Nikolai Nekrasov - Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

And beckoning softly,

Invited the guest

To partake of the pleasures 290

Of rich hospitality.

Never did Frenchmen

In dreams even picture

Such sumptuous revels

As we used to hold.

Not only for one-day,

Or two, did they last—

But for whole months together!

We fattened great turkeys,

We brewed our own liquors, 300

We kept our own actors,

And troupes of musicians,

And legions of servants!

Why, I kept five cooks,

Besides pastry-cooks, working,

Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,

Eighteen musicians,

And twenty-two huntsmen….

My God!"…

The afflicted 310

Pomyéshchick broke down here,

And hastened to bury

His face in the cushion….

"Hey, Proshka!" he cried,

And then quickly the lackey

Poured out and presented

A glassful of brandy.

The glass was soon empty,

And when the Pomyéshchick

Had rested awhile, 320

He again began speaking:

"Ah, then, Mother Russia,

How gladly in autumn

Your forests awoke

To the horn of the huntsman!

Their dark, gloomy depths,

Which had saddened and faded,

Were pierced by the clear

Ringing blast, and they listened,

Revived and rejoiced, 330

To the laugh of the echo.

The hounds and the huntsmen

Are gathered together,

And wait on the skirts

Of the forest; and with them

The Master; and farther

Within the deep forest

The dog-keepers, roaring

And shouting like madmen,

The hounds all a-bubble 340

Like fast-boiling water.

Hark! There's the horn calling!

You hear the pack yelling?

They're crowding together!

And where's the red beast?

Hoo-loo-loo! Hoo-loo-loo!

And the sly fox is ready;

Fat, furry old Reynard

Is flying before us,

His bushy tail waving! 350

The knowing hounds crouch,

And each lithe body quivers,

Suppressing the fire

That is blazing within it:

'Dear guests of our hearts,

Do come nearer and greet us,

We're panting to meet you,

We, hale little fellows!

Come nearer to us

And away from the bushes!' 360

"They're off! Now, my horse,

Let your swiftness not fail me!

My hounds, you are staunch

And you will not betray me!

Hoo-loo! Faster, faster!

Now, at him , my children!"…

Gavríl Afanásich

Springs up, wildly shouting,

His arms waving madly,

He dances around them! 370

He's certainly after

A fox in the forest!

The peasants observe him

In silent enjoyment,

They smile in their beards….

"Eh … you, mad, merry hunters!

Although he forgets

Many things—the Pomyéshchick—

Those hunts in the autumn

Will not be forgotten. 380

'Tis not for our own loss

We grieve, Mother Russia,

But you that we pity;

For you, with the hunting

Have lost the last traces

Of days bold and warlike

That made you majestic….

"At times, in the autumn,

A party of fifty

Would start on a hunting tour; 390

Then each Pomyéshchick

Brought with him a hundred

Fine dogs, and twelve keepers,

And cooks in abundance.

And after the cooks

Came a long line of waggons

Containing provisions.

And as we went forward

With music and singing,

You might have mistaken 400

Our band for a fine troop

Of cavalry, moving!

The time flew for us

Like a falcon." How lightly

The breast of the nobleman

Rose, while his spirit

Went back to the days

Of Old Russia, and greeted

The gallant Boyárin. [32] The Russian warriors of olden times. …

"No whim was denied us. 410

To whom I desire

I show mercy and favour;

And whom I dislike

I strike dead on the spot.

The law is my wish,

And my fist is my hangman!

My blow makes the sparks crowd,

My blow smashes jaw-bones,

My blow scatters teeth!"…

Like a string that is broken, 420

The voice of the nobleman

Suddenly ceases;

He lowers his eyes

To the ground, darkly frowning …

And then, in a low voice,

He says:

"You yourselves know

That strictness is needful;

But I, with love, punished.

The chain has been broken, 430

The links burst asunder;

And though we do not beat

The peasant, no longer

We look now upon him

With fatherly feelings.

Yes, I was severe too

At times, but more often

I turned hearts towards me

With patience and mildness.

"Upon Easter Sunday 440

I kissed all the peasants

Within my domain.

A great table, loaded

With 'Paska' and 'Koólich' [33] Russian Easter dishes.

And eggs of all colours,

Was spread in the manor.

My wife, my old mother,

My sons, too, and even

My daughters did not scorn

To kiss [34] Russians embrace one another on Easter Sunday, recalling the resurrection of Christ. the last peasant: 450

'Now Christ has arisen!'

'Indeed He has risen!'

The peasants broke fast then,

Drank vodka and wine.

Before each great holiday,

In my best staterooms

The All-Night Thanksgiving

Was held by the pope.

My serfs were invited

With every inducement: 460

'Pray hard now, my children,

Make use of the chance,

Though you crack all your foreheads!' [35] The Russians press their foreheads to the ground while worshipping.

The nose suffered somewhat,

But still at the finish

We brought all the women-folk

Out of a village

To scrub down the floors.

You see 'twas a cleansing

Of souls, and a strengthening 470

Of spiritual union;

Now, isn't that so?"

"That's so," say the peasants,

But each to himself thinks,

"They needed persuading

With sticks though, I warrant,

To get them to pray

In your Lordship's fine manor!"

"I'll say, without boasting,

They loved me—my peasants. 480

In my large Surminsky

Estate, where the peasants

Were mostly odd-jobbers,

Or very small tradesmen,

It happened that they

Would get weary of staying

At home, and would ask

My permission to travel,

To visit strange parts

At the coming of spring. 490

They'd often be absent

Through summer and autumn.

My wife and the children

Would argue while guessing

The gifts that the peasants

Would bring on returning.

And really, besides

Lawful dues of the 'Barin'

In cloth, eggs, and live stock,

The peasants would gladly 500

Bring gifts to the family:

Jam, say, from Kiev,

From Astrakhan fish,

And the richer among them

Some silk for the lady.

You see!—as he kisses

Her hand he presents her

A neat little packet!

And then for the children

Are sweetmeats and toys; 510

For me, the old toper,

Is wine from St. Petersburg—

Mark you, the rascal

Won't go to the Russian

For that! He knows better—

He runs to the Frenchman!

And when we have finished

Admiring the presents

I go for a stroll

And a chat with the peasants; 520

They talk with me freely.

My wife fills their glasses,

My little ones gather

Around us and listen,

While sucking their sweets,

To the tales of the peasants:

Of difficult trading,

Of places far distant,

Of Petersburg, Astrakhan,

Kazan, and Kiev…. 530

On such terms it was

That I lived with my peasants.

Читать дальше