_The Merry Song_

The "Merry Song" finished, They struck up a chorus, A song of their own, A wailing lament (For, as yet, they've no others).

And is it not strange That in vast Holy Russia, With ma.s.ses and ma.s.ses Of people unnumbered, No song has been born 10 Overflowing with joy Like a bright summer morning?

Yes, is it not striking, And is it not tragic?

O times that are coming, You, too, will be painted In songs of the people, But how? In what colours?

And will there be ever A smile in their hearts? 20

"Eh, that's a fine song!

'Tis a shame to forget it."

Our peasants regret That their memories trick them.

And, meanwhile, the peasants Of "Earthworms" are saying, "We lived but for 'barschin,'

Pray, how would you like it?

You see, we grew up 'Neath the snout of the Barin, 30 Our noses were glued To the earth. We'd forgotten The faces of neighbours, Forgot how to speak.

We got tipsy in silence, Gave kisses in silence, Fought silently, too."

"Eh, who speaks of silence?

We'd more cause to hate it Than you," said a peasant 40 Who came from a Volost Near by, with a waggon Of hay for the market.

(Some heavy misfortune Had forced him to sell it.) "For once our young lady, Miss Gertrude, decided That any one swearing Must soundly be flogged.

Dear Lord, how they flogged us 50 Until we stopped swearing!

Of course, not to swear For the peasant means--silence.

We suffered, G.o.d knows!

Then freedom was granted, We feasted it finely, And then we made up For our silence, believe me: We swore in such style That Pope John was ashamed 60 For the church-bells to hear us.

(They rang all day long.) What stories we told then!

We'd no need to seek For the words. They were written All over our backs."

"A funny thing happened In our parts,--a strange thing,"

Remarked a tall fellow With bushy black whiskers. 70 (He wore a round hat With a badge, a red waistcoat With ten shining b.u.t.tons, And stout homespun breeches.

His legs, to contrast With the smartness above them, Were tied up in rags!

There are trees very like him, From which a small shepherd Has stripped all the bark off 80 Below, while above Not a scratch can be noticed!

And surely no raven Would scorn such a summit For building a nest.)

"Well, tell us about it."

"I'll first have a smoke."

And while he is smoking Our peasants are asking, "And who is this fellow? 90 What sort of a goose?"

"An unfortunate footman Inscribed in our Volost, A martyr, a house-serf Of Count Sinegusin's.

His name is Vikenti.

He sprang from the foot-board Direct to the ploughshare; We still call him 'Footman.'

He's healthy enough, 100 But his legs are not strong, And they're given to trembling.

His lady would drive In a carriage and four To go hunting for mushrooms.

He'll tell you some stories: His memory's splendid; You'd think he had eaten The eggs of a magpie." [55]

Now, setting his hat straight, 110 Vikenti commences To tell them the story.

_The Dutiful Serf--Jacob the Faithful_

Once an official, of rather low family, Bought a small village from bribes he had stored, Lived in it thirty-three years without leaving it, Feasted and hunted and drank like a lord.

Greedy and miserly, not many friends he made, Sometimes he'd drive to his sister's to tea.

Cruel was his nature, and not to his serfs alone: On his own daughter no pity had he, 120 Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both penniless Out of his house; not a soul dare resist.

Jacob, his dutiful servant, Ever of orders observant, Often he'd strike in the mouth with his fist.

Hearts of men born into slavery Sometimes with dogs' hearts accord: Crueller the punishments dealt to them More they will worship their lord. 129

Jacob, it seems, had a heart of that quality, Only two sources of joy he possessed: Tending and serving his Barin devotedly, Rocking his own little nephew to rest.

So they lived on till old age was approaching them, Weak grew the legs of the Barin at last, Vainly, to cure them, he tried every remedy; Feast and debauch were delights of the past.

Plump are his hands and white, Keen are his eyes and bright, Rosy his cheek remains, 140 But on his legs--are chains!

Helpless the Barin now lies in his dressing-gown, Bitterly, bitterly cursing his fate.

Jacob, his "brother and friend,"--so the Barin says,-- Nurses him, humours him early and late.

Winter and summer they pa.s.s thus in company, Mostly at card-games together they play, Sometimes they drive for a change to the sister's house, Eight miles or so, on a very fine day.

Jacob himself bears his lord to the carriage then, 150 Drives him with care at a moderate pace, Carries him into the old lady's drawing-room....

So they live peacefully on for a s.p.a.ce.

Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes, Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed."

"Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir."

Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!"

Looking at her he had often bethought himself, "Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!" 159 So, though the uncle entreated his clemency, Grisha to serve in the army he sent.

Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny, Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell: Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate, No one could please him: "You fools, go to h.e.l.l!"

Hate in each bosom since long has been festering: Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay, Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities, Two quite unbearable weeks pa.s.s away.

Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170 Straight at the feet of his master he fell, Pity has softened his heart to the legless one, Who can look after the Barin so well?

"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty, While I am living my cross I'll embrace."

Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown, Jacob, once more, is restored to his place.

Brother again the Pomyeshchick has christened him.

"Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he.

"Barin, there's something that stings ... in my memory...." 180 Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea, Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries, Next for a drive to the sister's they start, See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly, Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart.

Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly, Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack, "Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly, "Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack.) Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice, Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss," 191 Jacob turns into the wood by the side of it.

Queries his lord, "What's the meaning of this?"

Jacob replies not. The path here is difficult, Branches and ruts make their steps very slow; Rustling of trees is heard. Spring waters noisily Cast themselves into the hollow below.

Then there's a halt,--not a step can the horses move: Straight in their path stand the pines like a wall; Jacob gets down, and, the horses unharnessing, Takes of the Barin no notice at all. 201

Vainly the Barin's exclaiming and questioning, Jacob is pale, and he shakes like a leaf, Evilly smiles at entreaties and promises: "Am I a murderer, then, or a thief?

No, Barin, _you_ shall not die. There's another way!"

Now he has climbed to the top of a pine, Fastened the reins to the summit, and crossed himself, Turning his face to the sun's bright decline.

Thrusting his head in the noose ... he has hanged himself! 210 Horrible! Horrible! See, how he sways Backwards and forwards.... The Barin, unfortunate, Shouts for a.s.sistance, and struggles and prays.

Twisting his head he is jerking convulsively, Straining his voice to the utmost he cries, All is in vain, there is no one to rescue him, Only the mischievous echo replies.

Gloomy the hollow now lies in its winding-sheet, Black is the night. Hear the owls on the wing, Striking the earth as they pa.s.s, while the horses stand 220 Chewing the leaves, and their bells faintly ring.

Two eyes are burning like lamps at the train's approach, Steadily, brightly they gleam in the night, Strange birds are flitting with movements mysterious, Somewhere at hand they are heard to alight.

Straight over Jacob a raven exultingly Hovers and caws. Now a hundred fly round!

Feebly the Barin is waving his crutch at them, Merciful Heaven, what horrors abound!