Has been sent to the service, 660
I'm weary of living,
I wish but to die!'
His brothers came also,
And they with the father
Besought him to hear them,
To listen to reason.
But he only answered:
'A villain I am,
And a criminal; bind me,
And bring me to justice!' 670
And they, fearing worse things,
Obeyed him and bound him.
The commune assembled,
Exclaiming and shouting;
They'd never been summoned
To witness or judge
Such peculiar proceedings.
"And Ermil's relations
Did not beg for mercy
And lenient treatment, 680
But rather for firmness:
'Bring Vlasevna's son back
Or Ermil will hang himself,
Nothing will save him!'
And then appeared Ermil
Himself, pale and bare-foot,
With ropes bound and handcuffed,
And bowing his head
He spoke low to the people:
'The time was when I was 690
Your judge; and I judged you,
In all things obeying
My conscience. But I now
Am guiltier far
Than were you. Be my judges!'
He bowed to our feet,
The demented one, sighing,
Then stood up and crossed himself,
Trembling all over;
It pained us to witness 700
How he, of a sudden,
Fell down on his knees there
At Vlasevna's feet.
Well, all was put right soon,
The nobles have fingers
In every small corner,
The lad was brought back
And young Mityenka started;
They say that his service
Did not weigh too heavy, 710
The prince saw to that.
And we, as a penance,
Imposed upon Ermil
A fine, and to Vlasevna
One part was given,
To Mitya another,
The rest to the village
For vodka. However,
Not quickly did Ermil
Get over his sorrow: 720
He went like a lost one
For full a year after,
And--though the whole district
Implored him to keep it--
He left his position.
He rented the mill, then,
And more than of old
Was beloved by the people.
He took for his grinding
No more than was honest, 730
His customers never
Kept waiting a moment,
And all men alike:
The rich landlord, the workman.
The master and servant,
The poorest of peasants
Were served as their turn came;
Strict order he kept.
Myself, I have not been
Since long in that district, 740
But often the people
Have told me about him.
And never could praise him
Enough. So in your place
I'd go and ask Ermil."
"Your time would be wasted,"
The grey-headed pope,
Who'd before interrupted,
Remarked to the peasants,
"I knew Ermil Girin, 750
I chanced in that district
Some five years ago.
I have often been shifted,
Our bishop loved vastly
To keep us all moving,
So I was his neighbour.
Yes, he was a peasant
Unique, I bear witness,
And all things he owned
That can make a man happy: 760
Peace, riches, and honour,
And that kind of honour
Most valued and precious,
Which cannot be purchased
By might or by money,
But only by righteousness,
Wisdom and kindness.
But still, I repeat it,
Your time will be wasted
In going to Ermil: 770
In prison he lies."
"How's that?"
"God so willed it.
You've heard how the peasants
Of 'Log' the Pomyeshchick
Of Province 'Affrighted,'
Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'
Of village 'Dumbfounded,'
Revolted 'for causes
Entirely unknown,' 780
As they say in the papers.
(I once used to read them.)
And so, too, in this case,
The local Ispravnik,[27]
The Tsar's high officials,
And even the peasants,
'Dumbfounded' themselves.
Never fathomed the reason
Of all the disturbance.
But things became bad, 790
And the soldiers were sent for,
The Tsar packed a messenger
Off in a hurry
To speak to the people.
His epaulettes rose
To his ears as he coaxed them
And cursed them together.
But curses they're used to,
And coaxing was lost,
For they don't understand it: 800
'Brave orthodox peasants!'
'The Tsar--Little Father!'
'Our dear Mother Russia!'
He bellowed and shouted
Until he was hoarse,
While the peasants stood round him
And listened in wonder.
"But when he was tired
Of these peaceable measures
Of calming the riots, 810
At length he decided
On giving the order
Of 'Fire' to the soldiers;
When all of a sudden
A bright thought occurred
To the clerk of the Volost:[28]
'The people trust Girin,
The people will hear him!'
"'Then let him be brought!'" [29]
* * * * *
A cry has arisen 820
"Have mercy! Have mercy!"
A check to the story;
They hurry off quickly
To see what has happened;
And there on a bank
Of a ditch near the roadside,
Some peasants are birching
A drunken old lackey,
Just taken in thieving.
A court had been summoned, 830
The judges deciding
To birch the offender,
That each of the jury
(About three and twenty)
Should give him a stroke
Turn in turn of the rod....
The lackey was up
And made off, in a twinkling,
He took to his heels
Without stopping to argue, 840
On two scraggy legs.
