Chapter III: Savyeli

"A mane grey and bushy Which covered his shoulders, A huge grizzled beard Which had not seen the scissors For twenty odd years, Made Savyeli resemble A shaggy old bear, Especially when he Came out of the forest, So broad and bent double. 10 The grandfather's shoulders Were bowed very low, And at first I was frightened Whenever he entered The tiny low cottage: I thought that were he To stand straight of a sudden He'd knock a great hole With his head in the ceiling. But Grandfather could not 20 Stand straight, and they told me That he was a hundred. He lived all alone In his own little cottage, And never permitted The others to enter; He couldn't abide them. Of course they were angry And often abused him. His own son would shout at him, 30 'Branded one! Convict!' But this did not anger Savyeli, he only Would go to his cottage Without making answer, And, crossing himself, Begin reading the scriptures; Then suddenly cry In a voice loud and joyful, 'Though branded--no slave!' 40 When too much they annoyed him, He sometimes would say to them: 'Look, the swat's[46] coming!' The unmarried daughter Would fly to the window; Instead of the swat there A beggar she'd find! And one day he silvered A common brass farthing, And left it to lie 50 On the floor; and then straightway Did Father-in-law run In joy to the tavern,-- He came back, not tipsy, But beaten half-dead! At supper that night We were all very silent, And Father-in-law had A cut on his eyebrow, But Grandfather's face 60 Wore a smile like a rainbow!

"Savyeli would gather The berries and mushrooms From spring till late autumn, And snare the wild rabbits; Throughout the long winter He lay on the oven And talked to himself. He had favourite sayings: He used to lie thinking 70 For whole hours together, And once in an hour You would hear him exclaiming:

"'Destroyed ... and subjected!'
Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes!
You're fit but for battles
With old men and women!'

"'Be patient ... and perish, Impatient ... and perish!'

"'Eh, you Russian peasant, 80
You giant, you strong man,
The whole of your lifetime
You're flogged, yet you dare not
Take refuge in death,
For Hell's torments await you!'

"'At last the Korojins[47]
Awoke, and they paid him,
They paid him, they paid him,
They paid the whole debt!'
And many such sayings 90
He had,--I forget them.
When Father-in-law grew
Too noisy I always
Would run to Savyeli,
And we two, together,
Would fasten the door.
Then I began working,
While Djomushka climbed
To the grandfather's shoulder,
And sat there, and looked 100
Like a bright little apple
That hung on a hoary
Old tree. Once I asked him:

"'And why do they call you
A convict, Savyeli?'

"'I was once a convict,'
Said he.

"'You, Savyeli!'

"'Yes I, little Grandchild,
Yes, I have been branded. 110
I buried a German
Alive--Christian Vogel.'

"'You're joking, Savyeli!'

"'Oh no, I'm not joking.
I mean it,' he said,
And he told me the story.

"'The peasants in old days Were serfs as they now are, But our race had, somehow, Not seen its Pomyeshchick; 120 No manager knew we, No pert German agent. And barschin we gave not, And taxes we paid not Except when it pleased us,-- Perhaps once in three years Our taxes we'd pay.'

"'But why, little Grandad?'

"'The times were so blessed,-- And folk had a saying 130 That our little village Was sought by the devil For more than three years, But he never could find it. Great forests a thousand Years old lay about us; And treacherous marshes And bogs spread around us; No horseman and few men On foot ever reached us. 140 It happened that once By some chance, our Pomyeshchick, Shalashnikov, wanted To pay us a visit. High placed in the army Was he; and he started With soldiers to find us. They soon got bewildered And lost in the forest, And had to turn back; 150 Why, the Zemsky policeman Would only come once In a year! They were good times! In these days the Barin Lives under your window; The roadways go spreading Around, like white napkins-- The devil destroy them! We only were troubled By bears, and the bears too 160 Were easily managed. Why, I was a worse foe By far than old Mishka, When armed with a dagger And bear-spear. I wandered In wild, secret woodpaths, And shouted, ''_My_ forest!'' And once, only once, I was frightened by something: I stepped on a huge 170 Female bear that was lying Asleep in her den In the heart of the forest. She flung herself at me, And straight on my bear-spear Was fixed. Like a fowl On the spit she hung twisting An hour before death. It was then that my spine snapped. It often was painful 180 When I was a young man; But now I am old, It is fixed and bent double. Now, do I not look like A hook, little Grandchild?'

"'But finish the story. You lived and were not much Afflicted. What further?'

