Chapter III Old and New
Ióna has finished.
He crosses himself,
And the people are silent.
And then of a sudden
The trader cries loudly
In great irritation,
“What’s wrong with the ferry?
A plague on the sluggards!
Ho, ferry ahoy!”
“You won’t get the ferry
Till sunrise, for even
In daytime they’re frightened
To cross: the boat’s rotten!
About Kudeár, now—”
“Ho, ferry ahoy!”
He strides to his waggon.
A cow is there tethered;
He churlishly kicks her.
His hens begin clucking;
He shouts at them, “Silence!”
The calf, which is shifting
About in the cart.
Gets a crack on the forehead.
He strikes the roan mare
With the whip, and departing
He makes for the Volga.
The moon is now shining,
It casts on the roadway
A comical shadow,
Which trots by his side.
“Oho!” says the Elder,
“He thought himself able
To fight, but discussion
Is not in his line….
My brothers, how grievous
The sins of the nobles!”
“And yet not as great
As the sin of the peasant,”
The carter cannot here
Refrain from remarking.
“A plaguey old croaker!”
Says Klím, spitting crossly;
“Whatever arises
The raven must fly
To his own little brood!
What is it, then, tell us,
The sin of the peasant?”
The Sin of Gleb the Peasant
A’miral Widower sailed on the sea,
Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49
Once with the Turk a great battle he fought,
His was the victory, gallantly bought.
So to the hero as valour’s reward
Eight thousand souls59 did the Empress award.
A’miral Widower lived on his land
Rich and content, till his end was at hand.
As he lay dying this A’miral bold
Handed his Elder a casket of gold.
“See that thou cherish this casket,” he said,
“Keep it and open it when I am dead.
There lies my will, and by it you will see
Eight thousand souls are from serfdom set free.” 61
Dead, on the table, the A’miral lies,
A kinsman remote to the funeral hies.
Buried! Forgotten! His relative soon
Calls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune.
And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill,
Learns of the casket, and terms of the will.
Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed,
Gives him his freedom,—the will is destroyed!
Thus, by Gleb’s longing for criminal gains,
Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71
Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well,
Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!
God forgives all. Yes, but Judas’s crime
Ne’er will be pardoned till end of all time.
Peasant, most infamous sinner of all,
Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!
Wrathful, relentless,
The carter thus finished
The tale of the peasant
In thunder-like tones.
The others sigh deeply
And rise. They’re exclaiming,
“So, that’s what it is, then,
The sin of the peasant.
He’s right. ’Tis indeed
A most terrible sin!”
“The story speaks truly;
Our grief shall be endless,
Ah, me!” says the Elder.
(His faith in improvements
Has vanished again.)
And Klímka, who always
Is swayed in an instant
By joy or by sorrow,
Despondingly echoes,
“A terrible sin!”
The green by the Volga,
Now flooded with moonlight,
Has changed of a sudden:
The peasants no longer
Seem men independent
With self-assured movements,
They’re “Earthworms” again—
Those “Earthworms” whose victuals
Are never sufficient,
Who always are threatened
With drought, blight, or famine,
Who yield to the trader
The fruits of extortion
Their tears, shed in tar.
The miserly haggler
Not only ill-pays them,
But bullies as well:
“For what do I pay you?
The tar costs you nothing.
The sun brings it oozing
From out of your bodies
As though from a pine.”
Again the poor peasants
Are sunk in the depths
Of the bottomless gulf!
Dejected and silent,
They lie on their stomachs
Absorbed in reflection.
But then they start singing;
And slowly the song,
Like a ponderous cloud-bank,
Rolls mournfully onwards.
They sing it so clearly
That quickly our seven
Have learnt it as well.
The Hungry One
The peasant stands
With haggard gaze,
He pants for breath,
He reels and sways;
From famine food,
From bread of bark,
His form has swelled,
His face is dark.
Through endless grief
Suppressed and dumb
His eyes are glazed,
His soul is numb.
As though in sleep,
With footsteps slow,
He creeps to where
The rye doth grow.
Upon his field
He gazes long,
He stands and sings
A voiceless song:
“Grow ripe, grow ripe,
O Mother rye,
I fostered thee,
Thy lord am I.
