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

Now, wasn't that nice?"

"Yes," answer the peasants;

"Yes, well might one envy

The noble Pomyéshchick!

His life was so sweet

There was no need to leave it."

"And now it is past….

It has vanished for ever! 540

Hark! There's the bell tolling!"

They listen in silence:

In truth, through the stillness

Which settles around them,

The slow, solemn sound

On the breeze of the morning

Is borne from Kusminsky….

"Sweet peace to the peasant!

God greet him in Heaven!"

The peasants say softly, 550

And cross themselves thrice;

And the mournful Pomyéshchick

Uncovers his head,

As he piously crosses

Himself, and he answers:

"'Tis not for the peasant

The knell is now tolling,

It tolls the lost life

Of the stricken Pomyéshchick.

Farewell to the past, 560

And farewell to thee, Russia,

The Russia who cradled

The happy Pomyéshchick,

Thy place has been stolen

And filled by another!…

Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy

Is given, and quickly

He empties the glass.)

"Oh, it isn't consoling

To witness the change 570

In thy face, oh, my Motherland!

Truly one fancies

The whole race of nobles

Has suddenly vanished!

Wherever one goes, now,

One falls over peasants

Who lie about, tipsy,

One meets not a creature

But excise official,

Or stupid 'Posrédnik,' [36] The official appointed to arrange terms between the Pomyéshchicks and their emancipated serfs. 580

Or Poles who've been banished.

One sees the troops passing,

And then one can guess

That a village has somewhere

Revolted, 'in thankful

And dutiful spirit….'

In old days, these roads

Were made gay by the passing

Of carriage, 'dormeuse,'

And of six-in-hand coaches, 590

And pretty, light troikas;

And in them were sitting

The family troop

Of the jolly Pomyéshchick:

The stout, buxom mother,

The fine, roguish sons,

And the pretty young daughters;

One heard with enjoyment

The chiming of large bells,

The tinkling of small bells, 600

Which hung from the harness.

And now?… What distraction

Has life? And what joy

Does it bring the Pomyéshchick?

At each step, you meet

Something new to revolt you;

And when in the air

You can smell a rank graveyard,

You know you are passing

A nobleman's manor! 610

My Lord!… They have pillaged

The beautiful dwelling!

They've pulled it all down,

Brick by brick, and have fashioned

The bricks into hideously

Accurate columns!

The broad shady park

Of the outraged Pomyéshchick,

The fruit of a hundred years'

Careful attention, 620

Is falling away

'Neath the axe of a peasant!

The peasant works gladly,

And greedily reckons

The number of logs

Which his labour will bring him.

His dark soul is closed

To refinement of feeling,

And what would it matter

To him, if you told him 630

That this stately oak

Which his hatchet is felling

My grandfather's hand

Had once planted and tended;

That under this ash-tree

My dear little children,

My Vera and Gánushka,

Echoed my voice

As they played by my side;

That under this linden 640

My young wife confessed me

That little Gavrióushka,

Our best-beloved first-born,

Lay under her heart,

As she nestled against me

And bashfully hid

Her sweet face in my bosom

As red as a cherry….

It is to his profit

To ravish the park, 650

And his mission delights him.

It makes one ashamed now

To pass through a village;

The peasant sits still

And he dreams not of bowing.

One feels in one's breast

Not the pride of a noble

But wrath and resentment.

The axe of the robber

Resounds in the forest, 660

It maddens your heart,

But you cannot prevent it,

For who can you summon

To rescue your forest?

The fields are half-laboured,

The seeds are half-wasted,

No trace left of order….

O Mother, my country,

We do not complain

For ourselves—of our sorrows, 670

Our hearts bleed for thee:

Like a widow thou standest

In helpless affliction

With tresses dishevelled

And grief-stricken face….

They have blighted the forest,

The noisy low taverns

Have risen and flourished.

They've picked the most worthless

And loose of the people, 680

And given them power

In the posts of the Zemstvos;

They've seized on the peasant

And taught him his letters—

Much good may it do him!

Your brow they have branded,

As felons are branded,

As cattle are branded,

With these words they've stamped it:

'To take away with you 690

Or drink on the premises.

Was it worth while, pray,

To weary the peasant

With learning his letters

In order to read them?

The land that we keep

Is our mother no longer,

Our stepmother rather.

And then to improve things,

These pert good-for-nothings, 700

These impudent writers

Must needs shout in chorus:

'But whose fault, then, is it,

That you thus exhausted

And wasted your country?'

But I say—you duffers!

Who could foresee this?

They babble, 'Enough

Of your lordly pretensions!

It's time that you learnt something, 710

Lazy Pomyéshchicks!

Get up, now, and work!'

"Work! To whom, in God's name,

Do you think you are speaking?

I am not a peasant

In 'laputs,' good madman!

I am—by God's mercy—

A Noble of Russia.

You take us for Germans!

We nobles have tender 720

And delicate feelings,

Our pride is inborn,

And in Russia our classes

Are not taught to work.

Why, the meanest official

Will not raise a finger

To clear his own table,

Or light his own stove!

I can say, without boasting,

That though I have lived 730

Forty years in the country,

And scarcely have left it,

I could not distinguish

Between rye and barley.

And they sing of 'work' to me!

"If we Pomyéshchicks

Have really mistaken

Our duty and calling,

If really our mission

Is not, as in old days, 740

To keep up the hunting,

To revel in luxury,

Live on forced labour,

Why did they not tell us

Before? Could I learn it?

For what do I see?

I've worn the Tsar's livery,

'Sullied the Heavens,'

And 'squandered the treasury

Gained by the people,' 750

And fully imagined

To do so for ever,

And now … God in Heaven!"…

The Barin is sobbing!…

The kind-hearted peasants

Can hardly help crying

Themselves, and they think:

"Yes, the chain has been broken,

The strong links have snapped,

And the one end recoiling 760

Has struck the Pomyéshchick,

The other—the peasant."