Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 13

The peasants say softly, 550 And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful Pomyeshchick Uncovers his head, As he piously crosses Himself, and he answers: "'Tis not for the peasant The knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost life Of the stricken Pomyeshchick.

Farewell to the past, 560 And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradled The happy Pomyeshchick, Thy place has been stolen And filled by another!...

Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy Is given, and quickly He empties the gla.s.s.) "Oh, it isn't consoling To witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland!

Truly one fancies The whole race of n.o.bles Has suddenly vanished!

Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrednik,'[36] 580 Or Poles who've been banished.

One sees the troops pa.s.sing, And then one can guess That a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankful And dutiful spirit....'

In old days, these roads Were made gay by the pa.s.sing Of carriage, 'dormeuse,'

And of six-in-hand coaches, 590 And pretty, light troikas; And in them were sitting The family troop Of the jolly Pomyeshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters; One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness.

And now?... What distraction Has life? And what joy Does it bring the Pomyeshchick?

At each step, you meet Something new to revolt you; And when in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are pa.s.sing A n.o.bleman's manor! 610 My Lord!... They have pillaged The beautiful dwelling!

They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fas.h.i.+oned The bricks into hideously Accurate columns!

The broad shady park Of the outraged Pomyeshchick, The fruit of a hundred years'

Careful attention, 620 Is falling away 'Neath the axe of a peasant!

The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logs Which his labour will bring him.

His dark soul is closed To refinement of feeling, And what would it matter To him, if you told him 630 That this stately oak Which his hatchet is felling My grandfather's hand Had once planted and tended; That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Ga.n.u.shka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side; That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed me That little Gavrioushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against me And bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosom As red as a cherry....

It is to his profit To ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him.

It makes one ashamed now To pa.s.s through a village; The peasant sits still And he dreams not of bowing.

One feels in one's breast Not the pride of a n.o.ble But wrath and resentment.

The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, 660 It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it, For who can you summon To rescue your forest?

The fields are half-laboured, The seeds are half-wasted, No trace left of order....

O Mother, my country, We do not complain For ourselves--of our sorrows, 670 Our hearts bleed for thee: Like a widow thou standest In helpless affliction With tresses dishevelled And grief-stricken face....

They have blighted the forest, The noisy low taverns Have risen and flourished.

They've picked the most worthless And loose of the people, 680 And given them power In the posts of the Zemstvos; They've seized on the peasant And taught him his letters-- Much good may it do him!

Your brow they have branded, As felons are branded, As cattle are branded, With these words they've stamped it: 'To take away with you 690 Or drink on the premises.'

Was it worth while, pray, To weary the peasant With learning his letters In order to read them?

The land that we keep Is our mother no longer, Our stepmother rather.

And then to improve things, These pert good-for-nothings, 700 These impudent writers Must needs shout in chorus: 'But whose fault, then, is it, That you thus exhausted And wasted your country?'

But I say--you duffers!

Who _could_ foresee this?

They babble, 'Enough Of your lordly pretensions!

It's time that you learnt something, 710 Lazy Pomyeshchicks!

Get up, now, and work!'

"Work! To whom, in G.o.d's name, Do you think you are speaking?

I am not a peasant In 'laputs,' good madman!

I am--by G.o.d's mercy-- A n.o.ble of Russia.

You take us for Germans!

We n.o.bles have tender 720 And delicate feelings, Our pride is inborn, And in Russia our cla.s.ses Are not taught to work.

Why, the meanest official Will not raise a finger To clear his own table, Or light his own stove!

I can say, without boasting, That though I have lived 730 Forty years in the country, And scarcely have left it, I could not distinguish Between rye and barley.

And they sing of 'work' to me!

"If we Pomyeshchicks Have really mistaken Our duty and calling, If really our mission Is not, as in old days, 740 To keep up the hunting, To revel in luxury, Live on forced labour, Why did they not tell us Before? Could I learn it?

For what do I see?

I've worn the Tsar's livery, 'Sullied the Heavens,'

And 'squandered the treasury Gained by the people,' 750 And fully imagined To do so for ever, And now ... G.o.d in Heaven!"...

The Barin is sobbing!...

The kind-hearted peasants Can hardly help crying Themselves, and they think: "Yes, the chain has been broken, The strong links have snapped, And the one end recoiling 760 Has struck the Pomyeshchick, The other--the peasant."

PART II.

THE LAST POMYeSHCHICK

PROLOGUE

The day of St. Peter-- And very hot weather; The mowers are all At their work in the meadows.

The peasants are pa.s.sing A tumble-down village, Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"

Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"

Of Government "Know-Nothing.'

They are approaching 10 The banks of the Volga.

They come to the river, The sea-gulls are wheeling And flas.h.i.+ng above it; The sea-hens are walking About on the sand-banks; And in the bare hayfields, Which look just as naked As any youth's cheek After yesterday's shaving, 20 The Princes Volkonsky[37]

Are haughtily standing, And round them their children, Who (unlike all others) Are born at an earlier Date than their sires.

"The fields are enormous,"

Remarks old Pakhom, "Why, the folk must be giants."

The two brothers Goobin 30 Are smiling at something: For some time they've noticed A very tall peasant Who stands with a pitcher On top of a haystack; He drinks, and a woman Below, with a hay-fork, Is looking at him With her head leaning back.

The peasants walk on 40 Till they come to the haystack; The man is still drinking; They pa.s.s it quite slowly, Go fifty steps farther, Then all turn together And look at the haystack.

Not much has been altered: The peasant is standing With body bent back As before,--but the pitcher 50 Has turned bottom upwards....

The strangers go farther.

The camps are thrown out On the banks of the river; And there the old people And children are gathered, And horses are waiting With big empty waggons; And then, in the fields Behind those that are finished, 60 The distance is filled By the army of workers, The white s.h.i.+rts of women, The men's brightly coloured, And voices and laughter, With all intermingled The hum of the scythes....

"G.o.d help you, good fellows!"

"Our thanks to you, brothers!"

The peasants stand noting 70 The long line of mowers, The poise of the scythes And their sweep through the suns.h.i.+ne.

The rhythmical swell Of melodious murmur.

The timid gra.s.s stands For a moment, and trembles, Then falls with a sigh....

On the banks of the Volga The gra.s.s has grown high 80 And the mowers work gladly.

The peasants soon feel That they cannot resist it.

"It's long since we've stretched ourselves, Come, let us help you!"

And now seven women Have yielded their places.

The spirit of work Is devouring our peasants; Like teeth in a ravenous 90 Mouth they are working-- The muscular arms, And the long gra.s.s is falling To songs that are strange To this part of the country, To songs that are taught By the blizzards and snow-storms, The wild savage winds Of the peasants' own homelands: "Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100 "Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"

And "Harvestless," too....

And when the strong craving For work is appeased They sit down by a haystack.

"From whence have you come?"

A grey-headed old peasant (The one whom the women Call Vlasuchka) asks them, "And where are you going?" 110

"We are--" say the peasants, Then suddenly stop, There's some music approaching!

"Oh, that's the Pomyeshchick Returning from boating!"