Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 3

"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 G.o.d'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 Goobin.

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--"

"Pa.s.s 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 Pomyeshchicks.[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 Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchicks 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 pa.s.sed 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 Pomyeshchicks 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 n.o.body now Gives the pope a new ca.s.sock Or church-work embroidered.

He lives on the peasants, Collects their bra.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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; G.o.d 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 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; 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 Luka 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 G.o.d'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 b.u.t.ter.

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.'