Chapter III Savyéli
“A mane grey and bushy
Which covered his shoulders,
A huge grizzled beard
Which had not seen the scissors
For twenty odd years,
Made Savyéli resemble
A shaggy old bear,
Especially when he
Came out of the forest,
So broad and bent double.
The grandfather’s shoulders
Were bowed very low,
And at first I was frightened
Whenever he entered
The tiny low cottage:
I thought that were he
To stand straight of a sudden
He’d knock a great hole
With his head in the ceiling.
But Grandfather could not
Stand straight, and they told me
That he was a hundred.
He lived all alone
In his own little cottage,
And never permitted
The others to enter;
He couldn’t abide them.
Of course they were angry
And often abused him.
His own son would shout at him,
‘Branded one! Convict!’
But this did not anger
Savyéli, he only
Would go to his cottage
Without making answer,
And, crossing himself,
Begin reading the scriptures;
Then suddenly cry
In a voice loud and joyful,
‘Though branded—no slave!’
When too much they annoyed him,
He sometimes would say to them:
‘Look, the swat’s46 coming!’
The unmarried daughter
Would fly to the window;
Instead of the swat there
A beggar she’d find!
And one day he silvered
A common brass farthing,
And left it to lie
On the floor; and then straightway
Did Father-in-law run
In joy to the tavern,—
He came back, not tipsy,
But beaten half-dead!
At supper that night
We were all very silent,
And Father-in-law had
A cut on his eyebrow,
But Grandfather’s face
Wore a smile like a rainbow!
“Savyéli would gather
The berries and mushrooms
From spring till late autumn,
And snare the wild rabbits;
Throughout the long winter
He lay on the oven
And talked to himself.
He had favourite sayings:
He used to lie thinking
For whole hours together,
And once in an hour
You would hear him exclaiming:
“‘Destroyed … and subjected!’
Or, ‘Ai, you toy heroes!
You’re fit but for battles
With old men and women!’
“‘Be patient … and perish,
Impatient … and perish!’
“‘Eh, you Russian peasant,
You giant, you strong man,
The whole of your lifetime
You’re flogged, yet you dare not
Take refuge in death,
For Hell’s torments await you!’
“‘At last the Korójins47
Awoke, and they paid him,
They paid him, they paid him,
They paid the whole debt!’
And many such sayings
He had,—I forget them.
When Father-in-law grew
Too noisy I always
Would run to Savyéli,
And we two, together,
Would fasten the door.
Then I began working,
While Djómushka climbed
To the grandfather’s shoulder,
And sat there, and looked
Like a bright little apple
That hung on a hoary
Old tree. Once I asked him:
“‘And why do they call you
A convict, Savyéli?’
“‘I was once a convict,’
Said he.
“‘You, Savyéli!’
“‘Yes I, little Grandchild,
Yes, I have been branded.
I buried a German
Alive—Christian Vogel.’
“‘You’re joking, Savyéli!’
“‘Oh no, I’m not joking.
I mean it,’ he said,
And he told me the story.
“‘The peasants in old days
Were serfs as they now are,
But our race had, somehow,
Not seen its Pomyéshchick;
No manager knew we,
No pert German agent.
And barschin we gave not,
And taxes we paid not
Except when it pleased us,—
Perhaps once in three years
Our taxes we’d pay.’
“‘But why, little Grandad?’
“‘The times were so blessed,—
And folk had a saying
That our little village
Was sought by the devil
For more than three years,
But he never could find it.
Great forests a thousand
Years old lay about us;
And treacherous marshes
And bogs spread around us;
No horseman and few men
On foot ever reached us.
It happened that once
By some chance, our Pomyéshchick,
Shaláshnikov, wanted
To pay us a visit.
High placed in the army
Was he; and he started
With soldiers to find us.
They soon got bewildered
And lost in the forest,
And had to turn back;
Why, the Zemsky policeman
Would only come once
In a year! They were good times!
In these days the Barin
Lives under your window;
The roadways go spreading
Around, like white napkins—
The devil destroy them!
We only were troubled
By bears, and the bears too
Were easily managed.
Why, I was a worse foe
By far than old Mishka,
When armed with a dagger
And bear-spear. I wandered
In wild, secret woodpaths,
And shouted, ‘’My forest!’’
And once, only once,
I was frightened by something:
I stepped on a huge
Female bear that was lying
Asleep in her den
In the heart of the forest.
She flung herself at me,
And straight on my bear-spear
Was fixed. Like a fowl
On the spit she hung twisting
An hour before death.
It was then that my spine snapped.
It often was painful
When I was a young man;
But now I am old,
It is fixed and bent double.
Now, do I not look like
A hook, little Grandchild?’
“‘But finish the story.
You lived and were not much
Afflicted. What further?’
“‘At last our Pomyéshchick
Invented a new game:
He sent us an order,
‘’Appear!’’ We appeared not.
