The Hungry One

The peasant standsWith 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.

Through endless griefSuppressed and dumbHis eyes are glazed,His soul is numb.

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

Upon his fieldHe gazes long,He stands and singsA voiceless song:

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

"Yield me a loafOf monstrous girth,A cake as vastAs Mother-Earth.

"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 loafFrom his bag, and devours it.

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

It's true. Not with voicesThey sing of the famine--But something within them.One, during the singing,Has risen, to show themThe gait of the peasantExhausted by hunger,And swayed by the wind.Restrained are his movementsAnd slow. After singing"The Hungry One," thirstingThey make for the bucket,One after anotherLike geese in a file.They stagger and totterAs people half-famished,A drink will restore them."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 effortThey bear themselves bravely.)And Vlass, the old Elder,Has placed his great palmOn the head of his godson.

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

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

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

"Yes, what's all the pother?"Here Klimka bursts outLike a cannon exploding.The others are scratchingTheir necks, and reflecting:"It's true! What's amiss?""Come, drink, little 'Earthworms,'Come, drink and be merry!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 discussionEnsues; and it's settledThat they're not to blameFor the deed of the traitor:'Twas serfdom's the fault.For just as the big snakeGives birth to the small ones,So serfdom gave birthTo the sins of the nobles,To Jacob the Faithful'sAnd also to Gleb's.For, see, without serfdomHad been no PomyeshchickTo drive his true servantTo death by the noose,No terrible vengeanceOf slave upon masterBy suicide fearful,No treacherous Gleb.

'Twas Prov of all othersWho listened to GrishaWith deepest attentionAnd joy most apparent.And when he had finishedHe cried to the othersIn accents of triumph,Delightedly smiling,"Now, brothers, mark that!""So now, there's an endOf 'The Hungry One,' peasants!"Cries Klimka, with glee.The words about serfdomWere quickly caught upBy the crowd, and went passingFrom one to another:"Yes, if there's no big snakeThere cannot be small ones!"And Klimka is swearingAgain at the carter:"You ignorant fool!"They're ready to grapple!The deacon is sobbingAnd kissing his Grisha:"Just see what a headpieceThe Lord is creating!No wonder he longsFor the college in Moscow!"Old Vlass, too, is pattingHis shoulder and saying,"May God send thee silverAnd gold, and a healthyAnd diligent wife!"

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

The dawn is approaching.The peasants make readyTo cross by the ferry."Eh, Vlass," says the carter,As, stooping, he raisesThe 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 anxiousTo see what is passing.)

Some fellow is lyingExhausted, dishevelled,Asleep, with the beggarsBehind some big logs.His clothing is new,But it's hanging in ribbons.A crimson silk scarfOn his neck he is wearing;A watch and a waistcoat;His blouse, too, is red.Now Klimka is stoopingTo look at the sleeper,Shouts, "Beat him!" and roughlyStamps 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 forestOn long, lanky legs.Four peasants pursue him,The others cry, "Beat him!"Until both the manAnd the band of pursuersAre lost in the forest.

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

"We don't know the reason,But we have been toldBy the people of TiskovTo punish this ShutovWhenever we catch him,And so we obey.When people from TiskovPass by, they'll explain it.What luck? Did you catch him?"He asks of the othersReturned from the chase.

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

"Strange people, to beat himWithout any cause!""And why? If the communeHas told us to do itThere must be some reason!"Shouts Klim at the seven."D'you think that the peopleOf Tiskov are fools?It isn't long since, mind,That many were flogged there,One man in each ten.Ah, Shutov, you renderedA dastardly service,Your duties are evil,You damnable wretch!And who deserves beatingAs richly as Shutov?Not we alone beat him:From Tiskov, you know,Fourteen villages lieOn the banks of the Volga;I warrant through eachHe's been driven with blows."

The seven are silent.They're longing to getAt the root of the matter.But even the ElderIs now growing angry.

It's daylight. The womenAre bringing their husbandsSome breakfast, of rye-cakesAnd--goose! (For a peasantHad driven some geeseThrough the village to market,And three were grown weary,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 toldHow the peasant loves drinking;Not many there are, though,Who know how he eats.He's greedier farFor his food than for vodka,So one man to-day(A teetotaller mason)Gets perfectly drunkOn his breakfast of goose!A shout! "Who is coming?Who's this?" Here's anotherExcuse for rejoicingAnd noise! There's a hay-cartWith hay, now approaching,And high on its summitA soldier is sitting.He's known to the peasantsFor twenty versts round.And, cosy beside him,Justinutchka sits(His niece, and an orphan,His prop in old age).He now earns his livingBy means of his peep-show,Where, plainly discerned,Are the Kremlin and Moscow,While music plays too.The instrument onceHad gone wrong, and the soldier,No capital owning,Bought three metal spoons,Which he beat to make music;But the words that he knewDid not suit the new music,And folk did not laugh.The soldier was sly, though:He made some new words upThat 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?"

"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 goTo St. Petersburg for it;For all my old comradesAre there with their pensions,They'll show me the way."

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

The old fellow whistles:"Not long you've been servingUs, orthodox Christians,You, infidel railway!And welcome you wereWhen you carried us cheaplyFrom Peters to Moscow.(It cost but three roubles.)But now you want seven,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 mayCleaner than any big broom sweep away!"

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

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

It cannot be saidThat his face is attractive,Especially whenIt's distorted by tic:His mouth opens wideAnd his eyes burn like charcoal,--A regular demon!

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

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

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

(The soldier can't helpAdding apt little wordsTo the speech of the peasant,And striking his spoons.)

The soldier is stampingHis feet. One can hearHis dry bones knock together.When Klimka has finishedThe peasants come crowding,Surrounding the soldier,And some a kopeck give,And others give half:In no time a roubleIs piled on the dishes.