Читать книгу Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? - Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov - Страница 9

No wonder the peasants

Dislike a wet spring-tide:

The peasant needs greatly

A spring warm and early.

This year, though he howl

Like a wolf, I'm afraid

That the sun will not gladden

The earth with his brightness.

The clouds wander heavily,

Dropping the rain down 10

Like cows with full udders.

The snow has departed,

Yet no blade of grass,

Not a tiny green leaflet,

Is seen in the meadows.

The earth has not ventured

To don its new mantle

Of brightest green velvet,

But lies sad and bare

Like a corpse without grave-clothes

Beneath the dull heavens. 21

One pities the peasant;

Still more, though, his cattle:

For when they have eaten

The scanty reserves

Which remain from the winter,

Their master will drive them

To graze in the meadows,

And what will they find there

But bare, inky blackness? 30

Nor settled the weather

Until it was nearing

The feast of St. Nichol,

And then the poor cattle

Enjoyed the green pastures.

The day is a hot one,

The peasants are strolling

Along 'neath the birch-trees.

They say to each other,

"We passed through one village, 40

We passed through another,

And both were quite empty;

To-day is a feast-day,

But where are the people?"

They reach a large village;

The street is deserted

Except for small children,

And inside the houses

Sit only the oldest

Of all the old women. 50

The wickets are fastened

Securely with padlocks;

The padlock's a loyal

And vigilant watch-dog;

It barks not, it bites not,

But no one can pass it.

They walk through the village

And see a clear mirror

Beset with green framework—

A pond full of water; 60

And over its surface

Are hovering swallows

And all kinds of insects;

The gnats quick and meagre

Skip over the water

As though on dry land;

And in the laburnums

Which grow on the banksides

The landrails are squeaking.

A raft made of tree-trunks 70

Floats near, and upon it

The pope's heavy daughter

Is wielding her beetle,

She looks like a hay-stack,

Unsound and dishevelled,

Her skirts gathered round her.

Upon the raft, near her,

A duck and some ducklings

Are sleeping together.

And hark! from the water 80

The neigh of a horse comes;

The peasants are startled,

They turn all together:

Two heads they see, moving

Along through the water—

The one is a peasant's,

A black head and curly,

In one ear an ear-ring

Which gleams in the sunlight;

A horse's the other, 90

To which there is fastened

A rope of some yards length,

Held tight in the teeth

Of the peasant beside it.

The man swims, the horse swims;

The horse neighs, the man neighs;

They make a fine uproar!

The raft with the woman

And ducklings upon it

Is tossing and heaving. 100

The horse with the peasant

Astride has come panting

From out of the water,

The man with white body

And throat black with sunburn;

The water is streaming

From horse and from rider.

"Say, why is your village

So empty of people?

Are all dead and buried?" 110

"They've gone to Kousminsky;

A fair's being held there

Because it's a saint's day."

"How far is Kousminsky?"

"Three versts, I should fancy."

"We'll go to Kousminsky,"

The peasants decided,

And each to himself thought,

"Perhaps we shall find there

The happy, the free one." 120

The village Kousminsky

Is rich and commercial

And terribly dirty.

It's built on a hill-side,

And slopes down the valley,

Then climbs again upwards,—

So how could one ask of it

Not to be dirty?[15]

It boasts of two churches.

The one is "dissenting," 130

The other "Established."

The house with inscription,

"The School-House," is empty,

In ruins and deserted;

And near stands the barber's,

A hut with one window,

From which hangs the sign-board

Of "Barber and Bleeder."

A dirty inn also

There is, with its sign-board 140

Adorned by a picture:

A great nosy tea-pot

With plump little tea-cups

Held out by a waiter,

Suggesting a fat goose

Surrounded by goslings.

A row of small shops, too,

There is in the village.

The peasants go straight

To the market-place, find there 150

A large crowd of people

And goods in profusion.

How strange!—notwithstanding

There's no church procession

The men have no hats on,

Are standing bare-headed,

As though in the presence

Of some holy Image:

Look, how they're being swallowed—

The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160

The beer-shop and tavern

Are both overflowing;

All round are erected

Large tents by the roadside

For selling of vodka.