"How he trips it--the dandy!"
The peasants cry, laughing;
They've soon recognized him;
The boaster who prated
So much of his illness
From drinking strange liquors.
"Ho! where has it gone to,
Your noble complaint?
Look how nimble he's getting!" 850
"Well, well, Little Father,
Now finish the story!"
"It's time to go home now,
My children,--God willing,
We'll meet again some day
And finish it then...."
The people disperse
As the dawn is approaching.
Our peasants begin
To bethink them of sleeping, 860
When all of a sudden
A "troika" [30] comes flying
From no one sees where,
With its silver bells ringing.
Within it is sitting
A plump little Barin,
His little mouth smoking
A little cigar.
The peasants draw up
In a line on the roadway, 870
Thus barring the passage
In front of the horses;
And, standing bareheaded,
Bow low to the Barin.
CHAPTER V
THE POMYESHCHICK
The "troika" is drawing
The local Pomyeshchick--
Gavril Afanasich
Obolt-Oboldooeff.
A portly Pomyeshchick,
With long grey moustaches,
Some sixty years old.
His bearing is stately,
His cheeks very rosy,
He wears a short top-coat, 10
Tight-fitting and braided,
Hungarian fashion;
And very wide trousers.
Gavril Afanasich
Was probably startled
At seeing the peasants
Unflinchingly barring
The way to his horses;
He promptly produces
A loaded revolver 20
As bulky and round
As himself; and directs it
Upon the intruders:
"You brigands! You cut-throats!
Don't move, or I shoot!"
"How can we be brigands?"
The peasants say, laughing,
"No knives and no pitchforks,
No hatchets have we!"
"Who are you? And what 30
Do you want?" said the Barin.
"A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
From our wives, from our children,
Away from our work,
Kills our appetites too,
Do give us your promise
To answer us truly,
Consulting your conscience
And searching your knowledge, 40
Not sneering, nor feigning
The question we put you,
And then we will tell you
The cause of our trouble."
"I promise. I give you
The oath of a noble."
"No, don't give us that--
Not the oath of a noble!
We're better content
With the word of a Christian. 50
The nobleman's oaths--
They are given with curses,
With kicks and with blows!
We are better without them!"
"Eh-heh, that's a new creed!
Well, let it be so, then.
And what is your trouble?"
"But put up the pistol!
That's right! Now we'll tell you:
We are not assassins, 60
But peaceable peasants,
From Government 'Hard-pressed,'
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From 'Destitute' Parish,
From neighbouring hamlets,--
'Patched,' 'Bare-Foot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-out,' and 'Hungry.'
From 'Harvestless,' too.
We met in the roadway,
And one asked another, 70
Who is he--the man
Free and happy in Russia?
Luka said, 'The pope,'
And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
Demyan, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goobin,
Mitrodor and Ivan;
Pakhom said, 'His Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser,' 80
And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'
"Like bulls are the peasants;
Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it,
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them!
We argued and argued,
While arguing quarrelled, 90
While quarrelling fought,
Till at last we decided
That never again
Would we turn our steps homeward
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
Until we have settled
The subject of discord;
Until we have found
The reply to our question-- 100
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
"Now tell us, Pomyeshchick,
Is your life a sweet one?
And is the Pomyeshchick
Both happy and free?"
Gavril Afanasich
Springs out of the "troika"
And comes to the peasants.
He takes--like a doctor-- 110
The hand of each one,
And carefully feeling
The pulse gazes searchingly
Into their faces,
Then clasps his plump sides
And stands shaking with laughter.
The clear, hearty laugh
Of the healthy Pomyeshchick
Peals out in the pleasant
Cool air of the morning: 120
"Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!"
Till he stops from exhaustion.
And then he addresses
The wondering peasants:
"Put on your hats, _gentlemen_,
Please to be seated!"
(He speaks with a bitter[31]
And mocking politeness.)
"But we are not gentry;
We'd rather stand up 130
In your presence, your worship."
"Sit down, worthy _citizens_,
Here on the bank."
The peasants protest,
But, on seeing it useless,
Sit down on the bank.
"May I sit beside you?
Hey, Proshka! Some sherry,
My rug and a cushion!"
He sits on the rug. 140
Having finished the sherry,
Thus speaks the Pomyeshchick:
"I gave you my promise
To answer your question....
The task is not easy,
For though you are highly
Respectable people,
You're not very learned.
Well, firstly, I'll try
To explain you the meaning 150
Of Lord, or Pomyeshchick.
