Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia | Page 7

of bread

On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
"The cucumbers, tea,
And sour qwass--where are they then?"
At
once they appear!

The peasants unloosen
Their waistbelts, and gather
Around the
white napkin 420
To hold a great banquet.
In joy, they embrace

One another, and promise
That never again
Will they beat one
another
Without sound reflection,
But settle their quarrels
In
reason and honour
As God has commanded;
That nought shall
persuade them 430
To turn their steps homewards
To kiss wives
and children,
To see the old people,
Until they have settled
For
once and forever
The subject of discord:
Until they've discovered

The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free.
They swear to each other 440
To keep this, their promise,
And
daybreak beholds them
Embosomed in slumber
As deep and as
dreamless
As that of the dead.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
THE POPE[7]
The broad sandy high-road
With borders of birch-trees
Winds sadly
and drearily
Into the distance;
On either hand running
Low hills
and young cornfields,
Green pastures, and often--
More often than
any--
Lands sterile and barren.
And near to the rivers 10
And
ponds are the hamlets
And villages standing--
The old and the new
ones.
The forests and meadows

And rivers of Russia
Are lovely
in springtime,
But O you spring cornfields,
Your growth thin and
scanty
Is painful to see.
"'Twas not without meaning 20
That daily the snow fell
Throughout
the long winter,"
Said one to another
The journeying peasants:--

"The spring has now come
And the snow tells its story:
At first it is
silent--
'Tis silent in falling,
Lies silently sleeping,
But when it is
dying 30
Its voice is uplifted:
The fields are all covered
With loud,

rushing waters,
No roads can be traversed
For bringing manure

To the aid of the cornfields;
The season is late
For the sweet month
of May
Is already approaching."
The peasant is saddened 40
At
sight of the dirty
And squalid old village;
But sadder the new ones:

The new huts are pretty,
But they are the token
Of heartbreaking
ruin.[8]
As morning sets in
They begin to meet people,
But mostly small
people:
Their brethren, the peasants, 50
And soldiers and
waggoners,
Workmen and beggars.
The soldiers and beggars

They pass without speaking.
Not asking if happy
Or grievous their
lot:
The soldier, we know,
Shaves his beard with a gimlet,
Has
nothing but smoke
In the winter to warm him,-- 60
What joy can be
his?
As evening is falling
Appears on the high-road
A pope in his cart.

The peasants uncover
Their heads, and draw up
In a line on the
roadway,
Thus barring the passage
In front of the gelding.
The
pope raised his head, 70
Looked inquiringly at them.
"Fear not, we
won't harm you,"
Luká said in answer.
(Luká was thick-bearded,

Was heavy and stolid,
Was obstinate, stupid,
And talkative too;

He was like to the windmill

Which differs in one thing
Alone from
an eagle: 80
No matter how boldly
It waves its broad pinions
It
rises no higher.)
"We, orthodox peasants,
From District 'Most Wretched,'
From
Province 'Hard Battered,'
From 'Destitute' Parish,
From
neighbouring hamlets,
'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,'
'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' 90
From 'Harvestless' also,
Are striving
to settle
A thing of importance;
A trouble torments us,
It draws us
away
From our wives and our children,
Away from our work,

Kills our appetites too.
Pray, give us your promise
To answer us
truly, 100
Consulting your conscience
And searching your
knowledge,
Not feigning nor mocking
The question we put you.


If not, we will go
Further on."
"I will promise
If you will but put me
A serious question
To
answer it gravely, 110
With truth and with reason,
Not feigning nor
mocking,
Amen!"
"We are grateful,
And this is our story:
We all had set out
On
particular errands,
And met in the roadway.
Then one asked another:

Who is he,--the man 120
Free and happy in Russia?
And I said,
'The pope,'
And Román, 'The Pomyéshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The
Tsar,'
And Demyán, 'The official';
'The round-bellied merchant,'

Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan;
Pakhóm said, 'His
Lordship,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' 130
"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,
While quarrelling
fought, 140
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 found
The reply to our question,
Until
we've discovered
For once and forever
The man who, in Russia,
150
Is happy and free.
Then say, in God's truth,
Is the pope's life a
sweet one?
Would you, honoured father,
Proclaim yourself happy?"
The pope in his cart
Cast his eyes on the roadway,
Fell thoughtful
and answered:
"Then, Christians, come, hear me:
I will not complain 160
Of the
cross that I carry,
But bear it in silence.
I'll tell you my story,
And
you try to follow
As well as you can."
"Begin."
"But first tell me
The gifts you consider
As true earthly welfare;


Peace, honour, and riches,-- 170
Is that so, my children?"
They answer, "It is so."
"And now let us see, friends,
What peace does the pope get?
In
truth, then, I ought
To begin from my childhood,
For how does the
son
Of the pope gain his learning,
And what is the price
That he
pays for the priesthood? 180
'Tis best to be silent." [9]

"Our roadways are poor
And our parishes large,
And the sick and
the dying,
The new-born that call us,
Do not choose their season:

In harvest and hay-time,
In dark nights of autumn,
Through frosts
in the winter,
Through floods in the springtime, 190
Go--where
they may call you.
You go without murmur,
If only the