Chapter III: Old and New

Iona has finished.
He crosses himself,
And the people are silent.
And then of a sudden

The trader cries loudly In great irritation, "What's wrong with the ferry? A plague on the sluggards! Ho, ferry ahoy!"

"You won't get the ferry 10
Till sunrise, for even
In daytime they're frightened
To cross: the boat's rotten!
About Kudear, now--"

"Ho, ferry ahoy!"

He strides to his waggon. A cow is there tethered; He churlishly kicks her. His hens begin clucking; He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20 The calf, which is shifting About in the cart. Gets a crack on the forehead. He strikes the roan mare With the whip, and departing He makes for the Volga. The moon is now shining, It casts on the roadway A comical shadow, Which trots by his side. 30

"Oho!" says the Elder,
"He thought himself able
To fight, but discussion
Is not in his line....
My brothers, how grievous
The sins of the nobles!"

"And yet not as great
As the sin of the peasant,"
The carter cannot here
Refrain from remarking. 40

"A plaguey old croaker!" Says Klim, spitting crossly; "Whatever arises The raven must fly To his own little brood! What is it, then, tell us, The sin of the peasant?"

_The Sin of Gleb the Peasant_

A'miral Widower sailed on the sea,
Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49
Once with the Turk a great battle he fought,
His was the victory, gallantly bought.
So to the hero as valour's reward
Eight thousand souls[59] did the Empress award.
A'miral Widower lived on his land
Rich and content, till his end was at hand.
As he lay dying this A'miral bold
Handed his Elder a casket of gold.
"See that thou cherish this casket," he said,
"Keep it and open it when I am dead.
There lies my will, and by it you will see
Eight thousand souls are from serfdom set free." 61
Dead, on the table, the A'miral lies,
A kinsman remote to the funeral hies.
Buried! Forgotten! His relative soon
Calls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune.
And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill,
Learns of the casket, and terms of the will.
Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed,
Gives him his freedom,--the will is destroyed!
Thus, by Gleb's longing for criminal gains,
Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71
Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well,
Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!
God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crime
Ne'er will be pardoned till end of all time.
Peasant, most infamous sinner of all,
Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!

Wrathful, relentless,
The carter thus finished
The tale of the peasant 80
In thunder-like tones.
The others sigh deeply
And rise. They're exclaiming,
"So, that's what it is, then,
The sin of the peasant.
He's right. 'Tis indeed
A most terrible sin!"

"The story speaks truly;
Our grief shall be endless,
Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90
(His faith in improvements
Has vanished again.)
And Klimka, who always
Is swayed in an instant
By joy or by sorrow,
Despondingly echoes,
"A terrible sin!"

The green by the Volga,
Now flooded with moonlight,
Has changed of a sudden: 100
The peasants no longer
Seem men independent
With self-assured movements,
They're "Earthworms" again--
Those "Earthworms" whose victuals
Are never sufficient,
Who always are threatened
With drought, blight, or famine,
Who yield to the trader
The fruits of extortion 110
Their tears, shed in tar.
The miserly haggler
Not only ill-pays them,
But bullies as well:
"For what do I pay you?
The tar costs you nothing.
The sun brings it oozing
From out of your bodies
As though from a pine."

Again the poor peasants 120
Are sunk in the depths
Of the bottomless gulf!
Dejected and silent,
They lie on their stomachs
Absorbed in reflection.
But then they start singing;
And slowly the song,
Like a ponderous cloud-bank,
Rolls mournfully onwards.
They sing it so clearly 130
That quickly our seven
Have learnt it as well.

_The Hungry One_

The peasant stands
With haggard gaze,
He pants for breath,
He reels and sways;

From famine food,
From bread of bark,
His form has swelled,
His face is dark. 140

Through endless grief
Suppressed and dumb
His eyes are glazed,
His soul is numb.

As though in sleep,
With footsteps slow,
He creeps to where
The rye doth grow.

Upon his field
He gazes long, 150
He stands and sings
A voiceless song:

"Grow ripe, grow ripe,
O Mother rye,
I fostered thee,
Thy lord am I.

"Yield me a loaf
Of monstrous girth,
A cake as vast
As Mother-Earth. 160

"I'll eat the whole--
No crumb I'll spare;
With wife, with child,
I will not share."

"Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!" A voice exclaims feebly. It's one of the peasants. He fetches a loaf From his bag, and devours it.