“Yield me a loaf
Of monstrous girth,
A cake as vast
As Mother-Earth.
“I’ll eat the whole—
No crumb I’ll spare;
With wife, with child,
I will not share.”
“Eh, brothers, I’m hungry!”
A voice exclaims feebly.
It’s one of the peasants.
He fetches a loaf
From his bag, and devours it.
“They sing without voices,
And yet when you listen
Your hair begins rising,”
Another remarks.
It’s true. Not with voices
They sing of the famine—
But something within them.
One, during the singing,
Has risen, to show them
The gait of the peasant
Exhausted by hunger,
And swayed by the wind.
Restrained are his movements
And slow. After singing
“The Hungry One,” thirsting
They make for the bucket,
One after another
Like geese in a file.
They stagger and totter
As people half-famished,
A drink will restore them.
“Come, let us be joyful!”
The deacon is saying.
His youngest son, Grísha,
Approaches the peasants.
“Some vodka?” they ask him.
“No, thank you. I’ve had some.
But what’s been the matter?
You look like drowned kittens.”
“What should be the matter?”
(And making an effort
They bear themselves bravely.)
And Vlass, the old Elder,
Has placed his great palm
On the head of his godson.
“Is serfdom revived?
Will they drive you to barschin
Or pilfer your hayfields?”
Says Grísha in jest.
“The hay-fields? You’re joking!”
“Well, what has gone wrong, then?
And why were you singing 211
‘The Hungry One,’ brothers?
To summon the famine?”
“Yes, what’s all the pother?”
Here Klímka bursts out
Like a cannon exploding.
The others are scratching
Their necks, and reflecting:
“It’s true! What’s amiss?”
“Come, drink, little ‘Earthworms,’
Come, drink and be merry! 221
All’s well—as we’d have it,
Aye, just as we wished it.
Come, hold up your noddles!
But what about Gleb?”
A lengthy discussion
Ensues; and it’s settled
That they’re not to blame
For the deed of the traitor:
’Twas serfdom’s the fault.
For just as the big snake
Gives birth to the small ones,
So serfdom gave birth
To the sins of the nobles,
To Jacob the Faithful’s
And also to Gleb’s.
For, see, without serfdom
Had been no Pomyéshchick
To drive his true servant
To death by the noose,
No terrible vengeance
Of slave upon master
By suicide fearful,
No treacherous Gleb.
’Twas Prov of all others
Who listened to Grísha
With deepest attention
And joy most apparent.
And when he had finished
He cried to the others
In accents of triumph,
Delightedly smiling,
“Now, brothers, mark that!”
“So now, there’s an end
Of ‘The Hungry One,’ peasants!”
Cries Klímka, with glee.
The words about serfdom
Were quickly caught up
By the crowd, and went passing
From one to another:
“Yes, if there’s no big snake
There cannot be small ones!”
And Klímka is swearing
Again at the carter:
“You ignorant fool!”
They’re ready to grapple!
The deacon is sobbing
And kissing his Grísha:
“Just see what a headpiece
The Lord is creating!
No wonder he longs
For the college in Moscow!”
Old Vlass, too, is patting
His shoulder and saying,
“May God send thee silver
And gold, and a healthy
And diligent wife!”
“I wish not for silver
Or gold,” replies Grísha.
“But one thing I wish:
I wish that my comrades,
Yes, all the poor peasants
In Russia so vast,
Could be happy and free!”
Thus, earnestly speaking,
And blushing as shyly
As any young maiden,
He walks from their midst.
The dawn is approaching.
The peasants make ready
To cross by the ferry.
“Eh, Vlass,” says the carter,
As, stooping, he raises
The span of his harness,
“Who’s this on the ground?”
The Elder approaches,
And Klímka behind him,
Our seven as well.
(They’re always most anxious
To see what is passing.)
Some fellow is lying
Exhausted, dishevelled,
Asleep, with the beggars
Behind some big logs.
His clothing is new,
But it’s hanging in ribbons.
A crimson silk scarf
On his neck he is wearing;
A watch and a waistcoat;
His blouse, too, is red.
