Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?
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Who nod on the oven,
Our little ones lying
Asleep in their cradles
Are yours-are our Master's,
And we in our homes 190
Use our wills but as freely
As fish in a net."
The words of the Elder
Have pleased the Pomyeshchick,
The right eye is gazing
Benignantly at him,
The left has grown smaller
And peaceful again
Like the moon in the heavens.
He pours out a goblet 200
Of red foreign wine:
"Drink," he says to the peasant.
The rich wine is burning
Like blood in the sunshine;
KlIm drinks without protest.
Again he is speaking:
"Our Fathers," he says,
"By your mercy we live now
As though in the bosom
Of Christ. Let the peasant 210
But try to exist
Without grace from the Barin!"
(He sips at the goblet.)
"The whole world would perish
If not for the Barin's
Deep wisdom and learning.
If not for the peasant's
Most humble submission.
By birth, and God's holy
Decree you are bidden 220
To govern the stupid
And ignorant peasant;
By God's holy will
Is the peasant commanded
To honour and cherish
And work for his lord!"
And here the old servant,
Ipat, who is standing
Behind the Pomyeshchick
And waving his branches, 230
Begins to sob loudly,
The tears streaming down
O'er his withered old face:
"Let us pray that the Barin
For many long years
May be spared to his servants!"
The simpleton blubbers,
The loving old servant,
And raising his hand,
Weak and trembling, he crosses 240
Himself without ceasing.
The black-moustached footguards
Look sourly upon him
With secret displeasure.
But how can they help it?
So off come their hats
And they cross themselves also.
And then the old Prince
And the wrinkled old dry-nurse
Both sign themselves thrice, 250
And the Elder does likewise.
He winks to the woman,
His sharp little gossip,
And straightway the women,
Who nearer and nearer
Have drawn to the table,
Begin most devoutly
To cross themselves too.
And one begins sobbing
In just such a manner 260
As had the old servant.
("That's right, now, start whining,
Old Widow Terentevna,
Sill-y old noodle!"
Says Vlasuchka, crossly.)
The red sun peeps slyly
At them from a cloud,
And the slow, dreamy music
Is heard from the river...
The ancient Pomyeshchick 270
Is moved, and the right eye
Is blinded with tears,
Till the golden-haired lady
Removes them and dries it;
She kisses the other eye
Heartily too.
"You see!" then remarks
The old man to his children,
The two stalwart sons
And the pretty young ladies; 280
"I wish that those villains,
Those Petersburg liars
Who say we are tyrants,
Could only be here now
To see and hear this!"
But then something happened
Which checked of a sudden
The speech of the Barin:
A peasant who couldn't
Control his amusement 290
Gave vent to his laughter.
The Barin starts wildly,
He clutches the table,
He fixes his face
In the sinner's direction;
The right eye is fierce,
Like a lynx he is watching
To dart on his prey,
And the left eye is whirling.
"Go, find him!" he hisses, 300
"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"
The Elder dives straight
In the midst of the people;
He asks himself wildly,
"Now, what's to be done?"
He makes for the edge
Of the crowd, where are sitting
The journeying strangers;
His voice is like honey:
"Come one of you forward; 310
You see, you are strangers,
He wouldn't touch you."
But they are not anxious
To face the Pomyeshchick,
Although they would gladly
Have helped the poor peasants.
He's mad, the old Barin,
So what's to prevent him
From beating them too?
"Well, you go, Roman," 320
Say the two brothers Goobin,
"You love the Pomyeshchicks."
"I'd rather you went, though!"
And each is quite willing
To offer the other.
Then KlIm looses patience;
"Now, Vlasuchka, help us!
Do something to save us!
I'm sick of the thing!"
"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330
"Oho!" says KlIm sharply,
"What lies did I tell?
And shan't we be choked
In the grip of the Barins
Until our last day
When we lie in our coffins?
When we get to Hell, too,
Won't they be there waiting
To set us to work?"
"What kind of a job 340
Would they find for us there, KlIm?"
"To stir up the fire
While they boil in the pots!"
The others laugh loudly.
