Chapter I Bitter Times — Bitter Songs
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 strange
That in vast Holy Russia,
With masses and masses
Of people unnumbered,
No song has been born
Overflowing with joy
Like a bright summer morning?
Yes, is it not striking,
And is it not tragic?
O times that are coming,
You, too, will be painted
In songs of the people,
But how? In what colours?
And will there be ever
A smile in their hearts?
“Eh, that’s a fine song!
’Tis a shame to forget it.”
Our peasants regret
That their memories trick them.
And, meanwhile, the peasants
Of “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,
Our noses were glued
To the earth. We’d forgotten
The 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 it
Than you,” said a peasant
Who came from a Volost
Near by, with a waggon
Of hay for the market.
(Some heavy misfortune
Had forced him to sell it.)
“For once our young lady,
Miss Gertrude, decided
That any one swearing
Must soundly be flogged.
Dear Lord, how they flogged us
Until we stopped swearing!
Of course, not to swear
For the peasant means—silence.
We suffered, God knows!
Then freedom was granted,
We feasted it finely,
And then we made up
For our silence, believe me:
We swore in such style
That Pope John was ashamed
For the church-bells to hear us.
(They rang all day long.)
What stories we told then!
We’d no need to seek
For the words. They were written
All over our backs.”
“A funny thing happened
In our parts,—a strange thing,”
Remarked a tall fellow
With bushy black whiskers.
(He wore a round hat
With a badge, a red waistcoat
With ten shining buttons,
And stout homespun breeches.
His legs, to contrast
With the smartness above them,
Were tied up in rags!
There are trees very like him,
From which a small shepherd
Has stripped all the bark off
Below, while above
Not a scratch can be noticed!
And surely no raven
Would scorn such a summit
For building a nest.)
“Well, tell us about it.”
“I’ll first have a smoke.”
And while he is smoking
Our peasants are asking,
“And who is this fellow?
What sort of a goose?”
“An unfortunate footman
Inscribed in our Volost,
A martyr, a house-serf
Of Count Sinegúsin’s.
His name is Vikénti.
He sprang from the foot-board
Direct to the ploughshare;
We still call him ‘Footman.’
He’s healthy enough,
But his legs are not strong,
And they’re given to trembling.
His lady would drive
In a carriage and four
To go hunting for mushrooms.
He’ll tell you some stories:
His memory’s splendid;
You’d think he had eaten
The eggs of a magpie.” [55]
Now, setting his hat straight,
Vikénti commences
To 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,
Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both penniless
Out 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 slavery
Sometimes with dogs’ hearts accord:
Crueller the punishments dealt to them
More 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,
But 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, 150
Drives 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!” 159
So, 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, 170
Straight 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….” 180
Now 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,” 191
Jacob 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 noisily
Cast 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, you shall 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! 210
Horrible! Horrible! See, how he sways
Backwards 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 220
Chewing 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 exultingly
Hovers 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. 231
Early 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,
Yet pity the Barin,
Indeed he was punished!
Ah, me!” Then they listen
To two or three more tales
As strange and as fearful,
And hotly they argue
On who must be reckoned
The greatest of sinners:
“The publican,” one says,
And one, “The Pomyéshchick,”
Another, “The peasant.”
This last was a carter,
A man of good standing
And sound reputation,
No ignorant babbler.
He’d seen many things
In his life, his own province
Had traversed entirely.
He should have been heard.
The peasants, however,
Were all so indignant
They would not allow him
To speak. As for Klímka,
His wrath is unbounded,
“You fool!” he is shouting.
“But let me explain.”
“I see you are all fools,”
A voice remarks roughly:
The voice of a trader
Who squeezes the peasants
For laputs or berries
Or any spare trifles.
But chiefly he’s noted
For seizing occasions
When taxes are gathered,
And peasants’ possessions
Are bartered at auction.
“You start a discussion
And miss the chief point.
Why, who’s the worst sinner?
Consider 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
Has nothing to do.”
“The case of the robber
Defending the robber,”
The other retorts.
“Now, pray!” bellows Klímka,
And leaping upon him,
He punches his jaw.
The trader repays him
With buffets as hearty,
“Take leave of your carcase!”
He roars.
“Here’s a tussle!”
The peasants are clearing
A space for the battle;
They do not prevent it
Nor 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!
Heh, send for the pope!”
The trader, bent double
By Klímka, who, clutching
His hair, drags his head down,
Repeating, “He’s bowing!”
Cries, “Stop, that’s enough!”
When Klímka has freed him
He sits on a log,
And says, wiping his face
With a broadly-checked muffler,
“No wonder he conquered:
He ploughs not, he reaps not,
Does nothing but doctor
The 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,
And rolling his sleeves up,
He spits on his palms.
“The hour has now sounded
For me, though a sinner,
To speak and unite you,”
Ióna pronounces.
The whole of the evening
That diffident pilgrim
Has sat without speaking,
And crossed himself, sighing.
The trader’s delighted,
And Klímka replies not.
The rest, without speaking,
Sit down on the ground.