"'At last our Pomyeshchick
Invented a new game: 190
He sent us an order,
''Appear!'' We appeared not.
Instead, we lay low
In our dens, hardly breathing.
A terrible drought
Had descended that summer,
The bogs were all dry;
So he sent a policeman,
Who managed to reach us,
To gather our taxes, 200
In honey and fish;
A second time came he,
We gave him some bear-skins;
And when for the third time
He came, we gave nothing,--
We said we had nothing.
We put on our laputs,
We put our old caps on,
Our oldest old coats,
And we went to Korojin 210
(For there was our master now,
Stationed with soldiers).
''Your taxes!'' ''We have none,
We cannot pay taxes,
The corn has not grown,
And the fish have escaped us.''
''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.''
He waited no longer;
''Hey! Give them the first round!''
He said, and they flogged us. 220

"'Our pockets were not
Very easily opened;
Shalashnikov, though, was
A master at flogging.
Our tongues became parched,
And our brains were set whirling,
And still he continued.
He flogged not with birch-rods,
With whips or with sticks,
But with knouts made for giants. 230
At last we could stand it
No longer; we shouted,
''Enough! Let us breathe!''
We unwound our foot-rags
And took out our money,
And brought to the Barin
A ragged old bonnet
With roubles half filled.

"'The Barin grew calm, He was pleased with the money; 240 He gave us a glass each Of strong, bitter brandy, And drank some himself With the vanquished Korojins, And gaily clinked glasses. ''It's well that you yielded,'' Said he, ''For I swear I was fully decided To strip off the last shred Of skins from your bodies 250 And use it for making A drum for my soldiers! Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!'' (He was pleased with the notion.) ''A fine drum indeed!''

"'In silence we left;
But two stalwart old peasants
Were chuckling together;
They'd two hundred roubles
In notes, the old rascals! 260
Safe hidden away
In the end of their coat-tails.
They both had been yelling,
''We're beggars! We're beggars!''
So carried them home.
''Well, well, you may cackle!''
I thought to myself,
''But the next time, be certain,
You won't laugh at me!''
The others were also 270
Ashamed of their weakness,
And so by the ikons
We swore all together
That next time we rather
Would die of the beating
Than feebly give way.
It seems the Pomyeshchick
Had taken a fancy
At once to our roubles,
Because after that 280
Every year we were summoned
To go to Korojin,
We went, and were flogged.

"'Shalashnikov flogged like
A prince, but be certain
The treasures he thrashed from
The doughty Korojins
Were not of much weight.
The weak yielded soon,
But the strong stood like iron 290
For the commune. I also
Bore up, and I thought:
''Though never so stoutly
You flog us, you dog's son,
You won't drag the whole soul
From out of the peasant;
Some trace will be left.''

"'When the Barin was sated We went from the town, But we stopped on the outskirts 300 To share what was over. And plenty there was, too! Shalashnikov, heh, You're a fool! It was our turn To laugh at the Barin; Ah, they were proud peasants-- The plucky Korojins! But nowadays show them The tail of a knout, And they'll fly to the Barin, 310 And beg him to take The last coin from their pockets. Well, that's why we all lived Like merchants in those days. One summer came tidings To us that our Barin Now owned us no longer, That he had, at Varna, Been killed. We weren't sorry, But somehow we thought then: 320 ''The peasants' good fortune Has come to an end!'' The heir made a new move: He sent us a German.[48] Through vast, savage forests, Through sly sucking bogs And on foot came the German, As bare as a finger.

"'As melting as butter
At first was the German: 330
''Just give what you can, then,''
He'd say to the peasants.

"'''We've nothing to give!''

"'''I'll explain to the Barin.''

"'''Explain,'' we replied,
And were troubled no more.
It seemed he was going
To live in the village;
He soon settled down.
On the banks of the river, 340
For hour after hour
He sat peacefully fishing,
And striking his nose
Or his cheek or his forehead.
We laughed: ''You don't like
The Korojin mosquitoes?''
He'd boat near the bankside
And shout with enjoyment,
Like one in the bath-house
Who's got to the roof.[49] 350

"'With youths and young maidens
He strolled in the forest
(They were not for nothing
Those strolls in the forest!)--
''Well, if you can't pay
You should work, little peasants.''

"'''What work should we do?''

"'''You should dig some deep ditches
To drain off the bog-lands.''
We dug some deep ditches. 360

"'''And now trim the forest.''

"'''Well, well, trim the forest....''
We hacked and we hewed
As the German directed,
And when we look round
There's a road through the forest!

