Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 34

So the poor Barin all night in the carriage lies, Shouting, from wolves to protect his old bones. 231 Early next morning a hunter discovers him, Carries him home, full of penitent groans: "Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!"

Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave, One figure surely will haunt you incessantly, Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave.

"What sinners! What sinners!"

The peasants are saying, "I'm sorry for Jacob, 240 Yet pity the Barin, Indeed he was punished!

Ah, me!" Then they listen To two or three more tales As strange and as fearful, And hotly they argue On who must be reckoned The greatest of sinners: "The publican," one says, And one, "The Pomyeshchick," 250 Another, "The peasant."

This last was a carter, A man of good standing And sound reputation, No ignorant babbler.

He'd seen many things In his life, his own province Had traversed entirely.

He should have been heard.

The peasants, however, 260 Were all so indignant They would not allow him To speak. As for Klimka, His wrath is unbounded, "You fool!" he is shouting.

"But let me explain."

"I see you are _all_ fools,"

A voice remarks roughly: The voice of a trader Who squeezes the peasants 270 For laputs or berries Or any spare trifles.

But chiefly he's noted For seizing occasions When taxes are gathered, And peasants' possessions Are bartered at auction.

"You start a discussion And miss the chief point.

Why, who's the worst sinner? 280 Consider a moment."

"Well, who then? You tell us."

"The robber, of course."

"You've not been a serf, man,"

Says Klimka in answer; "The burden was heavy, But not on your shoulders.

Your pockets are full, So the robber alarms you; The robber with this case 290 Has nothing to do."

"The case of the robber Defending the robber,"

The other retorts.

"Now, pray!" bellows Klimka, And leaping upon him, He punches his jaw.

The trader repays him With buffets as hearty, "Take leave of your carcase!" 300 He roars.

"Here's a tussle!"

The peasants are clearing A s.p.a.ce for the battle; They do not prevent it Nor do they applaud it.

The blows fall like hail.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!

Write home to your parents!"

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310 Heh, send for the pope!"

The trader, bent double By Klimka, who, clutching His hair, drags his head down, Repeating, "He's bowing!"

Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"

When Klimka has freed him He sits on a log, And says, wiping his face With a broadly-checked m.u.f.fler, 320 "No wonder he conquered: He ploughs not, he reaps not, Does nothing but doctor The pigs and the horses; Of course he gets strong!"

The peasants are laughing, And Klimka says, mocking, "Here, try a bit more!"

"Come on, then! I'm ready,"

The trader says stoutly, 330 And rolling his sleeves up, He spits on his palms.

"The hour has now sounded For me, though a sinner, To speak and unite you,"

Iona p.r.o.nounces.

The whole of the evening That diffident pilgrim Has sat without speaking, And crossed himself, sighing. 340 The trader's delighted, And Klimka replies not.

The rest, without speaking, Sit down on the ground.

CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

We know that in Russia Are numbers of people Who wander at large Without kindred or home.

They sow not, they reap not, They feed at the fountain That's common to all, That nourishes likewise The tiniest mouse And the mightiest army: The sweat of the peasant. 10 The peasants will tell you That whole populations Of villages sometimes Turn out in the autumn To wander like pilgrims.

They beg, and esteem it A paying profession.

The people consider That misery drives them 20 More often than cunning, And so to the pilgrims Contribute their mite.

Of course, there are cases Of downright deception: One pilgrim's a thief, Or another may wheedle Some cloth from the wife Of a peasant, exchanging Some "sanctified wafers" 30 Or "tears of the Virgin"

He's brought from Mount Athos, And then she'll discover He's been but as far As a cloister near Moscow.

One saintly old greybeard Enraptured the people By wonderful singing, And offered to teach The young girls of the village 40 The songs of the church With their mothers' permission.

And all through the winter He locked himself up With the girls in a stable.

From thence, sometimes singing Was heard, but more often Came laughter and giggles.

Well, what was the upshot?

He taught them no singing, 50 But ruined them all.

Some Masters so skilful There are, they will even Lay siege to the ladies.

They first to the kitchens Make sure of admission, And then through the maids Gained access to the mistress.

See, there he goes, strutting Along through the courtyard 60 And jingling the keys Of the house like a Barin.

And soon he will spit In the teeth of the peasants; The pious old women, Who always before At the house have been welcome, He'll speedily banish.

The people, however, Can see in these pilgrims 70 A good side as well.

For, who begs the money For building the churches?

And who keeps the convent's Collecting-box full?

And many, though useless, Are perfectly harmless; But some are uncanny, One can't understand them: The people know Foma, 80 With chains round his middle Some six stones in weight; How summer and winter He walks about barefoot, And constantly mutters Of Heaven knows what.

His life, though, is G.o.dly: A stone for his pillow, A crust for his dinner.

The people know also 90 The old man, Nikifor, Adherent, most strange, Of the sect called "The Hiders."

One day he appeared In Usolovo village Upbraiding the people For lack of religion, And calling them forth To the great virgin forest To seek for salvation. 100 The chief of police Of the district just happened To be in the village And heard his oration: "Ho! Question the madman!"

"Thou foe of Christ Jesus!

Thou Antichrist's herald!"

Nikifor retorts.

The Elders are nudging him: "Now, then, be silent!" 110 He pays no attention.

They drag him to prison.

He stands in the waggon, Undauntedly chiding The chief of police, And loudly he cries To the people who follow him:

"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you!

Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you!

Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120 Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"