"They sing without voices, 170
And yet when you listen
Your hair begins rising,"
Another remarks.

It's true. Not with voices They sing of the famine-- But something within them. One, during the singing, Has risen, to show them The gait of the peasant Exhausted by hunger, 180 And swayed by the wind. Restrained are his movements And slow. After singing "The Hungry One," thirsting They make for the bucket, One after another Like geese in a file. They stagger and totter As people half-famished, A drink will restore them. 190 "Come, let us be joyful!" The deacon is saying. His youngest son, Grisha, Approaches the peasants. "Some vodka?" they ask him.

"No, thank you. I've had some. But what's been the matter? You look like drowned kittens."

"What should be the matter?" (And making an effort 200 They bear themselves bravely.) And Vlass, the old Elder, Has placed his great palm On the head of his godson.

"Is serfdom revived?
Will they drive you to barschin
Or pilfer your hayfields?"
Says Grisha in jest.

"The hay-fields? You're joking!"

"Well, what has gone wrong, then?
And why were you singing 211
'The Hungry One,' brothers?
To summon the famine?"

"Yes, what's all the pother?" Here Klimka bursts out Like a cannon exploding. The others are scratching Their necks, and reflecting: "It's true! What's amiss?" "Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,' Come, drink and be merry! 221 All's well--as we'd have it, Aye, just as we wished it. Come, hold up your noddles! But what about Gleb?"

A lengthy discussion Ensues; and it's settled That they're not to blame For the deed of the traitor: 'Twas serfdom's the fault. 230 For just as the big snake Gives birth to the small ones, So serfdom gave birth To the sins of the nobles, To Jacob the Faithful's And also to Gleb's. For, see, without serfdom Had been no Pomyeshchick To drive his true servant To death by the noose, 240 No terrible vengeance Of slave upon master By suicide fearful, No treacherous Gleb.

'Twas Prov of all others Who listened to Grisha With deepest attention And joy most apparent. And when he had finished He cried to the others 250 In accents of triumph, Delightedly smiling, "Now, brothers, mark _that_!" "So now, there's an end Of 'The Hungry One,' peasants!" Cries Klimka, with glee. The words about serfdom Were quickly caught up By the crowd, and went passing From one to another: 260 "Yes, if there's no big snake There cannot be small ones!" And Klimka is swearing Again at the carter: "You ignorant fool!" They're ready to grapple! The deacon is sobbing And kissing his Grisha: "Just see what a headpiece The Lord is creating! 270 No wonder he longs For the college in Moscow!" Old Vlass, too, is patting His shoulder and saying, "May God send thee silver And gold, and a healthy And diligent wife!"

"I wish not for silver Or gold," replies Grisha. "But one thing I wish: 280 I wish that my comrades, Yes, all the poor peasants In Russia so vast, Could be happy and free!" Thus, earnestly speaking, And blushing as shyly As any young maiden, He walks from their midst.

The dawn is approaching. The peasants make ready 290 To cross by the ferry. "Eh, Vlass," says the carter, As, stooping, he raises The span of his harness, "Who's this on the ground?"

The Elder approaches, And Klimka behind him, Our seven as well. (They're always most anxious To see what is passing.) 300

Some fellow is lying Exhausted, dishevelled, Asleep, with the beggars Behind some big logs. His clothing is new, But it's hanging in ribbons. A crimson silk scarf On his neck he is wearing; A watch and a waistcoat; His blouse, too, is red. 310 Now Klimka is stooping To look at the sleeper, Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughly Stamps straight on his mouth.

The fellow springs up,
Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep,
And old Vlasuchka strikes him.
He squeals like a rat
'Neath the heel of your slipper,
And makes for the forest 320
On long, lanky legs.
Four peasants pursue him,
The others cry, "Beat him!"
Until both the man
And the band of pursuers
Are lost in the forest.

"Who is he?" our seven Are asking the Elder, "And why do they beat him?"

"We don't know the reason, 330 But we have been told By the people of Tiskov To punish this Shutov Whenever we catch him, And so we obey. When people from Tiskov Pass by, they'll explain it. What luck? Did you catch him?" He asks of the others Returned from the chase. 340

"We caught him, I warrant, And gave him a lesson. He's run to Demyansky, For there he'll be able To cross by the ferry."