And though in each tent

There are five agile waiters,

All young and most active,

They find it quite hopeless

To try to get change right. 170

Just look how the peasants

Are stretching their hands out,

With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia,

Unquenchable, endless

You are! But the peasant,

When once he is sated,

Will soon get a new hood

At close of the fair….

The spring sun is playing 180

On heads hot and drunken,

On boisterous revels,

On bright mixing colours;

The men wear wide breeches

Of corduroy velvet,

With gaudy striped waistcoats

And shirts of all colours;

The women wear scarlet;

The girls' plaited tresses

Are decked with bright ribbons; 190

They glide about proudly,

Like swans on the water.

Some beauties are even

Attired in the fashion

Of Petersburg ladies;

Their dresses spread stiffly

On wide hoops around them;

But tread on their skirts—

They will turn and attack you,

Will gobble like turkeys! 200

Blame rather the fashion

Which fastens upon you

Great fishermen's baskets!

A woman dissenter

Looks darkly upon them,

And whispers with malice:

"A famine, a famine

Most surely will blight us.

The young growths are sodden,

The floods unabated; 210

Since women have taken

To red cotton dresses

The forests have withered,

And wheat—but no wonder!"

"But why, little Mother,

Are red cotton dresses

To blame for the trouble?

I don't understand you."

"The cotton is French, And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220 D'you understand now?"

The peasants still linger

Some time in the market,

Then go further upward,

To where on the hill-side

Are piled ploughs and harrows,

With rakes, spades, and hatchets,

And all kinds of iron-ware,

And pliable wood

To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230

And, oh, what a hubbub

Of bargaining, swearing,

Of jesting and laughter!

And who could help laughing?

A limp little peasant

Is bending and testing

The wood for the wheel-rims.

One piece does not please him;

He takes up another

And bends it with effort; 240

It suddenly straightens,

And whack!—strikes his forehead.

The man begins roaring,

Abusing the bully,

The duffer, the block-head.

Another comes driving

A cart full of wood-ware,

As tipsy as can be;

He turns it all over!

The axle is broken, 250

And, trying to mend it,

He smashes the hatchet.

He gazes upon it,

Abusing, reproaching:

"A villain, a villain,

You are—not a hatchet.

You see, you can't do me

The least little service.

The whole of your life

You spend bowing before me, 260

And yet you insult me!"

Our peasants determine

To see the shop windows,

The handkerchiefs, ribbons,

And stuffs of bright colour;

And near to the boot-shop

Is fresh cause for laughter;

For here an old peasant

Most eagerly bargains

For small boots of goat-skin 270

To give to his grandchild.

He asks the price five times;

Again and again

He has turned them all over;

He finds they are faultless.

"Well, Uncle, pay up now,

Or else be off quickly,"

The seller says sharply.

But wait! The old fellow

Still gazes, and fondles 280

The tiny boots softly,

And then speaks in this wise:

"My daughter won't scold me,

Her husband I'll spit at,

My wife—let her grumble—

I'll spit at my wife too.

It's her that I pity—

My poor little grandchild.

She clung to my neck,

And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290

Buy me a present.'

Her soft little ringlets

Were tickling my cheek,

And she kissed the old Grand-dad.

You wait, little bare-foot,

Wee spinning-top, wait then,

Some boots I will buy you,

Some boots made of goat-skin."

And then must old Vavil

Begin to boast grandly, 300

To promise a present

To old and to young.

But now his last farthing

Is swallowed in vodka,

And how can he dare

Show his eyes in the village?

"My daughter won't scold me,

Her husband I'll spit at,

My wife—let her grumble—

I'll spit at my wife too. 310

It's her that I pity—

My poor little grandchild."

And then he commences

The story again

Of the poor little grandchild.

He's very dejected.

A crowd listens round him,

Not laughing, but troubled

At sight of his sorrow.

If they could have helped him 320

With bread or by labour

They soon would have done so,

But money is money,

And who has got tenpence

To spare? Then came forward

Pavlóosha Varénko,

The "gentleman" nicknamed.

(His origin, past life,

Or calling they knew not,

But called him the 'Barin'.) 330

He listened with pleasure

To talk and to jesting;

His blouse, coat, and top-boots

Were those of a peasant;

He sang Russian folk-songs,

Liked others to sing them,

And often was met with

At taverns and inns.

He now rescued Vavil,

And bought him the boots 340

To take home to his grandchild.