Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 36

Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371

Lo! and the sins of the anchorite Pa.s.sed from his soul like a breath.

"Let us pray G.o.d to incline to us, Slaves in the shadow of Death...."

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 s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 n.o.bles!"

"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 h.e.l.l!

G.o.d 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-a.s.sured 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.