Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia | Page 5

the grave on the shoulders of friends who had loved and
admired him. The orations delivered above it were full of passionate
emotion called forth by the knowledge that the speakers were
expressing not only their own sentiments, but those of a whole nation.
Nekrassov is dead. But all over Russia young and old repeat and love
his poetry, so full of tenderness and grief and pity for the Russian
people and their endless woe. Quotations from the works of Nekrassov
are as abundant and widely known in Russia as those from Shakespeare
in England, and no work of his is so familiar and so widely quoted as
the national epic, now presented to the English public, _Who can be
Happy in Russia?_
DAVID SOSKICE.
PROLOGUE
The year doesn't matter,
The land's not important,
But seven good
peasants
Once met on a high-road.
From Province "Hard-Battered,"

From District "Most Wretched,"
From "Destitute" Parish,
From
neighbouring hamlets--
"Patched," "Barefoot," and "Shabby,"

"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry,"
From "Harvestless" also, 11

They met and disputed
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká said, "The pope," [2]
And Román, "The Pomyéshchick," [3]

Demyán, "The official,"
"The round-bellied merchant,"
Said both
brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan. 20
Pakhóm, who'd been lost

In profoundest reflection,
Exclaimed, looking down
At the earth,
"'Tis his Lordship,
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief
Adviser,"
And Prov said, "The Tsar."

Like bulls are the peasants:
Once folly is in them
You cannot
dislodge it 30
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden
cudgels:
They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them.

They raised such a clamour
That those who were passing
Thought,
"Surely the fellows
Have found a great treasure
And share it
amongst them!"
They all had set out 40
On particular errands:
The one to the
blacksmith's,
Another in haste
To fetch Father Prokóffy
To
christen his baby.
Pakhóm had some honey
To sell in the market;

The two brothers Goóbin
Were seeking a horse
Which had strayed
from their herd. 50
Long since should the peasants
Have turned their steps homewards,

But still in a row
They are hurrying onwards
As quickly as
though
The grey wolf were behind them.
Still further, still faster

They hasten, contending.
Each shouts, nothing hearing,
And time
does not wait. 60
In quarrel they mark not
The fiery-red sunset

Which blazes in Heaven
As evening is falling,
And all through the
night
They would surely have wandered
If not for the woman,

The pox-pitted "Blank-wits,"
Who met them and cried:
"Heh, God-fearing peasants, 70
Pray, what is your mission?
What
seek ye abroad
In the blackness of midnight?"
So shrilled the hag, mocking,

And shrieking with laughter
She
slashed at her horses
And galloped away.
The peasants are startled,
Stand still, in confusion,
Since long night
has fallen, 80
The numberless stars
Cluster bright in the heavens,

The moon gliding onwards.
Black shadows are spread
On the road
stretched before
The impetuous walkers.
Oh, shadows, black
shadows,
Say, who can outrun you,
Or who can escape you?
Yet
no one can catch you, 90
Entice, or embrace you!

Pakhóm, the old fellow,
Gazed long at the wood,
At the sky, at the
roadway,
Gazed, silently searching
His brain for some counsel,

And then spake in this wise:
"Well, well, the wood-devil
Has finely
bewitched us!
We've wandered at least 100
Thirty versts from our
homes.
We all are too weary
To think of returning
To-night; we
must wait
Till the sun rise to-morrow."
Thus, blaming the devil,
The peasants make ready
To sleep by the
roadside.
They light a large fire,
And collecting some farthings 110

Send two of their number
To buy them some vodka,
The rest
cutting cups
From the bark of a birch-tree.
The vodka's provided,

Black bread, too, besides,
And they all begin feasting:
Each
munches some bread
And drinks three cups of vodka--
But then
comes the question 120
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká cries, "The pope!"
And Román, "The Pomyéshchick!"
And
Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"
And Demyán, "The official!"
"The
round-bellied merchant!"
Bawl both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and
Ívan.
Pakhóm shrieks, "His Lordship, 130
His most mighty
Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"
The obstinate peasants
Grow more and more heated,
Cry louder and
louder,
Swear hard at each other;
I really believe

They'll attack
one another!
Look! now they are fighting!
Román and Pakhom
close, 140
Demyán clouts Luká,
While the two brothers Goóbin

Are drubbing fat Prov,
And they all shout together.
Then wakes the
clear echo,
Runs hither and thither,
Runs calling and mocking
As
if to encourage
The wrath of the peasants.
The trees of the forest
150
Throw furious words back:
"The Tsar!" "The Pomyéshchick!"
"The pope!" "The official!"

Until the whole coppice
Awakes in confusion;
The birds and the
insects,
The swift-footed beasts
And the low crawling reptiles
Are
chattering and buzzing
And stirring all round. 160
The timid grey

hare
Springing out of the bushes
Speeds startled away;
The
hoarse little jackdaw
Flies off to the top
Of a birch-tree, and raises

A harsh, grating shriek,
A most horrible clamour.
A weak little
peewit
Falls headlong in terror 170
From out of its nest,
And the
mother comes flying
In search of her fledgeling.
She twitters in
anguish.
Alas! she can't find it.
The crusty old cuckoo
Awakes
and bethinks him
To call to a neighbour:
Ten times he commences

And gets out of tune, 180
But he won't give it up....
Call, call, little cuckoo,
For all the young cornfields
Will shoot into
ear soon,
And then it will choke you--
The ripe golden grain,
And
your day will be ended![4]
From out the dark forest
Fly seven brown owls,
And on seven tall
pine-trees 190
They settle themselves
To enjoy the disturbance.

They laugh--birds of night--
And