Instead, we lay low
In our dens, hardly breathing.
A terrible drought
Had descended that summer,
The bogs were all dry;
So he sent a policeman,
Who managed to reach us,
To gather our taxes,
In honey and fish;
A second time came he,
We gave him some bear-skins;
And when for the third time
He came, we gave nothing,—
We said we had nothing.
We put on our laputs,
We put our old caps on,
Our oldest old coats,
And we went to Korójin
(For there was our master now,
Stationed with soldiers).
‘’Your taxes!’’ ‘’We have none,
We cannot pay taxes,
The corn has not grown,
And the fish have escaped us.’’
‘’Your taxes!’’ ‘’We have none.’’
He waited no longer;
‘’Hey! Give them the first round!’’
He said, and they flogged us.
“‘Our pockets were not
Very easily opened;
Shaláshnikov, though, was
A master at flogging.
Our tongues became parched,
And our brains were set whirling,
And still he continued.
He flogged not with birch-rods,
With whips or with sticks,
But with knouts made for giants.
At last we could stand it
No longer; we shouted,
‘’Enough! Let us breathe!’’
We unwound our foot-rags
And took out our money,
And brought to the Barin
A ragged old bonnet
With roubles half filled.
“‘The Barin grew calm,
He was pleased with the money;
He gave us a glass each
Of strong, bitter brandy,
And drank some himself
With the vanquished Korójins,
And gaily clinked glasses.
‘’It’s well that you yielded,’’
Said he, ‘’For I swear
I was fully decided
To strip off the last shred
Of skins from your bodies
And use it for making
A drum for my soldiers!
Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!’’
(He was pleased with the notion.)
‘’A fine drum indeed!’’
“‘In silence we left;
But two stalwart old peasants
Were chuckling together;
They’d two hundred roubles
In notes, the old rascals!
Safe hidden away
In the end of their coat-tails.
They both had been yelling,
‘’We’re beggars! We’re beggars!’’
So carried them home.
‘’Well, well, you may cackle!’’
I thought to myself,
‘’But the next time, be certain,
You won’t laugh at me!’’
The others were also
Ashamed of their weakness,
And so by the ikons
We swore all together
That next time we rather
Would die of the beating
Than feebly give way.
It seems the Pomyéshchick
Had taken a fancy
At once to our roubles,
Because after that
Every year we were summoned
To go to Korójin,
We went, and were flogged.
“‘Shaláshnikov flogged like
A prince, but be certain
The treasures he thrashed from
The doughty Korójins
Were not of much weight.
The weak yielded soon,
But the strong stood like iron
For the commune. I also
Bore up, and I thought:
‘’Though never so stoutly
You flog us, you dog’s son,
You won’t drag the whole soul
From out of the peasant;
Some trace will be left.’’
“‘When the Barin was sated
We went from the town,
But we stopped on the outskirts
To share what was over.
And plenty there was, too!
Shaláshnikov, heh,
You’re a fool! It was our turn
To laugh at the Barin;
Ah, they were proud peasants—
The plucky Korójins!
But nowadays show them
The tail of a knout,
And they’ll fly to the Barin,
And beg him to take
The last coin from their pockets.
Well, that’s why we all lived
Like merchants in those days.
One summer came tidings
To us that our Barin
Now owned us no longer,
That he had, at Varna,
Been killed. We weren’t sorry,
But somehow we thought then:
‘’The peasants’ good fortune
Has come to an end!’’
The heir made a new move:
He sent us a German.48
Through vast, savage forests,
Through sly sucking bogs
And on foot came the German,
As bare as a finger.
“’As melting as butter
At first was the German:
‘’Just give what you can, then,’’
He’d say to the peasants.
“‘’’We’ve nothing to give!’’
“‘’’I’ll explain to the Barin.’’
“‘’’Explain,’’ we replied,
And were troubled no more.
It seemed he was going
To live in the village;
He soon settled down.
On the banks of the river,
For hour after hour
He sat peacefully fishing,
And striking his nose
Or his cheek or his forehead.
We laughed: ‘’You don’t like
The Korójin mosquitoes?’’
He’d boat near the bankside
And shout with enjoyment,
Like one in the bath-house
Who’s got to the roof.49
“‘With youths and young maidens
He strolled in the forest
(They were not for nothing
Those strolls in the forest!)—
‘’Well, if you can’t pay
You should work, little peasants.’’
“‘’’What work should we do?’’
“‘’’You should dig some deep ditches
To drain off the bog-lands.’’
We dug some deep ditches.
“‘’’And now trim the forest.’’
“‘’’Well, well, trim the forest….’’
We hacked and we hewed
As the German directed,
And when we look round
There’s a road through the forest!
