Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?
Work rating:
Medium
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11
From the love of our food..."
The peasants then tell him
About their chance meeting,
Their argument, quarrel,
Their vow, and decision; 320
Of how they had sought
In the Government "Tight-Squeeze"
And Government "Shot-Strewn"
The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free...
Old Vlasuchka listens,
Observing them keenly.
"I see," he remarks,
When the story is finished,
"I see you are very 330
Peculiar people.
We're said to be strange here,
But you are still stranger."
"Well, drink some more vodka
And tell us your tale."
And when by the vodka
His tongue becomes loosened,
Old Vlasuchka tells them
The following story.
I
THE DIE-HARD
"The great prince, Yutiatin,
The ancient Pomyeshchick,
Is very eccentric.
His wealth is untold,
And his titles exalted,
His family ranks
With the first in the Empire.
The whole of his life
He has spent in amusement,
Has known no control 10
Save his own will and pleasure.
When we were set free
He refused to believe it:
'They lie! the low scoundrels!'
There came the posrednik
And Chief of Police,
But he would not admit them,
He ordered them out
And went on as before,
And only became 20
Full of hate and suspicion:
'Bow low, or I'll flog you
To death, without mercy!'
The Governor himself came
To try to explain things,
And long they disputed
And argued together;
The furious voice
Of the prince was heard raging
All over the house, 30
And he got so excited
That on the same evening
A stroke fell upon him:
His left side went dead,
Black as earth, so they tell us,
And all over nothing!
It wasn't his pocket
That pinched, but his pride
That was touched and enraged him.
He lost but a mite 40
And would never have missed it."
"Ah, that's what it means, friends,
To be a Pomyeshchick,
The habit gets into
The blood," says Mitrodor,
"And not the Pomyeshchick's
Alone, for the habit
Is strong in the peasant
As well," old Pakhom said.
"I once on suspicion 50
Was put into prison,
And met there a peasant
Called Sedor, a strange man,
Arrested for horse-stealing,
If I remember;
And he from the prison
Would send to the Barin
His taxes. (The prisoner's
Income is scanty,
He gets what he begs 60
Or a trifle for working.)
The others all laughed at him;
'Why should you send them
And you off for life
To hard labour?' they asked him.
But he only said,
'All the same .. it is better.'"
"Well, now, little Uncle,
Go on with the story."
"A mite is a small thing, 70
Except when it happens
To be in the eye!
The Pomyeshchick lay senseless,
And many were sure
That he'd never recover.
His children were sent for,
Those black-moustached footguards
(You saw them just now
With their wives, the fine ladies),
The eldest of them 80
Was to settle all matters
Concerning his father.
He called the posrednik
To draw up the papers
And sign the agreement,
When suddenly-there
Stands the old man before them!
He springs on them straight
Like a wounded old tiger,
He bellows like thunder. 90
It was but a short time
Ago, and it happened
That I was then Elder,
And chanced to have entered
The house on some errand,
And I heard myself
How he cursed the Pomyeshchicks;
The words that he spoke
I have never forgotten:
'The Jews are reproached 100
For betraying their Master;
But what are you doing?
The rights of the nobles
By centuries sanctioned
You fling to the beggars!'
He said to his sons,
'Oh, you dastardly cowards!
My children no longer!
It is for small reptiles-
The pope's crawling breed- 110
To take bribes from vile traitors,
To purchase base peasants,
And they may be pardoned!
But you!-you have sprung
From the house of Yutiatin,
The Princes Yu-tia-tin
You are! Go!.. Go, leave me!
You pitiful puppies!'
The heirs were alarmed;
How to tide matters over 120
Until he should die?
For they are not small items,
The forests and lands
That belong to our father;
His money-bags are not
So light as to make it
A question of nothing
Whose shoulders shall bear them;
We know that our father
Has three 'private' daughters 130
In Petersburg living,
To Generals married,
So how do we know
That they may not inherit
His wealth?.. The Pomyeshchick
Once more is prostrated,
His death is a question
Of time, and to make it
Run smoothly till then
An agreement was come to, 140
A plan to deceive him:
So one of the ladies
(The fair one, I fancy,
She used at that time
To attend the old master
And rub his left side
With a brush), well, she told him
That orders had come
From the Government lately
That peasants set free 150
Should return to their bondage.
