The Hungry One

The peasant stands With haggard gaze, He pants for breath, He reels and sways;

From famine food, From bread of bark, His form has swelled, His face is dark. 140

Through endless grief Suppressed and dumb His eyes are glazed, His soul is numb.

As though in sleep, With footsteps slow, He creeps to where The rye doth grow.

Upon his field He gazes long, 150 He stands and sings A voiceless song:

"Grow ripe, grow ripe, O Mother rye, I fostered thee, Thy lord am I.

"Yield me a loaf Of monstrous girth, A cake as vast As Mother-Earth. 160

"I'll eat the whole— No crumb I'll spare; With wife, with child, I will not share."

"Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!" A voice exclaims feebly. It's one of the peasants. He fetches a loaf From his bag, and devours it.

"They sing without voices, 170 And yet when you listen Your hair begins rising," Another remarks.

It's true. Not with voices They sing of the famine— But something within them. One, during the singing, Has risen, to show them The gait of the peasant Exhausted by hunger, 180 And swayed by the wind. Restrained are his movements And slow. After singing "The Hungry One," thirsting They make for the bucket, One after another Like geese in a file. They stagger and totter As people half-famished, A drink will restore them. 190 "Come, let us be joyful!" The deacon is saying. His youngest son, Grisha, Approaches the peasants. "Some vodka?" they ask him.

"No, thank you. I've had some. But what's been the matter? You look like drowned kittens."

"What should be the matter?" (And making an effort 200 They bear themselves bravely.) And Vlass, the old Elder, Has placed his great palm On the head of his godson.

"Is serfdom revived? Will they drive you to barschin Or pilfer your hayfields?" Says Grisha in jest.

"The hay-fields? You're joking!"

"Well, what has gone wrong, then? And why were you singing 211 'The Hungry One,' brothers? To summon the famine?"

"Yes, what's all the pother?" Here Klimka bursts out Like a cannon exploding. The others are scratching Their necks, and reflecting: "It's true! What's amiss?" "Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,' Come, drink and be merry! 221 All's well—as we'd have it, Aye, just as we wished it. Come, hold up your noddles! But what about Gleb?"

A lengthy discussion Ensues; and it's settled That they're not to blame For the deed of the traitor: 'Twas serfdom's the fault. 230 For just as the big snake Gives birth to the small ones, So serfdom gave birth To the sins of the nobles, To Jacob the Faithful's And also to Gleb's. For, see, without serfdom Had been no Pomyeshchick To drive his true servant To death by the noose, 240 No terrible vengeance Of slave upon master By suicide fearful, No treacherous Gleb.

'Twas Prov of all others Who listened to Grisha With deepest attention And joy most apparent. And when he had finished He cried to the others 250 In accents of triumph, Delightedly smiling, "Now, brothers, mark that!" "So now, there's an end Of 'The Hungry One,' peasants!" Cries Klimka, with glee. The words about serfdom Were quickly caught up By the crowd, and went passing From one to another: 260 "Yes, if there's no big snake There cannot be small ones!" And Klimka is swearing Again at the carter: "You ignorant fool!" They're ready to grapple! The deacon is sobbing And kissing his Grisha: "Just see what a headpiece The Lord is creating! 270 No wonder he longs For the college in Moscow!" Old Vlass, too, is patting His shoulder and saying, "May God send thee silver And gold, and a healthy And diligent wife!"

"I wish not for silver Or gold," replies Grisha. "But one thing I wish: 280 I wish that my comrades, Yes, all the poor peasants In Russia so vast, Could be happy and free!" Thus, earnestly speaking, And blushing as shyly As any young maiden, He walks from their midst.

The dawn is approaching. The peasants make ready 290 To cross by the ferry. "Eh, Vlass," says the carter, As, stooping, he raises The span of his harness, "Who's this on the ground?"

