Part 24 (2/2)
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....”
There follows a description of scenery, a charming lyric which I cannot forbear from quoting:
”The cloudlets in springtime Play round the great sun Like small grandchildren frisking Around a hale grandsire, And now, on his right side 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.”
The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note:
”'At times you are sent for 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 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 bra.s.s farthings.
Of course it is only The price of your praying.
You take it, because It is what you must live on; Your words of condolence Are frozen, and blindly, Like one deeply insulted, You make your way homeward.'”
In chapter two we are taken to the village fair.
”The spring sun is playing 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 s.h.i.+rts of all colours; The women wear scarlet; The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water.”
In chapter three, ”The Drunken Night,” occurs the exquisite metaphor:
”The moon is in Heaven, And G.o.d is commencing To write His great letter Of gold on blue velvet....
Then suddenly singing Is heard in a chorus Harmonious and bold, A row of young fellows, Half drunk, but not falling, Come staggering onwards, All l.u.s.tily singing: They sing of the Volga, The daring of youths And the beauty of maidens ...
A hush falls all over The road, and it listens: And only the singing Is heard, sweet and tuneful, Like wind-ruffled corn.”
They then accost the pomyeschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers:
”'The joy and the beauty, The pride of all Russia-- The Lord's holy churches-- Which brighten the hill-sides And gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and that Was the n.o.bleman's manor.
Adjoining the manor Were gla.s.s-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it.
On each of the buildings Gay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guest To partake of the pleasures Of rich hospitality.
Never did Frenchmen In dreams even picture Such sumptuous revels As we used to hold.
Not only for one day, Or two, did they last-- But for two months together!
We fattened great turkeys, We brewed our own liquors, We kept our own actors, And troupes of musicians, And legions of servants!
Why, I kept five cooks, Besides pastry-cooks, working, Two blacksmiths, three carpenters, Eighteen musicians, And twenty-one-huntsmen ...
My G.o.d ...'
The afflicted Pomyeschick broke down here, And hastened to bury His face in the cus.h.i.+on....
[And now--] 'What has happened?
When in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are pa.s.sing A n.o.bleman's manor!
The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it.'”
Part II. deals charmingly with the story of the last pomyeschick:
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