The sons of the Barin
Come hurrying to them;
"How foolish you are, KlIm!
Our father has sent us,
He's terribly angry
That you are so long, 350
And don't bring the offender."
"We can't bring him, Barin;
A stranger he is,
From St. Petersburg province,
A very rich peasant;
The devil has sent him
To us, for our sins!
He can't understand us,
And things here amuse him;
He couldn't help laughing." 360
"Well, let him alone, then.
Cast lots for a culprit,
We'll pay him. Look here!"
He offers five roubles.
Oh, no. It won't tempt them.
"Well, run to the Barin,
And say that the fellow
Has hidden himself."
"But what when to-morrow comes?
Have you forgotten 370
Petrov, how we punished
The innocent peasant?"
"Then what's to be done?"
"Give me the five roubles!
You trust me, I'll save you!"
Exclaims the sharp woman,
The Elder's sly gossip.
She runs from the peasants
Lamenting and groaning,
And flings herself straight 380
At the feet of the Barin:
"O red little sun!
O my Father, don't kill me!
I have but one child,
Oh, have pity upon him!
My poor boy is daft,
Without wits the Lord made him,
And sent him so into
The world. He is crazy.
Why, straight from the bath 390
He at once begins scratching;
His drink he will try
To pour into his laputs
Instead of the jug.
And of work he knows nothing;
He laughs, and that's all
He can do-so God made him!
Our poor little home,
'Tis small comfort he brings it;
Our hut is in ruins, 400
Not seldom it happens
We've nothing to eat,
And that sets him laughing-
The poor crazy loon!
You may give him a farthing,
A crack on the skull,
And at one and the other
He'll laugh-so God made him!
And what can one say?
From a fool even sorrow 410
Comes pouring in laughter."
The knowing young woman!
She lies at the feet
Of the Barin, and trembles,
She squeals like a silly
Young girl when you pinch her,
She kisses his feet.
"Well .. go. God be with you!"
The Barin says kindly,
"I need not be angry 420
At idiot laughter,
I'll laugh at him too!"
"How good you are, Father,"
The black-eyed young lady
Says sweetly, and strokes
The white head of the Barin.
The black-moustached footguards
At this put their word in:
"A fool cannot follow
The words of his masters, 430
Especially those
Like the words of our father,
So noble and clever."
And KlIm-shameless rascal!-
Is wiping his eyes
On the end of his coat-tails,
Is sniffing and whining;
"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!
The sons of our Father!
They know how to punish, 440
But better they know
How to pardon and pity!"
The old man is cheerful
Again, and is asking
For light frothing wine,
And the corks begin popping
And shoot in the air
To fall down on the women,
Who fly from them, shrieking.
The Barin is laughing, 450
The ladies then laugh,
And at them laugh their husbands,
And next the old servant,
Ipat, begins laughing,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
And then the whole party
Laugh loudly together;
The feast will be merry!
His daughters-in-law
At the old Prince's order 460
Are pouring out vodka
To give to the peasants,
Hand cakes to the youths,
To the girls some sweet syrup;
The women drink also
A small glass of vodka.
The old Prince is drinking
And toasting the peasants;
And slyly he pinches
The beautiful ladies. 470
"That's right! That will do him
More good than his physic,"
Says Vlasuchka, watching.
"He drinks by the glassful,
Since long he's lost measure
In revel, or wrath..."
The music comes floating
To them from the Volga,
The girls now already
Are dancing and singing, 480
The old Prince is watching them,
Snapping his fingers.
He wants to be nearer
The girls, and he rises.
His legs will not bear him,
His two sons support him;
And standing between them
He chuckles and whistles,
And stamps with his feet
To the time of the music; 490
The left eye begins
On its own account working,
It turns like a wheel.
"But why aren't you dancing?"
He says to his sons,
And the two pretty ladies.
"Dance! Dance!" They can't help themselves,
There they are dancing!
He laughs at them gaily,
He wishes to show them 500
How things went in his time;
He's shaking and swaying
Like one on the deck
Of a ship in rough weather.
