Chapter III: Savyeli

"A mane grey and bushyWhich covered his shoulders,A huge grizzled beardWhich had not seen the scissorsFor twenty odd years,Made Savyeli resembleA shaggy old bear,Especially when heCame out of the forest,So broad and bent double.The grandfather's shouldersWere bowed very low,And at first I was frightenedWhenever he enteredThe tiny low cottage:I thought that were heTo stand straight of a suddenHe'd knock a great holeWith his head in the ceiling.But Grandfather could notStand straight, and they told meThat he was a hundred.He lived all aloneIn his own little cottage,And never permittedThe others to enter;He couldn't abide them.Of course they were angryAnd often abused him.His own son would shout at him,'Branded one! Convict!'But this did not angerSavyeli, he onlyWould go to his cottageWithout making answer,And, crossing himself,Begin reading the scriptures;Then suddenly cryIn a voice loud and joyful,'Though branded--no slave!'When too much they annoyed him,He sometimes would say to them:'Look, the swat's coming!'The unmarried daughterWould fly to the window;Instead of the swat thereA beggar she'd find!And one day he silveredA common brass farthing,And left it to lieOn the floor; and then straightwayDid Father-in-law runIn joy to the tavern,--He came back, not tipsy,But beaten half-dead!At supper that nightWe were all very silent,And Father-in-law hadA cut on his eyebrow,But Grandfather's faceWore a smile like a rainbow!

"Savyeli would gatherThe berries and mushroomsFrom spring till late autumn,And snare the wild rabbits;Throughout the long winterHe lay on the ovenAnd talked to himself.He had favourite sayings:He used to lie thinkingFor whole hours together,And once in an hourYou would hear him exclaiming:

"'Destroyed ... and subjected!'Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes!You're fit but for battlesWith old men and women!'

"'Be patient ... and perish,Impatient ... and perish!'

"'Eh, you Russian peasant,You giant, you strong man,The whole of your lifetimeYou're flogged, yet you dare notTake refuge in death,For Hell's torments await you!'

"'At last the KorojinsAwoke, and they paid him,They paid him, they paid him,They paid the whole debt!'And many such sayingsHe had,--I forget them.When Father-in-law grewToo noisy I alwaysWould run to Savyeli,And we two, together,Would fasten the door.Then I began working,While Djomushka climbedTo the grandfather's shoulder,And sat there, and lookedLike a bright little appleThat hung on a hoaryOld tree. Once I asked him:

"'And why do they call youA convict, Savyeli?'

"'I was once a convict,'Said he."'You, Savyeli!'

"'Yes I, little Grandchild,Yes, I have been branded.I buried a GermanAlive--Christian Vogel.'

"'You're joking, Savyeli!'

"'Oh no, I'm not joking.I mean it,' he said,And he told me the story.

"'The peasants in old daysWere serfs as they now are,But our race had, somehow,Not seen its Pomyeshchick;No manager knew we,No pert German agent.And barschin we gave not,And taxes we paid notExcept when it pleased us,--Perhaps once in three yearsOur taxes we'd pay.'

"'But why, little Grandad?'

"'The times were so blessed,--And folk had a sayingThat our little villageWas sought by the devilFor more than three years,But he never could find it.Great forests a thousandYears old lay about us;And treacherous marshesAnd bogs spread around us;No horseman and few menOn foot ever reached us.It happened that onceBy some chance, our Pomyeshchick,Shalashnikov, wantedTo pay us a visit.High placed in the armyWas he; and he startedWith soldiers to find us.They soon got bewilderedAnd lost in the forest,And had to turn back;Why, the Zemsky policemanWould only come onceIn a year! They were good times!In these days the BarinLives under your window;The roadways go spreadingAround, like white napkins--The devil destroy them!We only were troubledBy bears, and the bears tooWere easily managed.Why, I was a worse foeBy far than old Mishka,When armed with a daggerAnd bear-spear. I wanderedIn wild, secret woodpaths,And shouted, ''My forest!''And once, only once,I was frightened by something:I stepped on a hugeFemale bear that was lyingAsleep in her denIn the heart of the forest.She flung herself at me,And straight on my bear-spearWas fixed. Like a fowlOn the spit she hung twistingAn hour before death.It was then that my spine snapped.It often was painfulWhen I was a young man;But now I am old,It is fixed and bent double.Now, do I not look likeA hook, little Grandchild?'