And he quite believed it.
(You see, since his illness
The Prince had become
Like a child.) When he heard it
He cried with delight;
And the household was summoned
To prayer round the icons;[40]
And Thanksgiving Service
Was held by his orders 160
In every small village,
And bells were set ringing.
And little by little
His strength returned partly.
And then as before
It was hunting and music,
The servants were caned
And the peasants were punished.
The heirs had, of course,
Set things right with the servants, 170
A good understanding
They came to, and one man
(You saw him go running
Just now with the napkin)
Did not need persuading--
He so loved his Barin.
His name is Ipat,
And when we were made free
He refused to believe it;
'The great Prince Yutiatin 180
Be left without peasants!
What pranks are you playing?'
At last, when the 'Order
Of Freedom' was shown him,
Ipat said, 'Well, well,
Get you gone to your pleasures,
But I am the slave
Of the Princes Yutiatin!'
He cannot get over
The old Prince's kindness 190
To him, and he's told us
Some curious stories
Of things that had happened
To him in his childhood,
His youth and old age.
(You see, I had often
To go to the Prince
On some matter or other
Concerning the peasants,
And waited and waited 200
For hours in the kitchens,
And so I have heard them
A hundred times over.)
'When I was a young man
Our gracious young Prince
Spent his holidays sometimes
At home, and would dip me
(His meanest slave, mind you)
Right under the ice
In the depths of the Winter. 210
He did it in such
A remarkable way, too!
He first made two holes
In the ice of the river,
In one he would lower
Me down in a net-
Pull me up through the other!'
And when I began
To grow old, it would happen
That sometimes I drove 220
With the Prince in the Winter;
The snow would block up
Half the road, and we used
To drive five-in-a-file.
Then the fancy would strike him
(How whimsical, mark you!)
To set me astride
On the horse which was leading,
Me-last of his slaves!
Well, he dearly loved music, 230
And so he would throw me
A fiddle: 'Here! play now,
Ipat.' Then the driver
Would shout to the horses,
And urge them to gallop.
The snow would half-blind me,
My hands with the music
Were occupied both;
So what with the jolting,
The snow, and the fiddle, 240
Ipat, like a silly
Old noodle, would tumble.
Of course, if he landed
Right under the horses
The sledge must go over
His ribs,-who could help it?
But that was a trifle;
The cold was the worst thing,
It bites you, and you
Can do nothing against it! 250
The snow lay all round
On the vast empty desert,
I lay looking up
At the stars and confessing
My sins. But-my friends,
This is true as the Gospel-
I heard before long
How the sledge-bells came ringing,
Drew nearer and nearer:
The Prince had remembered, 260
And come back to fetch me!'
"(The tears began falling
And rolled down his face
At this part of the story.
Whenever he told it
He always would cry
Upon coming to this!)
'He covered me up
With some rugs, and he warmed me,
He lifted me up, 270
And he placed me beside him,
Me-last of his slaves-
Beside his Princely Person!
And so we came home.'"
They're amused at the story.
Old Vlasuchka, when
He has emptied his fourth cup,
Continues: "The heirs came
And called us together-
The peasants and servants; 280
They said, 'We're distressed
On account of our father.
These changes will kill him,
He cannot sustain them.
So humour his weakness:
Keep silent, and act still
As if all this trouble
Had never existed;
Give way to him, bow to him
Just as in old days. 290
For each stroke of barschin,
For all needless labour,
For every rough word
We will richly reward you.
He cannot live long now,
The doctors have told us
That two or three months
Is the most we may hope for.
Act kindly towards us,
And do as we ask you, 300
And we as the price
Of your silence will give you
The hayfields which lie
On the banks of the Volga.
Think well of our offer,
And let the posrednik
Be sent for to witness
And settle the matter.'
"Then gathered the commune
To argue and clamour; 310
The thought of the hayfields
(In which we are sitting),
With promises boundless
And plenty of vodka,
Decided the question:
The commune would wait
For the death of the Barin.