"Sing, Luiba!" he orders.
The golden-haired lady
Does not want to sing,
But the old man will have it.
The lady is singing
A song low and tender, 510
It sounds like the breeze
On a soft summer evening
In velvety grasses
Astray, like spring raindrops
That kiss the young leaves,
And it soothes the Pomyeshchick.
The feeble old man:
He is falling asleep now...
And gently they carry him
Down to the water, 520
And into the boat,
And he lies there, still sleeping.
Above him stands, holding
A big green umbrella,
The faithful old servant,
His other hand guarding
The sleeping Pomyeshchick
From gnats and mosquitoes.
The oarsmen are silent,
The faint-sounding music 530
Can hardly be heard
As the boat moving gently
Glides on through the water...
The peasants stand watching:
The bright yellow hair
Of the beautiful lady
Streams out in the breeze
Like a long golden banner...
"I managed him finely,
The noble Pomyeshchick," 540
Said KlIm to the peasants.
"Be God with you, Barin!
Go bragging and scolding,
Don't think for a moment
That we are now free
And your servants no longer,
But die as you lived,
The almighty Pomyeshchick,
To sound of our music,
To songs of your slaves; 550
But only die quickly,
And leave the poor peasants
In peace. And now, brothers,
Come, praise me and thank me!
I've gladdened the commune.
I shook in my shoes there
Before the Pomyeshchick,
For fear I should trip
Or my tongue should betray me;
And worse-I could hardly 560
Speak plain for my laughter!
That eye! How it spins!
And you look at it, thinking:
'But whither, my friend,
Do you hurry so quickly?
On some hasty errand
Of yours, or another's?
Perhaps with a pass
From the Tsar-Little Father,
You carry a message 570
From him.' I was standing
And bursting with laughter!
Well, I am a drunken
And frivolous peasant,
The rats in my corn-loft
Are starving from hunger,
My hut is quite bare,
Yet I call God to witness
That I would not take
Such an office upon me 580
For ten hundred roubles
Unless I were certain
That he was the last,
That I bore with his bluster
To serve my own ends,
Of my own will and pleasure."
Old Vlasuchka sadly
And thoughtfully answers,
"How long, though, how long, though,
Have we-not we only 590
But all Russian peasants-
Endured the Pomyeshchicks?
And not for our pleasure,
For money or fun,
Not for two or three months,
But for life. What has changed, though?
Of what are we bragging?
For still we are peasants."
The peasants, half-tipsy,
Congratulate KlImka. 600
"Hurrah! Let us toss him!"
And now they are placing
Old Widow Terentevna
Next to her bridegroom,
The little child Jockoff,
Saluting them gaily.
They're eating and drinking
What's left on the table.
Then romping and jesting
They stay till the evening, 610
And only at nightfall
Return to the village.
And here they are met
By some sobering tidings:
The old Prince is dead.
From the boat he was taken,
They thought him asleep,
But they found he was lifeless.
The second stroke-while
He was sleeping-had fallen! 620
The peasants are sobered,
They look at each other,
And silently cross themselves.
Then they breathe deeply;
And never before
Did the poor squalid village
Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"
Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"
Draw such an intense
And unanimous breath... 630
Their pleasure, however,
Was not very lasting,
Because with the death
Of the ancient Pomyeshchick,
The sweet-sounding words
Of his heirs and their bounties
Ceased also. Not even
A pick-me-up after
The yesterday's feast
Did they offer the peasants. 640
And as to the hayfields-
Till now is the law-suit
Proceeding between them,
The heirs and the peasants.
Old Vlasuchka was
By the peasants appointed
To plead in their name,
And he lives now in Moscow.
He went to St. Petersburg too,
But I don't think 650
That much can be done
For the cause of the peasants.
PART III.
THE PEASANT WOMAN
PROLOGUE
"Not only to men
Must we go with our question,
We'll ask of the women,"
The peasants decided.
They asked in the village
"Split-up," but the people
Replied to them shortly,
"Not here will you find one.
But go to the village
'Stripped-Naked'-a woman 10
Lives there who is happy.