Now Klímka is stooping
To look at the sleeper,
Shouts, “Beat him!” and roughly
Stamps straight on his mouth.
The fellow springs up,
Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep,
And old Vlásuchka strikes him.
He squeals like a rat
’Neath the heel of your slipper,
And makes for the forest
On long, lanky legs.
Four peasants pursue him,
The others cry, “Beat him!”
Until both the man
And the band of pursuers
Are lost in the forest.
“Who is he?” our seven
Are asking the Elder,
“And why do they beat him?”
“We don’t know the reason,
But we have been told
By the people of Tískov
To punish this Shútov
Whenever we catch him,
And so we obey.
When people from Tískov
Pass by, they’ll explain it.
What luck? Did you catch him?”
He asks of the others
Returned from the chase.
“We caught him, I warrant,
And gave him a lesson.
He’s run to Demyánsky,
For there he’ll be able
To cross by the ferry.”
“Strange people, to beat him
Without any cause!”
“And why? If the commune
Has told us to do it
There must be some reason!”
Shouts Klím at the seven.
“D’you think that the people
Of Tískov are fools?
It isn’t long since, mind,
That many were flogged there,
One man in each ten.
Ah, Shútov, you rendered
A dastardly service,
Your duties are evil,
You damnable wretch!
And who deserves beating
As richly as Shútov?
Not we alone beat him:
From Tískov, you know,
Fourteen villages lie
On the banks of the Volga;
I warrant through each
He’s been driven with blows.”
The seven are silent.
They’re longing to get
At the root of the matter.
But even the Elder
Is now growing angry.
It’s daylight. The women
Are bringing their husbands
Some breakfast, of rye-cakes
And—goose! (For a peasant
Had driven some geese
Through the village to market,
And three were grown weary,
And had to be carried.)
“See here, will you sell them?
They’ll die ere you get there.”
And so, for a trifle,
The geese had been bought.
We’ve often been told
How the peasant loves drinking;
Not many there are, though,
Who know how he eats.
He’s greedier far
For his food than for vodka,
So one man to-day
(A teetotaller mason)
Gets perfectly drunk
On his breakfast of goose!
A shout! “Who is coming?
Who’s this?” Here’s another
Excuse for rejoicing
And noise! There’s a hay-cart
With hay, now approaching,
And high on its summit
A soldier is sitting.
He’s known to the peasants
For twenty versts round.
And, cosy beside him,
Justínutchka sits
(His niece, and an orphan,
His prop in old age).
He now earns his living
By means of his peep-show,
Where, plainly discerned,
Are the Kremlin and Moscow,
While music plays too.
The instrument once
Had gone wrong, and the soldier,
No capital owning,
Bought three metal spoons,
Which he beat to make music;
But the words that he knew
Did not suit the new music,
And folk did not laugh.
The soldier was sly, though:
He made some new words up
That went with the music.
They hail him with rapture!
“Good-health to you, Grandad!
Jump down, drink some vodka,
And give us some music.”
“It’s true I got up here,
But how to get-down?”
“You’re going, I see,
To the town for your pension,
But look what has happened:
It’s burnt to the ground.”
“Burnt down? Yes, and rightly!
What then? Then I’ll go
To St. Petersburg for it;
For all my old comrades
Are there with their pensions,
They’ll show me the way.”
“You’ll go by the train, then?”
The old fellow whistles:
“Not long you’ve been serving
Us, orthodox Christians,
You, infidel railway!
And welcome you were
When you carried us cheaply
From Peters to Moscow.
(It cost but three roubles.)
But now you want seven,
So, go to the devil!
“Lady so insolent, lady so arrogant!
Hiss like a snake as you glide!
Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you!
Puff at the whole countryside!
Crushing and maiming your toll you extort,
Straight in the face of the peasant you snort,
Soon all the people of Russia you may
Cleaner than any big broom sweep away!”
“Come, give us some music,”
Says Vlass to the soldier,
“For here there are plenty
Of holiday people,
’Twill be to your profit.
You see to it, Klímka!”
(Though Vlass doesn’t like him,
Whenever there’s something
That calls for arranging
He leaves it to Klímka:
“You see to it, Klímka!”