"Then came the posrednik,
And laughing, he said:
'It's a capital notion! 320
The hayfields are fine, too,
You lose nothing by it;
You just play the fool
And the Lord will forgive you.
You know, it's forbidden
To no one in Russia
To bow and be silent.'
"But I was against it:
I said to the peasants,
'For you it is easy, 330
But how about me?
Whatever may happen
The Elder must come
To accounts with the Barin,
And how can I answer
His babyish questions?
And how can I do
His nonsensical bidding?'
"'Just take off your hat
And bow low, and say nothing, 340
And then you walk out
And the thing's at an end.
The old man is ill,
He is weak and forgetful,
And nothing will stay
In his head for an instant.'
"Perhaps they were right;
To deceive an old madman
Is not very hard.
But for my part, I don't want 350
To play at buffoon.
For how many years
Have I stood on the threshold
And bowed to the Barin?
Enough for my pleasure!
I said, 'If the commune
Is pleased to be ruled
By a crazy Pomyeshchick
To ease his last moments
I don't disagree, 360
I have nothing against it;
But then, set me free
From my duties as Elder.'
"The whole matter nearly
Fell through at that moment,
But then KlImka Lavin said,
'Let me be Elder,
I'll please you on both sides,
The master and you.
The Lord will soon take him, 370
And then the fine hayfields
Will come to the commune.
I swear I'll establish
Such order amongst you
You'll die of the fun!'
"The commune took long
To consider this offer:
A desperate fellow
Is KlImka the peasant,
A drunkard, a rover, 380
And not very honest,
No lover of work,
And acquainted with gipsies;
A vagabond, knowing
A lot about horses.
A scoffer at those
Who work hard, he will tell you:
'At work you will never
Get rich, my fine fellow;
You'll never get rich,- 390
But you're sure to get crippled!'
But he, all the same,
Is well up in his letters;
Has been to St. Petersburg.
Yes, and to Moscow,
And once to Siberia, too,
With the merchants.
A pity it was
That he ever returned!
He's clever enough, 400
But he can't keep a farthing;
He's sharp-but he's always
In some kind of trouble.
He's picked some fine words up
From out of his travels:
'Our Fatherland dear,'
And 'The soul of great Russia,'
And 'Moscow, the mighty,
Illustrious city!'
'And I,' he will shout, 410
'Am a plain Russian peasant!'
And striking his forehead
He'll swallow the vodka.
A bottle at once
He'll consume, like a mouthful.
He'll fall at your feet
For a bottle of vodka.
But if he has money
He'll share with you, freely;
The first man he meets 420
May partake of his drink.
He's clever at shouting
And cheating and fooling,
At showing the best side
Of goods which are rotten,
At boasting and lying;
And when he is caught
He'll slip out through a cranny,
And throw you a jest,
Or his favourite saying: 430
'A crack in the jaw
Will your honesty bring you!'
"Well, after much thinking
The commune decided
That I must remain
The responsible Elder;
But KlImka might act
In my stead to the Barin
As though he were Elder.
Why, then, let him do it! 440
The right kind of Elder
He is for his Barin,
They make a fine pair!
Like putty his conscience;
Like Meenin's[41] his beard,
So that looking upon him
You'd think a sedater,
More dutiful peasant
Could never be found.
The heirs made his kaftan, 450
And he put it on,
And from KlImka the 'scapegrace'
He suddenly changed
Into KlIm, Son-of-Jacob,[42]
Most worthy of Elders.
So that's how it is;-
And to our great misfortune
The Barin is ordered
A carriage-drive daily.
Each day through the village 460
He drives in a carriage
That's built upon springs.
Then up you jump, quickly,
And whip off your hat,
And, God knows for what reason,
He'll jump down your throat,
He'll upbraid and abuse you;
But you must keep silent.
He watches a peasant
At work in the fields, 470
And he swears we are lazy
And lie-abed sluggards
(Though never worked peasant
With half such a will
In the time of the Barin).
He has not a notion
That they are not his fields,
But ours. When we gather
We laugh, for each peasant
Has something to tell 480
Of the crazy Pomyeshchick;
His ears burn, I warrant,
When we come together!