“‘The German went driving
To town with three horses;
Look! now he is coming
With boxes and bedding,
And God knows wherefrom
Has this bare-footed German
Raised wife and small children!
And now he’s established
A village ispravnik,50
They live like two brothers.
His courtyard at all times
Is teeming with strangers,
And woe to the peasants—
The fallen Korójins!
He sucked us all dry
To the very last farthing;
And flog!—like the soul
Of Shaláshnikov flogged he!
Shaláshnikov stopped
When he got what he wanted;
He clung to our backs
Till he’d glutted his stomach,
And then he dropped down
Like a leech from a dog’s ear.
But he had the grip
Of a corpse—had this German;
Until he had left you
Stripped bare like a beggar
You couldn’t escape.’
“‘But how could you bear it?’
“‘Ah, how could we bear it?
Because we were giants—
Because by their patience
The people of Russia
Are great, little Grandchild.
You think, then, Matróna,
That we Russian peasants
No warriors are?
Why, truly the peasant
Does not live in armour,
Does not die in warfare,
But nevertheless
He’s a warrior, child.
His hands are bound tight,
And his feet hung with fetters;
His back—mighty forests
Have broken across it;
His breast—I will tell you,
The Prophet Elijah
In chariot fiery
Is thundering within it;
And these things the peasant
Can suffer in patience.
He bends—but he breaks not;
He reels—but he falls not;
Then is he not truly
A warrior, say?’
“‘You joke, little Grandad;
Such warriors, surely,
A tiny mouse nibbling
Could crumble to atoms,’
I said to Savyéli.
“‘I know not, Matróna,
But up till to-day
He has stood with his burden;
He’s sunk in the earth
’Neath its weight to his shoulders;
His face is not moistened
With sweat, but with heart’s blood.
I don’t know what may
Come to pass in the future,
I can’t think what will
Come to pass—only God knows.
For my part, I know
When the storm howls in winter,
When old bones are painful,
I lie on the oven,
I lie, and am thinking:
‘’Eh, you, strength of giants,
On what have they spent you?
On what are you wasted?
With whips and with rods
They will pound you to dust!’’’
“‘But what of the German,
Savyéli?’
“‘The German?
Well, well, though he lived
Like a lord in his glory
For eighteen long years,
We were waiting our day.
Then the German considered
A factory needful,
And wanted a pit dug.
’Twas work for nine peasants.
We started at daybreak
And laboured till mid-day,
And then we were going
To rest and have dinner,
When up comes the German:
‘’Eh, you, lazy devils!
So little work done?’’
He started to nag us,
Quite coolly and slowly,
Without heat or hurry;
For that was his way.
“‘And we, tired and hungry,
Stood listening in silence.
He kicked the wet earth
With his boot while he scolded,
Not far from the edge
Of the pit. I stood near him.
And happened to give him
A push with my shoulder;
Then somehow a second
And third pushed him gently….
We spoke not a word,
Gave no sign to each other,
But silently, slowly,
Drew closer together,
And edging the German
Respectfully forward,
We brought him at last
To the brink of the hollow….
He tumbled in headlong!
‘’A ladder!’’ he bellows;
Nine shovels reply.
‘’Naddai!’’51—the word fell
From my lips on the instant,
The word to which people
Work gaily in Russia;
‘’Naddai!’’ and ‘’Naddai!’’
And we laboured so bravely
That soon not a trace
Of the pit was remaining,
The earth was as smooth
As before we had touched it;
And then we stopped short
And we looked at each other….’
“The old man was silent.
‘What further, Savyéli?’
“‘What further? Ah, bad times:
The prison in Buy-Town
(I learnt there my letters),
Until we were sentenced;
The convict-mines later;
And plenty of lashes.
But I never frowned
At the lash in the prison;
They flogged us but poorly.
And later I nearly
Escaped to the forest;
They caught me, however.
Of course they did not
Pat my head for their trouble;
The Governor was through
Siberia famous
For flogging. But had not
Shaláshnikov flogged us?
I spit at the floggings
I got in the prison!
Ah, he was a Master!
He knew how to flog you!
He toughened my hide so
You see it has served me
For one hundred years,
And ’twill serve me another.
But life was not easy,
I tell you, Matróna:
First twenty years prison,
Then twenty years exile.
I saved up some money,
And when I came home,
Built this hut for myself.
And here I have lived
For a great many years now.
They loved the old grandad
So long as he’d money,
But now it has gone
They would part with him gladly,
They spit in his face.
Eh, you plucky toy heroes!
You’re fit to make war
Upon old men and women!’
“And that was as much
As the grandfather told me.”
“And now for your story,”
They answer Matróna.
“’Tis not very bright.
From one trouble God
In His goodness preserved me;
For Sitnikov died
Of the cholera. Soon, though,
Another arose,
I will tell you about it.”
“Naddai!” say the peasants
(They love the word well),
They are filling the glasses.