Part 13 (1/2)

The peasants say softly, 550 And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful Pomyeshchick Uncovers his head, As he piously crosses Himself, and he answers: ”'Tis not for the peasant The knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost life Of the stricken Pomyeshchick.

Farewell to the past, 560 And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradled The happy Pomyeshchick, Thy place has been stolen And filled by another!...

Heh, Proshka!” (The brandy Is given, and quickly He empties the gla.s.s.) ”Oh, it isn't consoling To witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland!

Truly one fancies The whole race of n.o.bles Has suddenly vanished!

Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrednik,'[36] 580 Or Poles who've been banished.

One sees the troops pa.s.sing, And then one can guess That a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankful And dutiful spirit....'

In old days, these roads Were made gay by the pa.s.sing Of carriage, 'dormeuse,'

And of six-in-hand coaches, 590 And pretty, light troikas; And in them were sitting The family troop Of the jolly Pomyeshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters; One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness.

And now?... What distraction Has life? And what joy Does it bring the Pomyeshchick?

At each step, you meet Something new to revolt you; And when in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are pa.s.sing A n.o.bleman's manor! 610 My Lord!... They have pillaged The beautiful dwelling!

They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fas.h.i.+oned The bricks into hideously Accurate columns!

The broad shady park Of the outraged Pomyeshchick, The fruit of a hundred years'

Careful attention, 620 Is falling away 'Neath the axe of a peasant!

The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logs Which his labour will bring him.

His dark soul is closed To refinement of feeling, And what would it matter To him, if you told him 630 That this stately oak Which his hatchet is felling My grandfather's hand Had once planted and tended; That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Ga.n.u.shka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side; That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed me That little Gavrioushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against me And bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosom As red as a cherry....

It is to his profit To ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him.

It makes one ashamed now To pa.s.s through a village; The peasant sits still And he dreams not of bowing.

One feels in one's breast Not the pride of a n.o.ble But wrath and resentment.

The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, 660 It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it, For who can you summon To rescue your forest?

The fields are half-laboured, The seeds are half-wasted, No trace left of order....

O Mother, my country, We do not complain For ourselves--of our sorrows, 670 Our hearts bleed for thee: Like a widow thou standest In helpless affliction With tresses dishevelled And grief-stricken face....

They have blighted the forest, The noisy low taverns Have risen and flourished.

They've picked the most worthless And loose of the people, 680 And given them power In the posts of the Zemstvos; They've seized on the peasant And taught him his letters-- Much good may it do him!

Your brow they have branded, As felons are branded, As cattle are branded, With these words they've stamped it: 'To take away with you 690 Or drink on the premises.'

Was it worth while, pray, To weary the peasant With learning his letters In order to read them?

The land that we keep Is our mother no longer, Our stepmother rather.

And then to improve things, These pert good-for-nothings, 700 These impudent writers Must needs shout in chorus: 'But whose fault, then, is it, That you thus exhausted And wasted your country?'

But I say--you duffers!

Who _could_ foresee this?

They babble, 'Enough Of your lordly pretensions!

It's time that you learnt something, 710 Lazy Pomyeshchicks!

Get up, now, and work!'

”Work! To whom, in G.o.d's name, Do you think you are speaking?

I am not a peasant In 'laputs,' good madman!

I am--by G.o.d's mercy-- A n.o.ble of Russia.

You take us for Germans!

We n.o.bles have tender 720 And delicate feelings, Our pride is inborn, And in Russia our cla.s.ses Are not taught to work.

Why, the meanest official Will not raise a finger To clear his own table, Or light his own stove!

I can say, without boasting, That though I have lived 730 Forty years in the country, And scarcely have left it, I could not distinguish Between rye and barley.

And they sing of 'work' to me!