And Klimka is pleased.)
And soon the old soldier
Is helped from the hay-cart:
He’s weak on his legs,—tall,
And strikingly thin.
His uniform seems
To be hung from a pole;
There are medals upon it.
It cannot be said
That his face is attractive,
Especially when
It’s distorted by tic:
His mouth opens wide
And his eyes burn like charcoal,—
A regular demon!
The music is started,
The people run back
From the banks of the Volga.
He sings to the music.
A spasm has seized him:
He leans on his niece,
And his left leg upraising
He twirls it around
In the air like a weight.
His right follows suit then,
And murmuring, “Curse it!”
He suddenly masters
And stands on them both.
“You see to it, Klímka!”
Of course he’ll arrange it
In Petersburg fashion:
He stands them together,
The niece and the uncle;
Takes two wooden dishes
And gives them one each,
Then springs on a tree-trunk
To make an oration.
(The soldier can’t help
Adding apt little words
To the speech of the peasant,
And striking his spoons.)
The soldier is stamping
His feet. One can hear
His dry bones knock together.
When Klímka has finished
The peasants come crowding,
Surrounding the soldier,
And some a kopéck give,
And others give half:
In no time a rouble
Is piled on the dishes.
Epilogue
Grísha Dobrosklonow
A Cheerful Season — Cheerful Songs
The feast was continued
Till morning—a splendid,
A wonderful feast!
Then the people dispersing
Went home, and our peasants
Lay down ’neath the willow;
Ióna—meek pilgrim
Of God—slept there too.
And Sáva and Grísha,
The sons of the deacon,
Went home, with their parent
Unsteady between them.
They sang; and their voices,
Like bells on the Volga,
So loud and so tuneful,
Came chiming together:
“Praise to the hero
Bringing the nation
Peace and salvation!
“That which will surely
Banish the night
He60 has awarded—
Freedom and Light!
“Praise to the hero
Bringing the nation
Peace and salvation!
“Blessings from Heaven,
Grace from above,
Rained on the battle,
Conquered by Love.
“Little we ask Thee—
Grant us, O Lord,
Strength to be honest,
Fearing Thy word!
“Brotherly living,
Sharing in part,
That is the roadway
Straight to the heart.
“Turn from that teaching
Tender and wise—
Cowards and traitors
Soon will arise.
“People of Russia,
Banish the night!
You have been granted
That which is needful—
Freedom and Light!”
The deacon was poor
As the poorest of peasants:
A mean little cottage
Like two narrow cages,
The one with an oven
Which smoked, and the other
For use in the summer,—
Such was his abode.
No horse he possessed
And no cow. He had once had
A dog and a cat,
But they’d both of them left him.
His sons put him safely
To bed, snoring loudly;
Then Sávushka opened
A book, while his brother
Went out, and away
To the fields and the forest.
A broad-shouldered youth
Was this Grísha; his face, though,
Was terribly thin.
In the clerical college
The students got little
To eat. Sometimes Grísha
Would lie the whole night
Without sleep; only longing
For morning and breakfast,—
The coarse piece of bread
And the glassful of sbeeten.61
The village was poor
And the food there was scanty,
But still, the two brothers
Grew certainly plumper
When home for the holidays—
Thanks to the peasants.
The boys would repay them
By all in their power,
By work, or by doing
Their little commissions
In town. Though the deacon
Was proud of his children,
He never had given
Much thought to their feeding.
Himself, the poor deacon,
Was endlessly hungry,
His principal thought
Was the manner of getting
The next piece of food.
He was rather light-minded
And vexed himself little;
But Dyómna, his wife,
Had been different entirely:
She worried and counted,
So God took her soon.
The whole of her life
She by salt62 had been troubled:
If bread has run short
One can ask of the neighbours;
But salt, which means money,
Is hard to obtain.
The village with Dyómna
Had shared its bread freely;
And long, long ago
Would her two little children
Have lain in the churchyard
If not for the peasants.
And Dyómna was ready
To work without ceasing
For all who had helped her;
But salt was her trouble,
Her thought, ever present.