She's hardly a woman,
She's more like a cow,
For a woman so healthy,
So smooth and so clever,
Could hardly be found.
You must seek in the village
Matrona Korchagin-
The people there call her
'The Governor's Lady.'" 20
The peasants considered
And went...
Now already
The corn-stalks are rising
Like tall graceful columns,
With gilded heads nodding,
And whispering softly
In gentle low voices.
Oh, beautiful summer!
No time is so gorgeous, 30
So regal, so rich.
You full yellow cornfields,
To look at you now
One would never imagine
How sorely God's people
Had toiled to array you
Before you arose,
In the sight of the peasant,
And stood before him,
Like a glorious army 40
n front of a Tsar!
'Tis not by warm dew-drops
That you have been moistened,
The sweat of the peasant
Has fallen upon you.
The peasants are gladdened
At sight of the oats
And the rye and the barley,
But not by the wheat,
For it feeds but the chosen: 50
"We love you not, wheat!
But the rye and the barley
We love-they are kind,
They feed all men alike."
The flax, too, is growing
So sweetly and bravely:
"Ai! you little mite!
You are caught and entangled!"
A poor little lark
In the flax has been captured; 60
It struggles for freedom.
Pakhom picks it up,
He kisses it tenderly:
"Fly, little birdie!" ..
The lark flies away
To the blue heights of Heaven;
The kind-hearted peasants
Gaze lovingly upwards
To see it rejoice
In the freedom above... 70
The peas have come on, too;
Like locusts, the peasants
Attack them and eat them.
They're like a plump maiden-
The peas-for whoever
Goes by must needs pinch them.
Now peas are being carried
In old hands, in young hands,
They're spreading abroad
Over seventy high-roads. 80
The vegetables-how
They're flourishing also!
Each toddler is clasping
A radish or carrot,
And many are cracking
The seeds of the sunflower.
The beetroots are dotted
Like little red slippers
All over the earth.
Our peasants are walking, 90
Now faster-now slower.
At last they have reached it-
The village 'Stripped-Naked,'
It's not much to look at:
Each hut is propped up
Like a beggar on crutches;
The thatch from the roofs
Has made food for the cattle;
The huts are like feeble
Old skeletons standing, 100
Like desolate rooks' nests
When young birds forsake them.
When wild Autumn winds
Have dismantled the birch-trees.
The people are all
In the fields; they are working.
Behind the poor village
A manor is standing;
It's built on the slope
Of a hill, and the peasants 110
Are making towards it
To look at it close.
The house is gigantic,
The courtyard is huge,
There's a pond in it too;
A watch-tower arises
From over the house,
With a gallery round it,
A flagstaff upon it.
They meet with a lackey 120
Near one of the gates:
He seems to be wearing
A strange kind of mantle;
"Well, what are you up to?"
He says to the friends,
"The Pomyeshchick's abroad now,
The manager's dying."
He shows them his back,
And they all begin laughing:
A tiger is clutching 130
The edge of his shoulders!
"Heh! here's a fine joke!"
They are hotly discussing
What kind of a mantle
The lackey is wearing,
Till clever Pakhom
Has got hold of the riddle.
"The cunning old rascal,
He's stolen a carpet,
And cut in the middle 140
A hole for his head!"
Like weak, straddling beetles
Shut up to be frozen
In cold empty huts
By the pitiless peasants.
The servants are crawling
All over the courtyard.
Their master long since
Has forgotten about them,
And left them to live 150
As they can. They are hungry,
All old and decrepit,
And dressed in all manners,
They look like a crowd
In a gipsy encampment.
And some are now dragging
A net through the pond:
"God come to your help!
Have you caught something, brothers?"
"One carp-nothing more; 160
There used once to be many,
But now we have come
To the end of the feast!"
"Do try to get five!"
Says a pale, pregnant woman,
Who's fervently blowing
A fire near the pond.
"And what are those pretty
Carved poles you are burning?
They're balcony railings, 170
I think, are they not?"
"Yes, balcony railings."
"See here. They're like tinder;
Don't blow on them, Mother!