Have you, by some chance,
Ever heard the expression
The 'Family Tree'?
Do you know what it means?"
"The woods are not closed to us.
We have seen all kinds
Of trees," say the peasants.
"Your shot has miscarried!
I'll try to speak clearly; 160
I come of an ancient,
Illustrious family;
One, Oboldooeff,
My ancestor, is
Amongst those who were mentioned
In old Russian chronicles
Written for certain
Two hundred and fifty
Years back. It is written,
''Twas given the Tartar, 170
Obolt-Oboldooeff,
A piece of cloth, value
Two roubles, for having
Amused the Tsaritsa
Upon the Tsar's birthday
By fights of wild beasts,
Wolves and foxes. He also
Permitted his own bear
To fight with a wild one,
Which mauled Oboldooeff, 180
And hurt him severely.'
And now, gentle peasants,
Did you understand?"
"Why not? To this day
One can see them--the loafers
Who stroll about leading
A bear!"
"Be it so, then!
But now, please be silent,
And hark to what follows: 190
From this Oboldooeff
My family sprang;
And this incident happened
Two hundred and fifty
Years back, as I told you,
But still, on my mother's side,
Even more ancient
The family is:
Says another old writing:
'Prince Schepin, and one 200
Vaska Gooseff, attempted
To burn down the city
Of Moscow. They wanted
To plunder the Treasury.
They were beheaded.'
And this was, good peasants,
Full three hundred years back!
From these roots it was
That our Family Tree sprang."
"And you are the ... as one 210
Might say ... little apple
Which hangs on a branch
Of the tree," say the peasants.
"Well, apple, then, call it,
So long as it please you.
At least you appear
To have got at my meaning.
And now, you yourselves
Understand--the more ancient
A family is 220
The more noble its members.
Is that so, good peasants?"
"That's so," say the peasants.
"The black bone and white bone
Are different, and they must
Be differently honoured."
"Exactly. I see, friends,
You quite understand me."
The Barin continued:
"In past times we lived, 230
As they say, 'in the bosom
Of Christ,' and we knew
What it meant to be honoured!
Not only the people
Obeyed and revered us,
But even the earth
And the waters of Russia....
You knew what it was
To be One, in the centre
Of vast, spreading lands, 240
Like the sun in the heavens:
The clustering villages
Yours, yours the meadows,
And yours the black depths
Of the great virgin forests!
You pass through a village;
The people will meet you,
Will fall at your feet;
Or you stroll in the forest;
The mighty old trees 250
Bend their branches before you.
Through meadows you saunter;
The slim golden corn-stems
Rejoicing, will curtsey
With winning caresses,
Will hail you as Master.
The little fish sports
In the cool little river;
Get fat, little fish,
At the will of the Master! 260
The little hare speeds
Through the green little meadow;
Speed, speed, little hare,
Till the coming of autumn,
The season of hunting,
The sport of the Master.
And all things exist
But to gladden the Master.
Each wee blade of grass
Whispers lovingly to him, 270
'I live but for thee....'
"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 nobleman's manor. 280
Adjoining the manor
Were glass-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 290
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 whole months together!
We fattened great turkeys,
We brewed our own liquors, 300
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-two huntsmen....
My God!"...
The afflicted 310
Pomyeshchick broke down here,
And hastened to bury
His face in the cushion....
"Hey, Proshka!" he cried,
And then quickly the lackey
Poured out and presented
A glassful of brandy.
The glass was soon empty,
And when the Pomyeshchick
Had rested awhile, 320
He again began speaking:
"Ah, then, Mother Russia,
How gladly in autumn
Your forests awoke
To the horn of the huntsman!
Their dark, gloomy depths,
Which had saddened and faded,
Were pierced by the clear
Ringing blast, and they listened,
Revived and rejoiced, 330
To the laugh of the echo.
The hounds and the huntsmen
Are gathered together,
And wait on the skirts
Of the forest; and with them
The Master; and farther
Within the deep forest
The dog-keepers, roaring
And shouting like madmen,
The hounds all a-bubble 340
Like fast-boiling water.
Hark! There's the horn calling!
You hear the pack yelling?
They're crowding together!
And where's the red beast?
Hoo-loo-loo! Hoo-loo-loo!
And the sly fox is ready;
Fat, furry old Reynard
Is flying before us,
His bushy tail waving! 350
The knowing hounds crouch,
And each lithe body quivers,
Suppressing the fire
That is blazing within it:
'Dear guests of our hearts,
_Do_ come nearer and greet us,
We're panting to meet you,
We, hale little fellows!
