Читать книгу Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? - Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov - Страница 7

The broad sandy high-road

With borders of birch-trees

Winds sadly and drearily

Into the distance;

On either hand running

Low hills and young cornfields,

Green pastures, and often—

More often than any—

Lands sterile and barren.

And near to the rivers 10

And ponds are the hamlets

And villages standing—

The old and the new ones.

The forests and meadows

And rivers of Russia

Are lovely in springtime,

But O you spring cornfields,

Your growth thin and scanty

Is painful to see.

"'Twas not without meaning 20

That daily the snow fell

Throughout the long winter,"

Said one to another

The journeying peasants:—

"The spring has now come

And the snow tells its story:

At first it is silent—

'Tis silent in falling,

Lies silently sleeping,

But when it is dying 30

Its voice is uplifted:

The fields are all covered

With loud, rushing waters,

No roads can be traversed

For bringing manure

To the aid of the cornfields;

The season is late

For the sweet month of May

Is already approaching."

The peasant is saddened 40

At sight of the dirty

And squalid old village;

But sadder the new ones:

The new huts are pretty,

But they are the token

Of heartbreaking ruin.[8]

As morning sets in

They begin to meet people,

But mostly small people:

Their brethren, the peasants, 50

And soldiers and waggoners,

Workmen and beggars.

The soldiers and beggars

They pass without speaking.

Not asking if happy

Or grievous their lot:

The soldier, we know,

Shaves his beard with a gimlet,

Has nothing but smoke

In the winter to warm him,— 60

What joy can be his?

As evening is falling

Appears on the high-road

A pope in his cart.

The peasants uncover

Their heads, and draw up

In a line on the roadway,

Thus barring the passage

In front of the gelding.

The pope raised his head, 70

Looked inquiringly at them.

"Fear not, we won't harm you,"

Luká said in answer.

(Luká was thick-bearded,

Was heavy and stolid,

Was obstinate, stupid,

And talkative too;

He was like to the windmill

Which differs in one thing

Alone from an eagle: 80

No matter how boldly

It waves its broad pinions

It rises no higher.)

"We, orthodox peasants,

From District 'Most Wretched,'

From Province 'Hard Battered,'

From 'Destitute' Parish,

From neighbouring hamlets,

'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'

'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' 90

From 'Harvestless' also,

Are striving to settle

A thing of importance;

A trouble torments us,

It draws us away

From our wives and our children,

Away from our work,

Kills our appetites too.

Pray, give us your promise

To answer us truly, 100

Consulting your conscience

And searching your knowledge,

Not feigning nor mocking

The question we put you.

If not, we will go

Further on."

"I will promise

If you will but put me

A serious question

To answer it gravely, 110

With truth and with reason,

Not feigning nor mocking,

Amen!"

"We are grateful,

And this is our story:

We all had set out

On particular errands,

And met in the roadway.

Then one asked another:

Who is he,—the man 120

Free and happy in Russia?

And I said, 'The pope,'

And Román, 'The Pomyéshchick,'

And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'

And Demyán, 'The official';

'The round-bellied merchant,'

Said both brothers Goóbin,

Mitródor and Ívan;

Pakhóm said, 'His Lordship,

The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' 130

"Like bulls are the peasants;

Once folly is in them

You cannot dislodge it

Although you should beat them

With stout wooden cudgels,

They stick to their folly

And nothing can move them.

We argued and argued,

While arguing quarrelled,

While quarrelling fought, 140

Till at last we decided

That never again

Would we turn our steps homeward

To kiss wives and children,

To see the old people,

Until we have found

The reply to our question,

Until we've discovered

For once and forever

The man who, in Russia, 150

Is happy and free.

Then say, in God's truth,

Is the pope's life a sweet one?

Would you, honoured father,

Proclaim yourself happy?"

The pope in his cart

Cast his eyes on the roadway,

Fell thoughtful and answered:

"Then, Christians, come, hear me:

I will not complain 160

Of the cross that I carry,

But bear it in silence.

I'll tell you my story,

And you try to follow

As well as you can."

"Begin."