The Elder approaches, And Klimka behind him, Our seven as well. (They're always most anxious To see what is passing.) 300

Some fellow is lying Exhausted, dishevelled, Asleep, with the beggars Behind some big logs. His clothing is new, But it's hanging in ribbons. A crimson silk scarf On his neck he is wearing; A watch and a waistcoat; His blouse, too, is red. 310 Now Klimka is stooping To look at the sleeper, Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughly Stamps straight on his mouth.

The fellow springs up, Rubs his eyes, dim with sleep, And old Vlasuchka strikes him. He squeals like a rat 'Neath the heel of your slipper, And makes for the forest 320 On long, lanky legs. Four peasants pursue him, The others cry, "Beat him!" Until both the man And the band of pursuers Are lost in the forest.

"Who is he?" our seven Are asking the Elder, "And why do they beat him?"

"We don't know the reason, 330 But we have been told By the people of Tiskov To punish this Shutov Whenever we catch him, And so we obey. When people from Tiskov Pass by, they'll explain it. What luck? Did you catch him?" He asks of the others Returned from the chase. 340

"We caught him, I warrant, And gave him a lesson. He's run to Demyansky, For there he'll be able To cross by the ferry."

"Strange people, to beat him Without any cause!" "And why? If the commune Has told us to do it There must be some reason!" 350 Shouts Klim at the seven. "D'you think that the people Of Tiskov are fools? It isn't long since, mind, That many were flogged there, One man in each ten. Ah, Shutov, you rendered A dastardly service, Your duties are evil, You damnable wretch! 360 And who deserves beating As richly as Shutov? Not we alone beat him: From Tiskov, you know, Fourteen villages lie On the banks of the Volga; I warrant through each He's been driven with blows."

The seven are silent. They're longing to get 370 At the root of the matter. But even the Elder Is now growing angry.

It's daylight. The women Are bringing their husbands Some breakfast, of rye-cakes And—goose! (For a peasant Had driven some geese Through the village to market, And three were grown weary, 380 And had to be carried.) "See here, will you sell them? They'll die ere you get there." And so, for a trifle, The geese had been bought.

We've often been told How the peasant loves drinking; Not many there are, though, Who know how he eats. He's greedier far 390 For his food than for vodka, So one man to-day (A teetotaller mason) Gets perfectly drunk On his breakfast of goose! A shout! "Who is coming? Who's this?" Here's another Excuse for rejoicing And noise! There's a hay-cart With hay, now approaching, 400 And high on its summit A soldier is sitting. He's known to the peasants For twenty versts round. And, cosy beside him, Justinutchka sits (His niece, and an orphan, His prop in old age). He now earns his living By means of his peep-show, 410 Where, plainly discerned, Are the Kremlin and Moscow, While music plays too. The instrument once Had gone wrong, and the soldier, No capital owning, Bought three metal spoons, Which he beat to make music; But the words that he knew Did not suit the new music, 420 And folk did not laugh. The soldier was sly, though: He made some new words up That went with the music.

They hail him with rapture! "Good-health to you, Grandad! Jump down, drink some vodka, And give us some music."

"It's true I got up here, But how to get-down?" 430

"You're going, I see, To the town for your pension, But look what has happened: It's burnt to the ground."

"Burnt down? Yes, and rightly! What then? Then I'll go To St. Petersburg for it; For all my old comrades Are there with their pensions, They'll show me the way." 440

"You'll go by the train, then?"

The old fellow whistles: "Not long you've been serving Us, orthodox Christians, You, infidel railway! And welcome you were When you carried us cheaply From Peters to Moscow. (It cost but three roubles.) But now you want seven, 450 So, go to the devil!

"Lady so insolent, lady so arrogant! Hiss like a snake as you glide! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Fig for you! Puff at the whole countryside! Crushing and maiming your toll you extort, Straight in the face of the peasant you snort, Soon all the people of Russia you may Cleaner than any big broom sweep away!"

"Come, give us some music," 460 Says Vlass to the soldier, "For here there are plenty Of holiday people, 'Twill be to your profit. You see to it, Klimka!" (Though Vlass doesn't like him, Whenever there's something That calls for arranging He leaves it to Klimka: "You see to it, Klimka!" 470 And Klimka is pleased.)