"'The German went driving To town with three horses; Look! now he is coming With boxes and bedding, 370 And God knows wherefrom Has this bare-footed German Raised wife and small children! And now he's established A village ispravnik,[50] They live like two brothers. His courtyard at all times Is teeming with strangers, And woe to the peasants-- The fallen Korojins! 380 He sucked us all dry To the very last farthing; And flog!--like the soul Of Shalashnikov flogged he! Shalashnikov stopped When he got what he wanted; He clung to our backs Till he'd glutted his stomach, And then he dropped down Like a leech from a dog's ear. 390 But he had the grip Of a corpse--had this German; Until he had left you Stripped bare like a beggar You couldn't escape.'

"'But how could you bear it?'

"'Ah, how could we bear it? Because we were giants-- Because by their patience The people of Russia Are great, little Grandchild. 400 You think, then, Matrona, That we Russian peasants No warriors are? Why, truly the peasant Does not live in armour, Does not die in warfare, But nevertheless He's a warrior, child. His hands are bound tight, 410 And his feet hung with fetters; His back--mighty forests Have broken across it; His breast--I will tell you, The Prophet Elijah In chariot fiery Is thundering within it; And these things the peasant Can suffer in patience. He bends--but he breaks not; 420 He reels--but he falls not; Then is he not truly A warrior, say?'

"'You joke, little Grandad;
Such warriors, surely,
A tiny mouse nibbling
Could crumble to atoms,'
I said to Savyeli.

"'I know not, Matrona, But up till to-day 430 He has stood with his burden; He's sunk in the earth 'Neath its weight to his shoulders; His face is not moistened With sweat, but with heart's blood. I don't know what may Come to pass in the future, I can't think what will Come to pass--only God knows. For my part, I know 440 When the storm howls in winter, When old bones are painful, I lie on the oven, I lie, and am thinking: ''Eh, you, strength of giants, On what have they spent you? On what are you wasted? With whips and with rods They will pound you to dust!'''

"'But what of the German, 450 Savyeli?'

"'The German?
Well, well, though he lived
Like a lord in his glory
For eighteen long years,
We were waiting our day.
Then the German considered
A factory needful,
And wanted a pit dug.
'Twas work for nine peasants. 460
We started at daybreak
And laboured till mid-day,
And then we were going
To rest and have dinner,
When up comes the German:
''Eh, you, lazy devils!
So little work done?''
He started to nag us,
Quite coolly and slowly,
Without heat or hurry; 470
For that was his way.

"'And we, tired and hungry, Stood listening in silence. He kicked the wet earth With his boot while he scolded, Not far from the edge Of the pit. I stood near him. And happened to give him A push with my shoulder; Then somehow a second 480 And third pushed him gently.... We spoke not a word, Gave no sign to each other, But silently, slowly, Drew closer together, And edging the German Respectfully forward, We brought him at last To the brink of the hollow.... He tumbled in headlong! 490 ''A ladder!'' he bellows; Nine shovels reply. ''Naddai!''[51]--the word fell From my lips on the instant, The word to which people Work gaily in Russia; ''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!'' And we laboured so bravely That soon not a trace Of the pit was remaining, 500 The earth was as smooth As before we had touched it; And then we stopped short And we looked at each other....'

"The old man was silent.
'What further, Savyeli?'

"'What further? Ah, bad times: The prison in Buy-Town (I learnt there my letters), Until we were sentenced; 510 The convict-mines later; And plenty of lashes. But I never frowned At the lash in the prison; They flogged us but poorly. And later I nearly Escaped to the forest; They caught me, however. Of course they did not Pat my head for their trouble; 520 The Governor was through Siberia famous For flogging. But had not Shalashnikov flogged us? I spit at the floggings I got in the prison! Ah, he was a Master! He knew how to flog you! He toughened my hide so You see it has served me 530 For one hundred years, And 'twill serve me another. But life was not easy, I tell you, Matrona: First twenty years prison, Then twenty years exile. I saved up some money, And when I came home, Built this hut for myself. And here I have lived 540 For a great many years now. They loved the old grandad So long as he'd money, But now it has gone They would part with him gladly, They spit in his face. Eh, you plucky toy heroes! You're fit to make war Upon old men and women!'

"And that was as much 550
As the grandfather told me."

"And now for your story,"
They answer Matrona.

"'Tis not very bright.
From one trouble God
In His goodness preserved me;
For Sitnikov died
Of the cholera. Soon, though,
Another arose,
I will tell you about it." 560

"Naddai!" say the peasants (They love the word well), They are filling the glasses.