"'But finish the story.You lived and were not muchAfflicted. What further?'

"'At last our PomyeshchickInvented a new game:He sent us an order,''Appear!'' We appeared not.Instead, we lay lowIn our dens, hardly breathing.A terrible droughtHad descended that summer,The bogs were all dry;So he sent a policeman,Who managed to reach us,To gather our taxes,In honey and fish;A second time came he,We gave him some bear-skins;And when for the third timeHe came, we gave nothing,--We said we had nothing.We put on our laputs,We put our old caps on,Our oldest old coats,And we went to Korojin(For there was our master now,Stationed with soldiers).''Your taxes!'' ''We have none,We cannot pay taxes,The corn has not grown,And the fish have escaped us.''''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.''He waited no longer;''Hey! Give them the first round!''He said, and they flogged us.

"'Our pockets were notVery easily opened;Shalashnikov, though, wasA master at flogging.Our tongues became parched,And our brains were set whirling,And still he continued.He flogged not with birch-rods,With whips or with sticks,But with knouts made for giants.At last we could stand itNo longer; we shouted,''Enough! Let us breathe!''We unwound our foot-ragsAnd took out our money,And brought to the BarinA ragged old bonnetWith roubles half filled.

"'The Barin grew calm,He was pleased with the money;He gave us a glass eachOf strong, bitter brandy,And drank some himselfWith the vanquished Korojins,And gaily clinked glasses.''It's well that you yielded,''Said he, ''For I swearI was fully decidedTo strip off the last shredOf skins from your bodiesAnd use it for makingA drum for my soldiers!Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!''(He was pleased with the notion.)''A fine drum indeed!''

"'In silence we left;But two stalwart old peasantsWere chuckling together;They'd two hundred roublesIn notes, the old rascals!Safe hidden awayIn the end of their coat-tails.They both had been yelling,''We're beggars! We're beggars!''So carried them home.''Well, well, you may cackle!''I thought to myself,''But the next time, be certain,You won't laugh at me!''The others were alsoAshamed of their weakness,And so by the ikonsWe swore all togetherThat next time we ratherWould die of the beatingThan feebly give way.It seems the PomyeshchickHad taken a fancyAt once to our roubles,Because after thatEvery year we were summonedTo go to Korojin,We went, and were flogged.

"'Shalashnikov flogged likeA prince, but be certainThe treasures he thrashed fromThe doughty KorojinsWere not of much weight.The weak yielded soon,But the strong stood like ironFor the commune. I alsoBore up, and I thought:''Though never so stoutlyYou flog us, you dog's son,You won't drag the whole soulFrom out of the peasant;Some trace will be left.''

"'When the Barin was satedWe went from the town,But we stopped on the outskirtsTo share what was over.And plenty there was, too!Shalashnikov, heh,You're a fool! It was our turnTo laugh at the Barin;Ah, they were proud peasants--The plucky Korojins!But nowadays show themThe tail of a knout,And they'll fly to the Barin,And beg him to takeThe last coin from their pockets.Well, that's why we all livedLike merchants in those days.One summer came tidingsTo us that our BarinNow owned us no longer,That he had, at Varna,Been killed. We weren't sorry,But somehow we thought then:''The peasants' good fortuneHas come to an end!''The heir made a new move:He sent us a German.Through vast, savage forests,Through sly sucking bogsAnd on foot came the German,As bare as a finger.

"'As melting as butterAt first was the German:''Just give what you can, then,''He'd say to the peasants."'''We've nothing to give!''

"'''I'll explain to the Barin.''

"'''Explain,'' we replied,And were troubled no more.It seemed he was goingTo live in the village;He soon settled down.On the banks of the river,For hour after hourHe sat peacefully fishing,And striking his noseOr his cheek or his forehead.We laughed: ''You don't likeThe Korojin mosquitoes?''He'd boat near the banksideAnd shout with enjoyment,Like one in the bath-houseWho's got to the roof.

"'With youths and young maidensHe strolled in the forest(They were not for nothingThose strolls in the forest!)--''Well, if you can't payYou should work, little peasants.''"'''What work should we do?''

"'''You should dig some deep ditchesTo drain off the bog-lands.''We dug some deep ditches.

"'''And now trim the forest.''

"'''Well, well, trim the forest....''We hacked and we hewedAs the German directed,And when we look roundThere's a road through the forest!