She dreamt of it, sang of it,
Sleeping and waking,
While washing, while spinning,
At work in the fields,
While rocking her darling
Her favourite, Grísha.
And many years after
The death of his mother,
His heart would grow heavy
And sad, when the peasants
Remembered one song,
And would sing it together
As Dyómna had sung it;
They called it “The Salt Song.”
The Salt Song
Now none but God
Can save my son:
He’s dying fast,
My little one….
I give him bread—-
He looks at it,
He cries to me,
“Put salt on it.”
I have no salt—
No tiny grain;
“Take flour,” God whispers,
“Try again….”
He tastes it once,
Once more he tries;
“That’s not enough,
More salt!” he cries.
The flour again….
My tears fall fast
Upon the bread,—
He eats at last!
The mother smiles
In pride and joy:
Her tears so salt
Have saved the boy.
Young Grísha remembered
This song; he would sing it
Quite low to himself
In the clerical college.
The college was cheerless,
And singing this song
He would yearn for his mother,
For home, for the peasants,
His friends and protectors.
And soon, with the love
Which he bore to his mother,
His love for the people
Grew wider and stronger….
At fifteen years old
He was firmly decided
To spend his whole life
In promoting their welfare,
In striving to succour
The poor and afflicted.
The demon of malice
Too long over Russia
Has scattered its hate;
The shadow of serfdom
Has hidden all paths
Save corruption and lying.
Another song now
Will arise throughout Russia;
The angel of freedom
And mercy is flying
Unseen o’er our heads,
And is calling strong spirits
To follow the road
Which is honest and clean.
Oh, tread not the road
So shining and broad:
Along it there speed
With feverish tread
The multitudes led
By infamous greed.
There lives which are spent
With noble intent
Are mocked at in scorn;
There souls lie in chains,
And bodies and brains
By passions are torn,
By animal thirst
For pleasures accurst
Which pass in a breath.
There hope is in vain,
For there is the reign
Of darkness and death.
In front of your eyes
Another road lies—
’Tis honest and clean.
Though steep it appears
And sorrow and tears
Upon it are seen:
It leads to the door
Of those who are poor,
Who hunger and thirst,
Who pant without air.
Who die in despair—
Oh, there be the first!
The song of the angel
Of Mercy not vainly
Was sung to our Grísha.
The years of his study
Being passed, he developed
In thought and in feeling;
A passionate singer
Of Freedom became he,
Of all who are grieving,
Down-trodden, afflicted,
In Russia so vast.
The bright sun was shining,
The cool, fragrant morning
Was filled with the sweetness
Of newly-mown hay.
Young Grísha was thoughtful,
He followed the first road
He met—an old high-road,
An avenue, shaded
By tall curling birch trees.
The youth was now gloomy,
Now gay; the effect
Of the feast was still with him;
His thoughts were at work,
And in song he expressed them:
“I know that you suffer,
O Motherland dear,
The thought of it fills me with woe:
And Fate has much sorrow
In store yet, I fear,
But you will not perish, I know.
“How long since your children
As playthings were used,
As slaves to base passions and lust;
Were bartered like cattle,
Were vilely abused
By masters most cruel and unjust?
“How long since young maidens
Were dragged to their shame,
Since whistle of whips filled the land,
Since ‘Service’ possessed
A more terrible fame
Than death by the torturer’s hand?
“Enough! It is finished,
This tale of the past;
’Tis ended, the masters’ long sway;
The strength of the people
Is stirring at last,
To freedom ’twill point them the way.
“Your burden grows lighter,
O Motherland dear,
Your wounds less appalling to see.
Your fathers were slaves,
Smitten helpless by fear,
But, Mother, your children are free!”
A small winding footpath
Now tempted young Grísha,
And guided his steps
To a very broad hayfield.
The peasants were cutting
The hay, and were singing
His favourite song.
Young Grísha was saddened
By thoughts of his mother,
And nearly in anger
He hurried away
From the field to the forest.
Bright echoes are darting
About in the forest;
Like quails in the wheat
Little children are romping
(The elder ones work
In the hay fields already).
He stopped awhile, seeking
For horse-chestnuts with them.