And soon the old soldier Is helped from the hay-cart: He's weak on his legs,—tall, And strikingly thin. His uniform seems To be hung from a pole; There are medals upon it.

It cannot be said That his face is attractive, 480 Especially when It's distorted by tic: His mouth opens wide And his eyes burn like charcoal,— A regular demon!

The music is started, The people run back From the banks of the Volga. He sings to the music.

* * * * *

A spasm has seized him: 490 He leans on his niece, And his left leg upraising He twirls it around In the air like a weight. His right follows suit then, And murmuring, "Curse it!" He suddenly masters And stands on them both.

"You see to it, Klimka!" Of course he'll arrange it 500 In Petersburg fashion: He stands them together, The niece and the uncle; Takes two wooden dishes And gives them one each, Then springs on a tree-trunk To make an oration.

(The soldier can't help Adding apt little words To the speech of the peasant, 510 And striking his spoons.)

* * * * *

The soldier is stamping His feet. One can hear His dry bones knock together. When Klimka has finished The peasants come crowding, Surrounding the soldier, And some a kopeck give, And others give half: In no time a rouble 520 Is piled on the dishes.



EPILOGUE

GRISHA DOBROSKLONOW

A CHEERFUL SEASON—CHEERFUL SONGS

The feast was continued Till morning—a splendid, A wonderful feast! Then the people dispersing Went home, and our peasants Lay down 'neath the willow; Iona—meek pilgrim Of God—slept there too. And Sava and Grisha, The sons of the deacon, 10 Went home, with their parent Unsteady between them. They sang; and their voices, Like bells on the Volga, So loud and so tuneful, Came chiming together:

"Praise to the hero Bringing the nation Peace and salvation!

"That which will surely 20 Banish the night He[60] has awarded— Freedom and Light!

"Praise to the hero Bringing the nation Peace and salvation!

"Blessings from Heaven, Grace from above, Rained on the battle, Conquered by Love. 30

"Little we ask Thee— Grant us, O Lord, Strength to be honest, Fearing Thy word!

"Brotherly living, Sharing in part, That is the roadway Straight to the heart.

"Turn from that teaching Tender and wise— 40 Cowards and traitors Soon will arise.

"People of Russia, Banish the night! You have been granted That which is needful— Freedom and Light!"

The deacon was poor As the poorest of peasants: A mean little cottage 50 Like two narrow cages, The one with an oven Which smoked, and the other For use in the summer,— Such was his abode. No horse he possessed And no cow. He had once had A dog and a cat, But they'd both of them left him.

His sons put him safely 60 To bed, snoring loudly; Then Savushka opened A book, while his brother Went out, and away To the fields and the forest.

A broad-shouldered youth Was this Grisha; his face, though, Was terribly thin. In the clerical college The students got little 70 To eat. Sometimes Grisha Would lie the whole night Without sleep; only longing For morning and breakfast,— The coarse piece of bread And the glassful of sbeeten.[61] The village was poor And the food there was scanty, But still, the two brothers Grew certainly plumper 80 When home for the holidays— Thanks to the peasants.

The boys would repay them By all in their power, By work, or by doing Their little commissions In town. Though the deacon Was proud of his children, He never had given Much thought to their feeding. 90 Himself, the poor deacon, Was endlessly hungry, His principal thought Was the manner of getting The next piece of food. He was rather light-minded And vexed himself little; But Dyomna, his wife, Had been different entirely: She worried and counted, 100 So God took her soon. The whole of her life She by salt[62] had been troubled: If bread has run short One can ask of the neighbours; But salt, which means money, Is hard to obtain. The village with Dyomna Had shared its bread freely; And long, long ago 110 Would her two little children Have lain in the churchyard If not for the peasants.