And KlIm, Son-of-Jacob,
Will run, with the manner
Of bearing the commune
Some news of importance
(The pig has got proud
Since he's taken to scratching
His sides on the steps 490
Of the nobleman's manor).
He runs and he shouts:
'A command to the commune!
I told the Pomyeshchick
That Widow Terentevna's
Cottage had fallen.
And that she is begging
Her bread. He commands you
To marry the widow
To Gabriel Jockoff; 500
To rebuild the cottage,
And let them reside there
And multiply freely.'
"The bride will be seventy,
Seven the bridegroom!
Well, who could help laughing?
Another command:
'The dull-witted cows,
Driven out before sunrise,
Awoke the Pomyeshchick 510
By foolishly mooing
While passing his courtyard.
The cow-herd is ordered
To see that the cows
Do not moo in that manner!'"
The peasants laugh loudly.
"But why do you laugh so?
We all have our fancies.
Yakutsk was once governed,
I heard, by a General; 520
He had a liking
For sticking live cows
Upon spikes round the city,
And every free spot
Was adorned in that manner,
As Petersburg is,
So they say, with its statues,
Before it had entered
The heads of the people
That he was a madman. 530
"Another strict order
Was sent to the commune:
'The dog which belongs
To Sofronoff the watchman
Does not behave nicely,
It barked at the Barin.
Be therefore Sofronoff
Dismissed. Let Evremka
Be watchman to guard
The estate of the Barin.' 540
(Another loud laugh,
For Evremka, the 'simple,'
Is known as the deaf-mute
And fool of the village).
But KlImka's delighted:
At last he's found something
That suits him exactly.
He bustles about
And in everything meddles,
And even drinks less. 550
There's a sharp little woman
Whose name is Orevna,
And she is KlIm's gossip,
And finely she helps him
To fool the old Barin.
And as to the women,
They're living in clover:
They run to the manor
With linen and mushrooms
And strawberries, knowing 560
The ladies will buy them
And pay what they ask them
And feed them besides.
We laughed and made game
Till we fell into danger
And nearly were lost:
There was one man among us,
Petrov, an ungracious
And bitter-tongued peasant;
He never forgave us 570
Because we'd consented
To humour the Barin.
'The Tsar,' he would say,
'Has had mercy upon you,
And now, you, yourselves
Lift the load to your backs.
To Hell with the hayfields!
We want no more masters!'
We only could stop him
By giving him vodka 580
(His weakness was vodka).
The devil must needs
Fling him straight at the Barin.
One morning Petrov
Had set out to the forest
To pilfer some logs
(For the night would not serve him,
It seems, for his thieving,
He must go and do it
In broadest white daylight), 590
And there comes the carriage,
On springs, with the Barin!
"'From whence, little peasant,
That beautiful tree-trunk?
From whence has it come?'
He knew, the old fellow,
From whence it had come.
Petrov stood there silent,
And what could he answer?
He'd taken the tree 600
From the Barin's own forest.
"The Barin already
Is bursting with anger;
He nags and reproaches,
He can't stop recalling
The rights of the nobles.
The rank of his Fathers,
He winds them all into
Petrov, like a corkscrew.
"The peasants are patient, 610
But even their patience
Must come to an end.
Petrov was out early,
Had eaten no breakfast,
Felt dizzy already,
And now with the words
Of the Barin all buzzing
Like flies in his ears-
Why, he couldn't keep steady,
He laughed in his face! 620
"'Have done, you old scarecrow!'
He said to the Barin.
'You crazy old clown!'
His jaw once unmuzzled
He let enough words out
To stuff the Pomyeshchick
With Fathers and Grandfathers
Into the bargain.
The oaths of the lords
Are like stings of mosquitoes, 630
But those of the peasant
Like blows of the pick-axe.
The Barin's dumbfounded!
He'd safely encounter
A rain of small shot,
But he cannot face stones.
The ladies are with him,
They, too, are bewildered,
They run to the peasant
And try to restrain him. 640
"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!
For what are you swollen
With pride, you old dotard,
You scum of the pig-sty?