"But first tell me

The gifts you consider

As true earthly welfare;

Peace, honour, and riches,— 170

Is that so, my children?"

They answer, "It is so."

"And now let us see, friends,

What peace does the pope get?

In truth, then, I ought

To begin from my childhood,

For how does the son

Of the pope gain his learning,

And what is the price

That he pays for the priesthood? 180

'Tis best to be silent." [9]

* * * * *

"Our roadways are poor

And our parishes large,

And the sick and the dying,

The new-born that call us,

Do not choose their season:

In harvest and hay-time,

In dark nights of autumn,

Through frosts in the winter,

Through floods in the springtime, 190

Go—where they may call you.

You go without murmur,

If only the body

Need suffer alone!

But no,—every moment

The heart's deepest feelings

Are strained and tormented.

Believe me, my children,

Some things on this earth

One can never get used to: 200

No heart there exists

That can bear without anguish

The rattle of death,

The lament for the lost one,

The sorrow of orphans,

Amen! Now you see, friends,

The peace that the pope gets."

Not long did the peasants

Stand thinking. They waited

To let the pope rest, 210

Then enquired with a bow:

"And what more will you tell us?"

"Well, now let us see

If the pope is much honoured;

And that, O my friends,

Is a delicate question—

I fear to offend you….

But answer me, Christians,

Whom call you, 'The cursed

Stallion breed?' Can you tell me?"

The peasants stand silent 221

In painful confusion;

The pope, too, is silent.

"Who is it you tremble

To meet in the roadway[10]

For fear of misfortune?"

The peasants stand shuffling

Their feet in confusion.

"Of whom do you make

Little scandalous stories? 230

Of whom do you sing

Rhymes and songs most indecent?

The pope's honoured wife,

And his innocent daughters,

Come, how do you treat them?

At whom do you shout

Ho, ho, ho, in derision

When once you are past him?"

The peasants cast downwards

Their eyes and keep silent. 240

The pope too is silent.

The peasants stand musing;

The pope fans his face

With his hat, high and broad-rimmed,

And looks at the heavens….

The cloudlets in springtime

Play round the great sun

Like small grandchildren frisking

Around a hale grandsire,

And now, on his right side 250

A bright little cloud

Has grown suddenly dismal,

Begins to shed tears.

The grey thread is hanging

In rows to the earth,

While the red sun is laughing

And beaming upon it

Through torn fleecy clouds,

Like a merry young girl

Peeping out from the corn. 260

The cloud has moved nearer,

The rain begins here,

And the pope puts his hat on.

But on the sun's right side

The joy and the brightness

Again are established.

The rain is now ceasing….

It stops altogether,

And God's wondrous miracle,

Long golden sunbeams, 270

Are streaming from Heaven

In radiant splendour.

* * * * *

"It isn't our own fault;

It comes from our parents,"

Say, after long silence,

The two brothers Goóbin.

The others approve him:

"It isn't our own fault,

It comes from our parents."

The pope said, "So be it! 280

But pardon me, Christians,

It is not my meaning

To censure my neighbours;

I spoke but desiring

To tell you the truth.

You see how the pope

Is revered by the peasants;

The gentry—"

"Pass over them,

Father—we know them." 290

"Then let us consider

From whence the pope's riches.

In times not far distant

The great Russian Empire

Was filled with estates

Of wealthy Pomyéshchicks.[11]

They lived and increased,

And they let us live too.

What weddings were feasted!

What numbers and numbers 300

Of children were born

In each rich, merry life-time!

Although they were haughty

And often oppressive,

What liberal masters!

They never deserted

The parish, they married,

Were baptized within it,

To us they confessed,

And by us they were buried. 310

And if a Pomyéshchick

Should chance for some reason

To live in a city,

He cherished one longing,

To die in his birthplace;

But did the Lord will it

That he should die suddenly

Far from the village,

An order was found

In his papers, most surely, 320

That he should be buried

At home with his fathers.

Then see—the black car

With the six mourning horses,—

The heirs are conveying

The dead to the graveyard;

And think—what a lift

For the pope, and what feasting

All over the village!

But now that is ended, 330

Pomyéshchicks are scattered

Like Jews over Russia

And all foreign countries.