The sun was now hot;
To the river went Grísha
To bathe, and he had
A good view of the ruins
That three days before
Had been burnt. What a picture!
No house is left standing; 301
And only the prison
Is saved; just a few days
Ago it was whitewashed;
It stands like a little
White cow in the pastures.
The guards and officials
Have made it their refuge;
But all the poor peasants
Are strewn by the river
Like soldiers in camp.
Though they’re mostly asleep now,
A few are astir,
And two under-officials
Are picking their way
To the tent for some vodka
’Mid tables and cupboards
And waggons and bundles.
A tailor approaches
The vodka tent also;
A shrivelled old fellow.
His irons and his scissors
He holds in his hands,
Like a leaf he is shaking.
The pope has arisen
From sleep, full of prayers.
He is combing his hair;
Like a girl he is holding
His long shining plait.
Down the Volga comes floating
Some wood-laden rafts,
And three ponderous barges
Are anchored beneath
The right bank of the river.
The barge-tower yesterday
Evening had dragged them
With songs to their places,
And there he is standing,
The poor harassed man!
He is looking quite gay though,
As if on a holiday,
Has a clean shirt on;
Some farthings are jingling
Aloud in his pocket.
Young Grísha observes him
For long from the river,
And, half to himself,
Half aloud, begins singing:
The Barge-Tower
With shoulders back and breast astrain,
And bathed in sweat which falls like rain,
Through midday heat with gasping song,
He drags the heavy barge along. 352
He falls and rises with a groan,
His song becomes a husky moan….
But now the barge at anchor lies,
A giant’s sleep has sealed his eyes;
And in the bath at break of day
He drives the clinging sweat away.
Then leisurely along the quay
He strolls refreshed, and roubles three
Are sewn into his girdle wide;
Some coppers jingle at his side.
He thinks awhile, and then he goes
Towards the tavern. There he throws
Some hard-earned farthings on the seat;
He drinks, and revels in the treat,
The sense of perfect ease and rest.
Soon with the cross he signs his breast:
The journey home begins to-day.
And cheerfully he goes away;
On presents spends a coin or so:
For wife some scarlet calico,
A scarf for sister, tinsel toys
For eager little girls and boys.
God guide him home—’tis many a mile—
And let him rest a little while….
The barge-tower’s fate
Lead the thoughts of young Grisha
To dwell on the whole
Of mysterious Russia—
The fate of her people.
For long he was roving
About on the bank,
Feeling hot and excited,
His brain overflowing
With new and new verses.
Russia
“The Tsar was in mood
To dabble in blood:
To wage a great war.
Shall we have gold enough?
Shall we have strength enough?
Questioned the Tsar.
“(Thou art so pitiful,
Poor, and so sorrowful,
Yet thou art powerful,
Thy wealth is plentiful,
Russia, my Mother!)
“By misery chastened,
By serfdom of old,
The heart of thy people,
O Tsar, is of gold.
“And strong were the nation,
Unyielding its might,
If standing for conscience,
For justice and right.
“But summon the country
To valueless strife,
And no man will hasten
To offer his life.
“So Russia lies sleeping
In obstinate rest;—
But should the spark kindle
That’s hid in her breast—
“She’ll rise without summons,
Go forth without call,
With sacrifice boundless,
Each giving his all!
“A host she will gather
Of strength unsurpassed,
With infinite courage
Will fight to the last.
“(Thou art so pitiful,
Poor, and so sorrowful,
Yet of great treasure full,
Mighty, all-powerful,
Russia, my Mother!)”
Young Grísha was pleased
With his song; and he murmured.
“Its message is true;
I will sing it to-morrow
Aloud to the peasants.
Their songs are so mournful,
It’s well they should hear
Something joyful,—God help them!
For just as with running
The cheeks begin burning,
So acts a good song
On the spirit despairing,
Brings comfort and strength.”
But first to his brother
He sang the new song,
And his brother said, “Splendid!”
Then Grísha tried vainly
To sleep; but half dreaming
New songs he composed.
They grew brighter and stronger….