Come nearer to us
And away from the bushes!' 360
"They're off! Now, my horse,
Let your swiftness not fail me!
My hounds, you are staunch
And you will not betray me!
Hoo-loo! Faster, faster!
Now, _at him_, my children!"...
Gavril Afanasich
Springs up, wildly shouting,
His arms waving madly,
He dances around them! 370
He's certainly after
A fox in the forest!
The peasants observe him
In silent enjoyment,
They smile in their beards....
"Eh ... you, mad, merry hunters!
Although he forgets
Many things--the Pomyeshchick--
Those hunts in the autumn
Will not be forgotten. 380
'Tis not for our own loss
We grieve, Mother Russia,
But you that we pity;
For you, with the hunting
Have lost the last traces
Of days bold and warlike
That made you majestic....
"At times, in the autumn,
A party of fifty
Would start on a hunting tour; 390
Then each Pomyeshchick
Brought with him a hundred
Fine dogs, and twelve keepers,
And cooks in abundance.
And after the cooks
Came a long line of waggons
Containing provisions.
And as we went forward
With music and singing,
You might have mistaken 400
Our band for a fine troop
Of cavalry, moving!
The time flew for us
Like a falcon." How lightly
The breast of the nobleman
Rose, while his spirit
Went back to the days
Of Old Russia, and greeted
The gallant Boyarin.[32] ...
"No whim was denied us. 410
To whom I desire
I show mercy and favour;
And whom I dislike
I strike dead on the spot.
The law is my wish,
And my fist is my hangman!
My blow makes the sparks crowd,
My blow smashes jaw-bones,
My blow scatters teeth!"...
Like a string that is broken, 420
The voice of the nobleman
Suddenly ceases;
He lowers his eyes
To the ground, darkly frowning ...
And then, in a low voice,
He says:
"You yourselves know
That strictness is needful;
But I, with love, punished.
The chain has been broken, 430
The links burst asunder;
And though we do not beat
The peasant, no longer
We look now upon him
With fatherly feelings.
Yes, I was severe too
At times, but more often
I turned hearts towards me
With patience and mildness.
"Upon Easter Sunday 440
I kissed all the peasants
Within my domain.
A great table, loaded
With 'Paska' and 'Koolich'[33]
And eggs of all colours,
Was spread in the manor.
My wife, my old mother,
My sons, too, and even
My daughters did not scorn
To kiss[34] the last peasant: 450
'Now Christ has arisen!'
'Indeed He has risen!'
The peasants broke fast then,
Drank vodka and wine.
Before each great holiday,
In my best staterooms
The All-Night Thanksgiving
Was held by the pope.
My serfs were invited
With every inducement: 460
'Pray hard now, my children,
Make use of the chance,
Though you crack all your foreheads!'[35]
The nose suffered somewhat,
But still at the finish
We brought all the women-folk
Out of a village
To scrub down the floors.
You see 'twas a cleansing
Of souls, and a strengthening 470
Of spiritual union;
Now, isn't that so?"
"That's so," say the peasants,
But each to himself thinks,
"They needed persuading
With sticks though, I warrant,
To get them to pray
In your Lordship's fine manor!"
"I'll say, without boasting,
They loved me--my peasants. 480
In my large Surminsky
Estate, where the peasants
Were mostly odd-jobbers,
Or very small tradesmen,
It happened that they
Would get weary of staying
At home, and would ask
My permission to travel,
To visit strange parts
At the coming of spring. 490
They'd often be absent
Through summer and autumn.
My wife and the children
Would argue while guessing
The gifts that the peasants
Would bring on returning.
And really, besides
Lawful dues of the 'Barin'
In cloth, eggs, and live stock,
The peasants would gladly 500
Bring gifts to the family:
Jam, say, from Kiev,
From Astrakhan fish,
And the richer among them
Some silk for the lady.
You see!--as he kisses
Her hand he presents her
A neat little packet!
And then for the children
Are sweetmeats and toys; 510
For me, the old toper,
Is wine from St. Petersburg--
Mark you, the rascal
Won't go to the Russian
For that! He knows better--
He runs to the Frenchman!
And when we have finished
Admiring the presents
I go for a stroll
And a chat with the peasants; 520
They talk with me freely.
My wife fills their glasses,
My little ones gather
Around us and listen,
While sucking their sweets,
To the tales of the peasants:
Of difficult trading,
Of places far distant,
Of Petersburg, Astrakhan,
Kazan, and Kiev.... |
|
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기