And Dyomna was ready To work without ceasing For all who had helped her; But salt was her trouble, Her thought, ever present. She dreamt of it, sang of it, Sleeping and waking, 120 While washing, while spinning, At work in the fields, While rocking her darling Her favourite, Grisha. And many years after The death of his mother, His heart would grow heavy And sad, when the peasants Remembered one song, And would sing it together 130 As Dyomna had sung it; They called it "The Salt Song."



The Salt Song

Now none but God Can save my son: He's dying fast, My little one....

I give him bread—- He looks at it, He cries to me, "Put salt on it." 140 I have no salt— No tiny grain; "Take flour," God whispers, "Try again...."

He tastes it once, Once more he tries; "That's not enough, More salt!" he cries.

The flour again.... My tears fall fast 150 Upon the bread,— He eats at last!

The mother smiles In pride and joy: Her tears so salt Have saved the boy.

* * * * *

Young Grisha remembered This song; he would sing it Quite low to himself In the clerical college. 160 The college was cheerless, And singing this song He would yearn for his mother, For home, for the peasants, His friends and protectors. And soon, with the love Which he bore to his mother, His love for the people Grew wider and stronger.... At fifteen years old 170 He was firmly decided To spend his whole life In promoting their welfare, In striving to succour The poor and afflicted. The demon of malice Too long over Russia Has scattered its hate; The shadow of serfdom Has hidden all paths 180 Save corruption and lying. Another song now Will arise throughout Russia; The angel of freedom And mercy is flying Unseen o'er our heads, And is calling strong spirits To follow the road Which is honest and clean.

Oh, tread not the road 190 So shining and broad: Along it there speed With feverish tread The multitudes led By infamous greed.

There lives which are spent With noble intent Are mocked at in scorn; There souls lie in chains, And bodies and brains 200 By passions are torn,

By animal thirst For pleasures accurst Which pass in a breath. There hope is in vain, For there is the reign Of darkness and death.

* * * * *

In front of your eyes Another road lies— 'Tis honest and clean. 210 Though steep it appears And sorrow and tears Upon it are seen:

It leads to the door Of those who are poor, Who hunger and thirst, Who pant without air. Who die in despair— Oh, there be the first!

The song of the angel 220 Of Mercy not vainly Was sung to our Grisha. The years of his study Being passed, he developed In thought and in feeling; A passionate singer Of Freedom became he, Of all who are grieving, Down-trodden, afflicted, In Russia so vast. 230

* * * * *

The bright sun was shining, The cool, fragrant morning Was filled with the sweetness Of newly-mown hay. Young Grisha was thoughtful, He followed the first road He met—an old high-road, An avenue, shaded By tall curling birch trees. The youth was now gloomy, 240 Now gay; the effect Of the feast was still with him; His thoughts were at work, And in song he expressed them:

"I know that you suffer, O Motherland dear, The thought of it fills me with woe: And Fate has much sorrow In store yet, I fear, But you will not perish, I know. 250

"How long since your children As playthings were used, As slaves to base passions and lust; Were bartered like cattle, Were vilely abused By masters most cruel and unjust?

"How long since young maidens Were dragged to their shame, Since whistle of whips filled the land, Since 'Service' possessed 260 A more terrible fame Than death by the torturer's hand?

"Enough! It is finished, This tale of the past; 'Tis ended, the masters' long sway; The strength of the people Is stirring at last, To freedom 'twill point them the way.

"Your burden grows lighter, O Motherland dear, 270 Your wounds less appalling to see. Your fathers were slaves, Smitten helpless by fear, But, Mother, your children are free!"