I bet they'll burn faster
Than you find the victuals
To cook in the pot!"
"I'm waiting and waiting,
And MItyenka sickens
Because of the musty 180
Old bread that I give him.
But what can I do?
This life-it is bitter!"
She fondles the head
Of a half-naked baby
Who sits by her side
In a little brass basin,
A button-nosed mite.
"The boy will take cold there,
The basin will chill him," 190
Says Prov; and he wishes
To lift the child up,
But it screams at him, angry.
"No, no! Don't you touch him,"
The mother says quickly,
"Why, can you not see
That's his carriage he's driving?
Drive on, little carriage!
Gee-up, little horses!
You see how he drives!" 200
The peasants each moment
Observe some new marvel;
And soon they have noticed
A strange kind of labour
Proceeding around them:
One man, it appears,
To the door has got fastened;
He's toiling away
To unscrew the brass handles,
His hands are so weak 210
He can scarcely control them.
Another is hugging
Some tiles: "See, Yegorshka,
I've dug quite a heap out!"
Some children are shaking
An apple-tree yonder:
"You see, little Uncles,
There aren't many left,
Though the tree was quite heavy."
"But why do you want them? 220
They're quite hard and green."
"We're thankful to get them!"
The peasants examine
The park for a long time;
Such wonders are seen here,
Such cunning inventions:
In one place a mountain
Is raised; in another
A ravine yawns deep!
A lake has been made too; 230
Perhaps at one time
There were swans on the water?
The summer-house has some
Inscriptions upon it,
Demyan begins spelling
Them out very slowly.
A grey-haired domestic
Is watching the peasants;
He sees they have very
Inquisitive natures, 240
And presently slowly
Goes hobbling towards them,
And holding a book.
He says, "Will you buy it?"
Demyan is a peasant
Acquainted with letters,
He tries for some time
But he can't read a word.
"Just sit down yourself
On that seat near the linden, 250
And read the book leisurely
Like a Pomyeshchick!"
"You think you are clever,"
The grey-headed servant
Retorts with resentment,
"Yet books which are learned
Are wasted upon you.
You read but the labels
On public-house windows,
And that which is written 260
On every odd corner:
'Most strictly forbidden.'"
The pathways are filthy,
The graceful stone ladies
Bereft of their noses.
"The fruit and the berries,
The geese and the swans
Which were once on the water,
The thieving old rascals
Have stuffed in their maws. 270
Like church without pastor,
Like fields without peasants,
Are all these fine gardens
Without a Pomyeshchick,"
The peasants remark.
For long the Pomyeshchick
Has gathered his treasures,
When all of a sudden...
(The six peasants laugh,
But the seventh is silent, 280
He hangs down his head.)
A song bursts upon them!
A voice is resounding
Like blasts of a trumpet.
The heads of the peasants
Are eagerly lifted,
They gaze at the tower.
On the balcony round it
A man is now standing;
He wears a pope's cassock; 290
He sings .. on the balmy
Soft air of the evening,
The bass, like a huge
Silver bell, is vibrating,
And throbbing it enters
The hearts of the peasants.
The words are not Russian,
But some foreign language,
But, like Russian songs,
It is full of great sorrow, 300
Of passionate grief,
Unending, unfathomed;
It wails and laments,
It is bitterly sobbing...
"Pray tell us, good woman,
What man is that singing?"
Roman asks the woman
Now feeding her baby
With steaming ukha.[43]
"A singer, my brothers, 310
A born Little Russian,
The Barin once brought him
Away from his home,
With a promise to send him
To Italy later.
But long the Pomyeshchick
Has been in strange parts
And forgotten his promise;
And now the poor fellow
Would be but too glad 320
To get back to his village.
There's nothing to do here,
He hasn't a farthing,
There's nothing before him
And nothing behind him
Excepting his voice.
You have not really heard it;
You will if you stay here
Till sunrise to-morrow:
Some three versts away 330
There is living a deacon,
And he has a voice too.