They seek not the honour

Of lying with fathers

And mothers together.

How many estates

Have passed into the pockets

Of rich speculators!

O you, bones so pampered 340

Of great Russian gentry,

Where are you not buried,

What far foreign graveyard

Do you not repose in?

"Myself from dissenters[12]

(A source of pope's income)

I never take money,

I've never transgressed,

For I never had need to;

Because in my parish 350

Two-thirds of the people

Are Orthodox churchmen.

But districts there are

Where the whole population

Consists of dissenters—

Then how can the pope live?

"But all in this world

Is subjected to changes:

The laws which in old days

Applied to dissenters 360

Have now become milder;

And that in itself

Is a check to pope's income.

I've said the Pomyéshchicks

Are gone, and no longer

They seek to return

To the home of their childhood;

And then of their ladies

(Rich, pious old women),

How many have left us 370

To live near the convents!

And nobody now

Gives the pope a new cassock

Or church-work embroidered.

He lives on the peasants,

Collects their brass farthings,

Their cakes on the feast-days,

At Easter their eggs.

The peasants are needy

Or they would give freely— 380

Themselves they have nothing;

And who can take gladly

The peasant's last farthing?

"Their lands are so poor,

They are sand, moss, or boggy,

Their cattle half-famished,

Their crops yield but twofold;

And should Mother Earth

Chance at times to be kinder,

That too is misfortune: 390

The market is crowded,

They sell for a trifle

To pay off the taxes.

Again comes a bad crop—-

Then pay for your bread

Three times higher than ever,

And sell all your cattle!

Now, pray to God, Christians,

For this year again

A great misery threatens: 400

We ought to have sown

For a long time already;

But look you—the fields

Are all deluged and useless….

O God, have Thou pity

And send a round[13] rainbow

To shine in Thy heavens!"

Then taking his hat off

He crossed himself thrice,

And the peasants did likewise.

"Our village is poor 411

And the people are sickly,

The women are sad

And are scantily nourished,

But pious and laborious;

God give them courage!

Like slaves do they toil;

'Tis hard to lay hands

On the fruits of such labour.

"At times you are sent for 420

To pray by the dying,

But Death is not really

The awful thing present,

But rather the living—

The family losing

Their only support.

You pray by the dead.

Words of comfort you utter,

To calm the bereaved ones;

And then the old mother 430

Comes tottering towards you,

And stretching her bony

And toil-blistered hand out;

You feel your heart sicken,

For there in the palm

Lie the precious brass farthings!

Of course it is only

The price of your praying.

You take it, because

It is what you must live on; 440

Your words of condolence

Are frozen, and blindly,

Like one deep insulted,

You make your way homeward.

Amen…."

* * * * *

The pope finished

His speech, and touched lightly

The back of the gelding.

The peasants make way,

And they bow to him deeply. 450

The cart moves on slowly,

Then six of the comrades

As though by agreement

Attack poor Luká

With indignant reproaches.

"Now, what have you got?—

You great obstinate blockhead,

You log of the village!

You too must needs argue;

Pray what did you tell us? 460

'The popes live like princes,

The lords of the belfry,

Their palaces rising

As high as the heavens,

Their bells set a-chiming

All over God's world.

"'Three years,' you declared,

'Did I work as pope's servant.

It wasn't a life—

'Twas a strawberry, brethren; 470

Pope's kasha[14] is made

And served up with fresh butter.

Pope's stchee[14] made with fish,

And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;

The pope's wife is fat too,

And white the pope's daughter,

His horse like a barrel,

His bees are all swollen

And booming like church bells.'

"Well, there's your pope's life,— 480

There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!

For that you've been shouting

And making us quarrel,

You limb of the Devil!

Pray is it because

Of your beard like a shovel

You think you're so clever?

If so, let me tell you

The goat walked in Eden

With just such another 490

Before Father Adam,

And yet down to our time

The goat is considered

The greatest of duffers!"

The culprit was silent,

Afraid of a beating;

And he would have got it

Had not the pope's face,

Turning sadly upon them,

Looked over a hedge 500

At a rise in the road.