* * * * *

A small winding footpath Now tempted young Grisha, And guided his steps To a very broad hayfield. The peasants were cutting The hay, and were singing 280 His favourite song. Young Grisha was saddened By thoughts of his mother, And nearly in anger He hurried away From the field to the forest. Bright echoes are darting About in the forest; Like quails in the wheat Little children are romping 290 (The elder ones work In the hay fields already). He stopped awhile, seeking For horse-chestnuts with them. The sun was now hot; To the river went Grisha To bathe, and he had A good view of the ruins That three days before Had been burnt. What a picture! No house is left standing; 301 And only the prison Is saved; just a few days Ago it was whitewashed; It stands like a little White cow in the pastures. The guards and officials Have made it their refuge; But all the poor peasants Are strewn by the river 310 Like soldiers in camp. Though they're mostly asleep now, A few are astir, And two under-officials Are picking their way To the tent for some vodka 'Mid tables and cupboards And waggons and bundles. A tailor approaches The vodka tent also; 320 A shrivelled old fellow. His irons and his scissors He holds in his hands, Like a leaf he is shaking. The pope has arisen From sleep, full of prayers. He is combing his hair; Like a girl he is holding His long shining plait. Down the Volga comes floating 330 Some wood-laden rafts, And three ponderous barges Are anchored beneath The right bank of the river. The barge-tower yesterday Evening had dragged them With songs to their places, And there he is standing, The poor harassed man! He is looking quite gay though, 340 As if on a holiday, Has a clean shirt on; Some farthings are jingling Aloud in his pocket. Young Grisha observes him For long from the river, And, half to himself, Half aloud, begins singing:



The Barge-Tower

With shoulders back and breast astrain, And bathed in sweat which falls like rain, Through midday heat with gasping song, He drags the heavy barge along. 352 He falls and rises with a groan, His song becomes a husky moan.... But now the barge at anchor lies, A giant's sleep has sealed his eyes; And in the bath at break of day He drives the clinging sweat away. Then leisurely along the quay He strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360 Are sewn into his girdle wide; Some coppers jingle at his side. He thinks awhile, and then he goes Towards the tavern. There he throws Some hard-earned farthings on the seat; He drinks, and revels in the treat, The sense of perfect ease and rest. Soon with the cross he signs his breast: The journey home begins to-day. And cheerfully he goes away; 370 On presents spends a coin or so: For wife some scarlet calico, A scarf for sister, tinsel toys For eager little girls and boys. God guide him home—'tis many a mile— And let him rest a little while....

* * * * *

The barge-tower's fate Lead the thoughts of young Grisha To dwell on the whole Of mysterious Russia— 380 The fate of her people. For long he was roving About on the bank, Feeling hot and excited, His brain overflowing With new and new verses.

Russia

"The Tsar was in mood To dabble in blood: To wage a great war. Shall we have gold enough? 390 Shall we have strength enough? Questioned the Tsar.

"(Thou art so pitiful, Poor, and so sorrowful, Yet thou art powerful, Thy wealth is plentiful, Russia, my Mother!)

"By misery chastened, By serfdom of old, The heart of thy people, 400 O Tsar, is of gold.

"And strong were the nation, Unyielding its might, If standing for conscience, For justice and right.

"But summon the country To valueless strife, And no man will hasten To offer his life.

"So Russia lies sleeping 410 In obstinate rest;— But should the spark kindle That's hid in her breast—

"She'll rise without summons, Go forth without call, With sacrifice boundless, Each giving his all!

"A host she will gather Of strength unsurpassed, With infinite courage 420 Will fight to the last.

"(Thou art so pitiful, Poor, and so sorrowful, Yet of great treasure full, Mighty, all-powerful, Russia, my Mother!)"

* * * * *

Young Grisha was pleased With his song; and he murmured. "Its message is true; I will sing it to-morrow 430 Aloud to the peasants. Their songs are so mournful, It's well they should hear Something joyful,—God help them! For just as with running The cheeks begin burning, So acts a good song On the spirit despairing, Brings comfort and strength." But first to his brother 440 He sang the new song, And his brother said, "Splendid!"

Then Grisha tried vainly To sleep; but half dreaming New songs he composed. They grew brighter and stronger....

Our peasants would soon Have been home from their travels If they could have known What was happening to Grisha: 450 With what exaltation His bosom was burning; What beautiful strains In his ears began chiming; How blissfully sang he The wonderful anthem Which tells of the freedom And peace of the people.