Our peasants would soon
Have been home from their travels
If they could have known
What was happening to Grísha:
With what exaltation
His bosom was burning;
What beautiful strains
In his ears began chiming;
How blissfully sang he
The wonderful anthem
Which tells of the freedom
And peace of the people.
Footnotes
1 Many years later, after his mother’s death, Nekrassov found this letter among her papers. It was a letter written to her by her own mother after her flight and subsequent marriage. It announced to her her father’s curse, and was filled with sad and bitter reproaches: “To whom have you entrusted your fate? For what country have you abandoned Poland, your Motherland? You, whose hand was sought, a priceless gift, by princes, have chosen a savage, ignorant, uncultured…. Forgive me, but my heart is bleeding….”
[2] Priest.
[3] Landowner.
4 The peasants assert that the cuckoo chokes himself with young ears of corn.
5 A kind of home-brewed cider.
6 Laput is peasants’ footgear made of bark of saplings.
[7] Priest
8 New huts are built only when the village has been destroyed by fire.
[9] The lines of asterisks throughout the poem represent passages that were censored in the original.
10 There is a superstition among the Russian peasants that it is an ill omen to meet the “pope” when going upon an errand.
11 Landowners
12 Dissenters in Russia are subjected to numerous religious restrictions. Therefore they are obliged to bribe the local orthodox pope, in order that he should not denounce them to the police.
13 There is a Russian superstition that a round rainbow is sent as a sign of coming dry weather.
[14] Kasha and stchee are two national dishes.
15 The mud and water from the high lands on both sides descend and collect in the villages so situated, which are often nearly transformed into swamps during the rainy season.
16 On feast days the peasants often pawn their clothes for drink.
[17] Well-known popular characters in Russia.
18 Each landowner kept his own band of musicians.
19 The halting-place for prisoners on their way to Siberia.
20 The tax collector, the landlord, and the priest.
21 Fire.
22 Popular name for Petrograd.
23 The primitive wooden plough still used by the peasants in Russia.
24 Three pounds.
25 Holy pictures of the saints.
26 The Russian nickname for the bear.
27 Chief of police.
28 An administrative unit consisting of a group of villages.
[29] The end of the story is omitted because of the interference of the Censor.
[30] A three-horsed carriage.
31 The Pomyeshchick is still bitter because his serfs have been set free by the Government.
32 The Russian warriors of olden times.
33 Russian Easter dishes.
34 Russians embrace one another on Easter Sunday, recalling the resurrection of Christ.
35 The Russians press their foreheads to the ground while worshipping.
36 The official appointed to arrange terms between the Pomyéshchicks and their emancipated serfs.
37 The haystacks.
[38] A long-skirted coat.
39 The forced labour of the serfs for their owners.
40 Holy images.
41 Meenin—a famous Russian patriot in the beginning of the seventeenth century. He is always represented with an immense beard.
42 It is a sign of respect to address a person by his own name and the name of his father.
43 Ukhá—fish soup.
44 A national loose sleeveless dress worn with a separate shirt or blouse.
45 The marriage agent.
46 The marriage agent.
47 Inhabitants of the village Korojin.
48 Germans were often employed as managers of the Pomyéshchicks’ estates.
49 In Russian vapour-baths there are shelves ranged round the walls for the bathers to recline upon. The higher the shelf the hotter the atmosphere.
50 Police-official.
51 Heave-to!
52 This paragraph refers to the custom of the country police in Russia, who, on hearing of the accidental death of anybody in a village, will, in order to extract bribes from the villagers, threaten to hold an inquest on the corpse. The peasants are usually ready to part with nearly all they possess in order to save their dead from what they consider desecration.
53 The Saviour’s day.
54 A reference to the arranging of terms between the Pomyéshchicks and peasants with regard to land at the time of the emancipation of the serfs.
[55] There is a Russian superstition that a good memory is gained by eating magpies’ eggs.
56 Chief of Police.
[57] A wooden splinter prepared and used for lighting purposes.
58 Polish title for nobleman or gentleman.
59 Serfs.
60 Alexander II., who gave emancipation to the peasants.
61 A popular Russian drink composed of hot water and honey.
62 There was a very heavy tax laid upon salt at the time.