They greet one another:
Each morning at sunrise
Will our little singer
Climb up to the watch-tower,
And call to the other,
'Good-morrow to Father
Ipat, and how fares he?'
(The windows all shake 340
At the sound.)
From the distance
The deacon will answer,
'Good-morrow, good-morrow,
To our little sweet-throat!
I go to drink vodka,
I'm going .. I'm going...'
The voice on the air
Will hang quivering around us
For more than an hour, 350
Like the neigh of a stallion."
The cattle are now
Coming home, and the evening
Is filled with the fragrance
Of milk; and the woman,
The mother of MItyenka,
Sighs; she is thinking,
"If only one cow
Would turn into the courtyard!"
But hark! In the distance 360
Some voices in chorus!
"Good-bye, you poor mourners,
May God send you comfort!
The people are coming,
We're going to meet them."
The peasants are filled
With relief; because after
The whining old servants
The people who meet them
Returning from work 370
In the fields seem such healthy
And beautiful people.
The men and the women
And pretty young girls
Are all singing together.
"Good health to you! Which is
Among you the woman
Matrona Korchagin?"
The peasants demand.
"And what do you want 380
With Matrona Korchagin?"
The woman Matrona
Is tall, finely moulded,
Majestic in bearing,
And strikingly handsome.
Of thirty-eight years
She appears, and her black hair
Is mingled with grey.
Her complexion is swarthy,
Her eyes large and dark 390
And severe, with rich lashes.
A white shirt, and short
Sarafan[44] she is wearing,
She walks with a hay-fork
Slung over her shoulder.
"Well, what do you want
With Matrona Korchagin?"
The peasants are silent;
They wait till the others
Have gone in advance, 400
And then, bowing, they answer:
"We come from afar,
And a trouble torments us,
A trouble so great
That for it we've forsaken
Our homes and our work,
And our appetites fail.
We're orthodox peasants,
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From 'Destitute Parish,' 410
From neighbouring hamlets-
'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'
And 'Harvestless,' too.
We met in the roadway
And argued about
Who is happy in Russia.
Luka said, 'The pope,'
And Demyan, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420
And Roman, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goobin,
Mitrodor and Ivan.
Pakhom said, 'His Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser.'
Like bulls are the peasants:
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it
Although you should beat them 430
With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly
And nothing will move them.
We argued and quarrelled,
While quarrelling fought,
And while fighting decided
That never again
Would we turn our steps homewards
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people, 440
Until we have found
The reply to our question,
Of who can in Russia
Be happy and free?
We've questioned the pope,
We've asked the Pomyeshchick,
And now we ask you.
We'll seek the official,
The Minister, merchant,
We even will go 450
To the Tsar-Little Father,
Though whether he'll see us
We cannot be sure.
But rumour has told us
That you're free and happy.
Then say, in God's name,
If the rumour be true."
Matrona Korchagin
Does not seem astonished,
But only a sad look 460
Creeps into her eyes,
And her face becomes thoughtful.
"Your errand is surely
A foolish one, brothers,"
She says to the peasants,
"For this is the season
Of work, and no peasant
For chatter has time."
"Till now on our journey
Throughout half the Empire 470
We'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't
Get some work done to-morrow!"
The peasants reply. 480
Matrona sees clearly
Enough that this offer
Must not be rejected;
"Agreed," she said, smiling,
"To such lusty fellows
As you, we may well look
For ten sheaves apiece."
"You give us your promise
To open your heart to us?"
"I will hide nothing." 490
Matrona Korchagin
Now enters her cottage,
And while she is working
Within it, the peasants
Discover a very
Nice spot just behind it,
And sit themselves down.
There's a barn close beside them
And two immense haystacks,
A flax-field around them; 500
And lying just near them
A fine plot of turnips,
And spreading above them
A wonderful oak-tree,
A king among oaks.
They're sitting beneath it,
And now they're producing
The magic white napkin:
"Heh, napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!" 510
The napkin unfolds,
Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where,
Place a pailful of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
The two brothers Goobin
Are chuckling together,
For they have just pilfered 520
A very big horse-radish
Out of the garden-
It's really a monster!
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