FOOTNOTES:

[1] Many years later, after his mother's death, Nekrassov found this letter among her papers. It was a letter written to her by her own mother after her flight and subsequent marriage. It announced to her her father's curse, and was filled with sad and bitter reproaches: "To whom have you entrusted your fate? For what country have you abandoned Poland, your Motherland? You, whose hand was sought, a priceless gift, by princes, have chosen a savage, ignorant, uncultured.... Forgive me, but my heart is bleeding...."

[2] Priest.

[3] Landowner.

[4] The peasants assert that the cuckoo chokes himself with young ears of corn.

[5] A kind of home-brewed cider.

[6] Laput is peasants' footgear made of bark of saplings.

[7] Priest

[8] New huts are built only when the village has been destroyed by fire.

[9] The lines of asterisks throughout the poem represent passages that were censored in the original.

[10] There is a superstition among the Russian peasants that it is an ill omen to meet the "pope" when going upon an errand.

[11] Landowners

[12] Dissenters in Russia are subjected to numerous religious restrictions. Therefore they are obliged to bribe the local orthodox pope, in order that he should not denounce them to the police.

[13] There is a Russian superstition that a round rainbow is sent as a sign of coming dry weather.

[14] Kasha and stchee are two national dishes.

[15] The mud and water from the high lands on both sides descend and collect in the villages so situated, which are often nearly transformed into swamps during the rainy season.

[16] On feast days the peasants often pawn their clothes for drink.

[17] Well-known popular characters in Russia.

[18] Each landowner kept his own band of musicians.

[19] The halting-place for prisoners on their way to Siberia.

[20] The tax collector, the landlord, and the priest.

[21] Fire.

[22] Popular name for Petrograd.

[23] The primitive wooden plough still used by the peasants in Russia.

[24] Three pounds.

[25] Holy pictures of the saints.

[26] The Russian nickname for the bear.

[27] Chief of police.

[28] An administrative unit consisting of a group of villages.

[29] The end of the story is omitted because of the interference of the Censor.

[30] A three-horsed carriage.

[31] The Pomyeshchick is still bitter because his serfs have been set free by the Government.

[32] The Russian warriors of olden times.

[33] Russian Easter dishes.

[34] Russians embrace one another on Easter Sunday, recalling the resurrection of Christ.

[35] The Russians press their foreheads to the ground while worshipping.

[36] The official appointed to arrange terms between the Pomyeshchicks and their emancipated serfs.

[37] The haystacks.

[38] A long-skirted coat.

[39] The forced labour of the serfs for their owners.

[40] Holy images.

[41] Meenin—a famous Russian patriot in the beginning of the seventeenth century. He is always represented with an immense beard.

[42] It is a sign of respect to address a person by his own name and the name of his father.

[43] Ukha—fish soup.

[44] A national loose sleeveless dress worn with a separate shirt or blouse.

[45] The marriage agent.

[46] The marriage agent.

[47] Inhabitants of the village Korojin.

[48] Germans were often employed as managers of the Pomyeshchicks' estates.

[49] In Russian vapour-baths there are shelves ranged round the walls for the bathers to recline upon. The higher the shelf the hotter the atmosphere.

[50] Police-official.

[51] Heave-to!

[52] This paragraph refers to the custom of the country police in Russia, who, on hearing of the accidental death of anybody in a village, will, in order to extract bribes from the villagers, threaten to hold an inquest on the corpse. The peasants are usually ready to part with nearly all they possess in order to save their dead from what they consider desecration.

[53] The Saviour's day.

[54] A reference to the arranging of terms between the Pomyeshchicks and peasants with regard to land at the time of the emancipation of the serfs.

[55] There is a Russian superstition that a good memory is gained by eating magpies' eggs.

[56] Chief of Police.

[57] A wooden splinter prepared and used for lighting purposes.

[58] Polish title for nobleman or gentleman.

[59] Serfs.

[60] Alexander II., who gave emancipation to the peasants.

[61] A popular Russian drink composed of hot water and honey.

[62] There was a very heavy tax laid upon salt at the time.

THE END