Have done with your jabber!
You've lost your strong grip
On the soul of the peasant,
The last one you are.
By the will of the peasant
Because he is foolish 650
They treat you as master
To-day. But to-morrow
The ball will be ended;
A good kick behind
We will give the Pomyeshchick,
And tail between legs
Send him back to his dwelling
To leave us in peace!'
"The Barin is gasping,
'You rebel .. you rebel!' 660
He trembles all over,
Half-dead he has fallen,
And lies on the earth!
"The end! think the others,
The black-moustached footguards,
The beautiful ladies;
But they are mistaken;
It isn't the end.
"An order: to summon
The village together 670
To witness the punishment
Dealt to the rebel
Before the Pomyeshchick...
The heirs and the ladies
Come running in terror
To KlIm, to Petrov,
And to me: 'Only save us!'
Their faces are pale,
'If the trick is discovered
We're lost!' 680
It is KlIm's place
To deal with the matter:
He drinks with Petrov
All day long, till the evening,
Embracing him fondly.
Together till midnight
They pace round the village,
At midnight start drinking
Again till the morning.
Petrov is as tipsy 690
As ever man was,
And like that he is brought
To the Barin's large courtyard,
And all is perfection!
The Barin can't move
From the balcony, thanks
To his yesterday's shaking.
And KlIm is well pleased.
"He leads Petrov into
The stable and sets him 700
In front of a gallon
Of vodka, and tells him:
'Now, drink and start crying,
''Oh, oh, little Fathers!
Oh, oh, little. Mothers!
Have mercy! Have mercy!'''
"Petrov does his bidding;
He howls, and the Barin,
Perched up on the balcony,
Listens in rapture. 710
He drinks in the sound
Like the loveliest music.
And who could help laughing
To hear him exclaiming,
'Don't spare him, the villain!
The im-pu-dent rascal!
Just teach him a lesson!'
Petrov yells aloud
Till the vodka is finished.
Of course in the end 720
He is perfectly helpless,
And four peasants carry him
Out of the stable.
His state is so sorry
That even the Barin
Has pity upon him,
And says to him sweetly,
'Your own fault it is,
Little peasant, you know!'"
"You see what a kind heart 730
He has, the Pomyeshchick,"
Says Prov, and old Vlasuchka
Answers him quietly,
"A saying there is:
'Praise the grass-in the haystack,
The lord-in his coffin.'
"Twere well if God took him.
Petrov is no longer
Alive. That same evening
He started up, raving, 740
At midnight the pope came,
And just as the day dawned
He died. He was buried,
A cross set above him,
And God alone knows
What he died of. It's certain
That we never touched him,
Nay, not with a finger,
Much less with a stick.
Yet sometimes the thought comes:
Perhaps if that accident 751
Never had happened
Petrov would be living.
You see, friends, the peasant
Was proud more than others,
He carried his head high,
And never had bent it,
And now of a sudden-
Lie down for the Barin!
Fall flat for his pleasure! 760
The thing went off well,
But Petrov had not wished it.
I think he was frightened
To anger the commune
By not giving in,
And the commune is foolish,
It soon will destroy you...
The ladies were ready
To kiss the old peasant,
They brought fifty roubles 770
For him, and some dainties.
'Twas KlImka, the scamp,
The unscrupulous sinner,
Who worked his undoing...
"A servant is coming
To us from the Barin,
They've finished their lunch.
Perhaps they have sent him
To summon the Elder.
I'll go and look on 780
At the comedy there."
II
KLIM, THE ELDER
With him go the strangers,
And some of the women
And men follow after,
For mid-day has sounded,
Their rest-time it is,
So they gather together
To stare at the gentry,
To whisper and wonder.
They stand in a row
At a dutiful distance 10
Away from the Prince...
