartingAbout in the forest;Like quails in the wheatLittle children are romping 290(The elder ones workIn the hay fields already).He stopped awhile, seekingFor horse-chestnuts with them.The sun was now hot;To the river went GríshaTo bathe, and he hadA good view of the ruinsThat three days beforeHad been burnt. What a picture!No house is left standing; 301And only the prisonIs saved; just a few daysAgo it was whitewashed;It stands like a littleWhite cow in the pastures.The guards and officialsHave made it their refuge;But all the poor peasantsAre strewn by the river 310Like soldiers in camp.Though they're mostly asleep now,A few are astir,And two under-officialsAre picking their wayTo the tent for some vodka'Mid tables and cupboardsAnd waggons and bundles.A tailor approachesThe vodka tent also; 320A shrivelled old fellow.His irons and his scissorsHe holds in his hands,Like a leaf he is shaking.The pope has arisenFrom sleep, full of prayers.He is combing his hair;Like a girl he is holdingHis long shining plait.Down the Volga comes floating 330Some wood-laden rafts,And three ponderous bargesAre anchored beneathThe right bank of the river.The barge-tower yesterdayEvening had dragged themWith songs to their places,And there he is standing,The poor harassed man!He is looking quite gay though, 340As if on a holiday,Has a clean shirt on;Some farthings are jinglingAloud in his pocket.Young Grísha observes himFor long from the river,And, half to himself,Half aloud, begins singing:
The Barge-Tower
With shoulders back and breast astrain,And bathed in sweat which falls like rain,Through midday heat with gasping song,He drags the heavy barge along. 352He falls and rises with a groan,His song becomes a husky moan….But now the barge at anchor lies,A giant's sleep has sealed his eyes;And in the bath at break of dayHe drives the clinging sweat away.Then leisurely along the quayHe strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360Are sewn into his girdle wide;Some coppers jingle at his side.He thinks awhile, and then he goesTowards the tavern. There he throwsSome hard-earned farthings on the seat;He drinks, and revels in the treat,The sense of perfect ease and rest.Soon with the cross he signs his breast:The journey home begins to-day.And cheerfully he goes away; 370On presents spends a coin or so:For wife some scarlet calico,A scarf for sister, tinsel toysFor eager little girls and boys.God guide him home—'tis many a mile—And let him rest a little while….