"Strange people, to beat him Without any cause!" "And why? If the commune Has told us to do it There must be some reason!" 350 Shouts Klim at the seven. "D'you think that the people Of Tiskov are fools? It isn't long since, mind, That many were flogged there, One man in each ten. Ah, Shutov, you rendered A dastardly service, Your duties are evil, You damnable wretch! 360 And who deserves beating As richly as Shutov? Not we alone beat him: From Tiskov, you know, Fourteen villages lie On the banks of the Volga; I warrant through each He's been driven with blows."

The seven are silent. They're longing to get 370 At the root of the matter. But even the Elder Is now growing angry.

It's daylight. The women
Are bringing their husbands
Some breakfast, of rye-cakes
And--goose! (For a peasant
Had driven some geese
Through the village to market,
And three were grown weary, 380
And had to be carried.)
"See here, will you sell them?
They'll die ere you get there."
And so, for a trifle,
The geese had been bought.

We've often been told How the peasant loves drinking; Not many there are, though, Who know how he eats. He's greedier far 390 For his food than for vodka, So one man to-day (A teetotaller mason) Gets perfectly drunk On his breakfast of goose! A shout! "Who is coming? Who's this?" Here's another Excuse for rejoicing And noise! There's a hay-cart With hay, now approaching, 400 And high on its summit A soldier is sitting. He's known to the peasants For twenty versts round. And, cosy beside him, Justinutchka sits (His niece, and an orphan, His prop in old age). He now earns his living By means of his peep-show, 410 Where, plainly discerned, Are the Kremlin and Moscow, While music plays too. The instrument once Had gone wrong, and the soldier, No capital owning, Bought three metal spoons, Which he beat to make music; But the words that he knew Did not suit the new music, 420 And folk did not laugh. The soldier was sly, though: He made some new words up That went with the music.

They hail him with rapture!
"Good-health to you, Grandad!
Jump down, drink some vodka,
And give us some music."

"It's true I got _up_ here,
But how to get-down?" 430

"You're going, I see,
To the town for your pension,
But look what has happened:
It's burnt to the ground."

"Burnt down? Yes, and rightly!
What then? Then I'll go
To St. Petersburg for it;
For all my old comrades
Are there with their pensions,
They'll show me the way." 440

"You'll go by the train, then?"

The old fellow whistles:
"Not long you've been serving
Us, orthodox Christians,
You, infidel railway!
And welcome you were
When you carried us cheaply
From Peters to Moscow.
(It cost but three roubles.)
But now you want seven, 450
So, go to the devil!

"Lady so insolent, lady so arrogant! Hiss like a snake as you glide! _Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you!_ Puff at the whole countryside! Crushing and maiming your toll you extort, Straight in the face of the peasant you snort, Soon all the people of Russia you may Cleaner than any big broom sweep away!"

"Come, give us some music," 460
Says Vlass to the soldier,
"For here there are plenty
Of holiday people,
'Twill be to your profit.
You see to it, Klimka!"
(Though Vlass doesn't like him,
Whenever there's something
That calls for arranging
He leaves it to Klimka:
"You see to it, Klimka!" 470
And Klimka is pleased.)

And soon the old soldier Is helped from the hay-cart: He's weak on his legs,--tall, And strikingly thin. His uniform seems To be hung from a pole; There are medals upon it.

It cannot be said That his face is attractive, 480 Especially when It's distorted by _tic_: His mouth opens wide And his eyes burn like charcoal,-- A regular demon!

The music is started, The people run back From the banks of the Volga. He sings to the music.

* * * * *

A spasm has seized him: 490 He leans on his niece, And his left leg upraising He twirls it around In the air like a weight. His right follows suit then, And murmuring, "Curse it!" He suddenly masters And stands on them both.

"You see to it, Klimka!" Of course he'll arrange it 500 In Petersburg fashion: He stands them together, The niece and the uncle; Takes two wooden dishes And gives them one each, Then springs on a tree-trunk To make an oration.

(The soldier can't help
Adding apt little words
To the speech of the peasant, 510
And striking his spoons.)

* * * * *

The soldier is stamping
His feet. One can hear
His dry bones knock together.
When Klimka has finished
The peasants come crowding,
Surrounding the soldier,
And some a kopeck give,
And others give half:
In no time a rouble 520
Is piled on the dishes.