"'The German went drivingTo town with three horses;Look! now he is comingWith boxes and bedding,And God knows wherefromHas this bare-footed GermanRaised wife and small children!And now he's establishedA village ispravnik,They live like two brothers.His courtyard at all timesIs teeming with strangers,And woe to the peasants--The fallen Korojins!He sucked us all dryTo the very last farthing;And flog!--like the soulOf Shalashnikov flogged he!Shalashnikov stoppedWhen he got what he wanted;He clung to our backsTill he'd glutted his stomach,And then he dropped downLike a leech from a dog's ear.But he had the gripOf a corpse--had this German;Until he had left youStripped bare like a beggarYou couldn't escape.'

"'But how could you bear it?'

"'Ah, how could we bear it?Because we were giants--Because by their patienceThe people of RussiaAre great, little Grandchild.You think, then, Matrona,That we Russian peasantsNo warriors are?Why, truly the peasantDoes not live in armour,Does not die in warfare,But neverthelessHe's a warrior, child.His hands are bound tight,And his feet hung with fetters;His back--mighty forestsHave broken across it;His breast--I will tell you,The Prophet ElijahIn chariot fieryIs thundering within it;And these things the peasantCan suffer in patience.He bends--but he breaks not;He reels--but he falls not;Then is he not trulyA warrior, say?'

"'You joke, little Grandad;Such warriors, surely,A tiny mouse nibblingCould crumble to atoms,'I said to Savyeli.

"'I know not, Matrona,But up till to-dayHe has stood with his burden;He's sunk in the earth'Neath its weight to his shoulders;His face is not moistenedWith sweat, but with heart's blood.I don't know what mayCome to pass in the future,I can't think what willCome to pass--only God knows.For my part, I knowWhen the storm howls in winter,When old bones are painful,I lie on the oven,I lie, and am thinking:''Eh, you, strength of giants,On what have they spent you?On what are you wasted?With whips and with rodsThey will pound you to dust!'''

"'But what of the German,Savyeli?'

"'The German?Well, well, though he livedLike a lord in his gloryFor eighteen long years,We were waiting our day.Then the German consideredA factory needful,And wanted a pit dug.'Twas work for nine peasants.We started at daybreakAnd laboured till mid-day,And then we were goingTo rest and have dinner,When up comes the German:''Eh, you, lazy devils!So little work done?''He started to nag us,Quite coolly and slowly,Without heat or hurry;For that was his way.

"'And we, tired and hungry,Stood listening in silence.He kicked the wet earthWith his boot while he scolded,Not far from the edgeOf the pit. I stood near him.And happened to give himA push with my shoulder;Then somehow a secondAnd third pushed him gently....We spoke not a word,Gave no sign to each other,But silently, slowly,Drew closer together,And edging the GermanRespectfully forward,We brought him at lastTo the brink of the hollow....He tumbled in headlong!''A ladder!'' he bellows;Nine shovels reply.''Naddai!''--the word fellFrom my lips on the instant,The word to which peopleWork gaily in Russia;''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!''And we laboured so bravelyThat soon not a traceOf the pit was remaining,The earth was as smoothAs before we had touched it;And then we stopped shortAnd we looked at each other....'

"The old man was silent.'What further, Savyeli?'

"'What further? Ah, bad times:The prison in Buy-Town(I learnt there my letters),Until we were sentenced;The convict-mines later;And plenty of lashes.But I never frownedAt the lash in the prison;They flogged us but poorly.And later I nearlyEscaped to the forest;They caught me, however.Of course they did notPat my head for their trouble;The Governor was throughSiberia famousFor flogging. But had notShalashnikov flogged us?I spit at the floggingsI got in the prison!Ah, he was a Master!He knew how to flog you!He toughened my hide soYou see it has served meFor one hundred years,And 'twill serve me another.But life was not easy,I tell you, Matrona:First twenty years prison,Then twenty years exile.I saved up some money,And when I came home,Built this hut for myself.And here I have livedFor a great many years now.They loved the old grandadSo long as he'd money,But now it has goneThey would part with him gladly,They spit in his face.Eh, you plucky toy heroes!You're fit to make warUpon old men and women!'

"And that was as muchAs the grandfather told me."

"And now for your story,"They answer Matrona.

"'Tis not very bright.From one trouble GodIn His goodness preserved me;For Sitnikov diedOf the cholera. Soon, though,Another arose,I will tell you about it."

"Naddai!" say the peasants(They love the word well),They are filling the glasses.