At a long snowy table
Quite covered with bottles
And all kinds of dishes
Are sitting the gentry,
The old Prince presiding
In dignified state
At the head of the table;
All white, dressed in white,
With his face shrunk awry, 20
His dissimilar eyes;
In his button-hole fastened
A little white cross
(It's the cross of St. George,
Some one says in a whisper);
And standing behind him,
Ipat, the domestic,
The faithful old servant,
In white tie and shirt-front
Is brushing the flies off. 30
Beside the Pomyeshchick
On each hand are sitting
The beautiful ladies:
The one with black tresses,
Her lips red as beetroots,
Each eye like an apple;
The other, the fair-haired,
With yellow locks streaming.
(Oh, you yellow locks,
Like spun gold do you glisten 40
And glow, in the sunshine!)
Then perched on three high chairs
The three little Barins,
Each wearing his napkin
Tucked under his chin,
With the old nurse beside them,
And further the body
Of ancient retainers;
And facing the Prince
At the foot of the table, 50
The black-moustached footguards
Are sitting together.
Behind each chair standing
A young girl is serving,
And women are waving
The flies off with branches.
The woolly white poodles
Are under the table,
The three little Barins
Are teasing them slyly. 60
Before the Pomyeshchick,
Bare-headed and humble,
The Elder is standing.
"Now tell me, how soon
Will the mowing be finished?"
The Barin says, talking
And eating at once.
"It soon will be finished.
Three days of the week
Do we work for your Highness; 70
A man with a horse,
And a youth or a woman,
And half an old woman
From every allotment.
To-day for this week
Is the Barin's term finished."
"Tut-tut!" says the Barin,
Like one who has noticed
Some crafty intent
On the part of another. 80
"'The Barin's term,' say you?
Now, what do you mean, pray?"
The eye which is bright
He has fixed on the peasant.
The Elder is hanging
His head in confusion.
"Of course it must be
As your Highness may order.
In two or three days,
If the weather be gracious, 90
The hay of your Highness
Can surely be gathered.
That's so,-is it not?"
(He turns his broad face round
And looks at the peasants.)
And then the sharp woman,
KlIm's gossip, Orevna,
Makes answer for them:
"Yes, KlIm, Son-of-Jacob,
The hay of the Barin 100
Is surely more precious
Than ours. We must tend it
As long as the weather lasts;
Ours may come later."
"A woman she is,
But more clever than you,"
The Pomyeshchick says smiling,
And then of a sudden
Is shaken with laughter:
"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110
Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool!
It's the 'Barin's term,' say you?
Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha!
The Barin's term, slave,
Is the whole of your life-time;
And you have forgotten
That I, by God's mercy,
By Tsar's ancient charter,
By birth and by merit,
Am your supreme master!" 120
The strangers remark here
That Vlasuchka gently
Slips down to the grass.
"What's that for?" they ask him.
"We may as well rest now;
He's off. You can't stop him.
For since it was rumoured
That we should be given
Our freedom, the Barin
Takes care to remind us 130
That till the last hour
Of the world will the peasant
Be clenched in the grip
Of the nobles." And really
An hour slips away
And the Prince is still speaking;
His tongue will not always
Obey him, he splutters
And hisses, falls over
His words, and his right eye 140
So shares his disquiet
That it trembles and twitches.
The left eye expands,
Grows as round as an owl's eye,
Revolves like a wheel.
The rights of his Fathers
Through ages respected,
His services, merits,
His name and possessions,
The Barin rehearses. 150
God's curse, the Tsar's anger,
He hurls at the heads
Of obstreperous peasants.
And strictly gives order
To sweep from the commune
All senseless ideas,
Bids the peasants remember
That they are his slaves
And must honour their master.
"Our Fathers," cried KlIm, 160
And his voice sounded strangely,
It rose to a squeak
As if all things within him
Leapt up with a passionate
Joy of a sudden
At thought of the mighty
And noble Pomyeshchicks,
"And whom should we serve
Save the Master we cherish?
And whom should we honour? 170
In whom should we hope?
We feed but on sorrows,
We bathe but in tear-drops,
How can we rebel?
"Our tumble-down hovels,
Our weak little bodies,
Ourselves, we are yours,
We belong to our Master.
The seeds which we sow
In the earth, and the harvest, 180
The hair on our heads-
All belongs to the Master.
Our ancestors fallen
To dust in their coffins,
Our feeble old parents
The script ran 0.007 seconds.
