Epilogue

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;
Ióna--meek pilgrim
Of God--slept there too.
And Sáva and Grísha,
The sons of the deacon,
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
Banish the night
He 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.

"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--
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
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
To bed, snoring loudly;
Then Sávushka opened
A book, while his brother
Went out, and away
To the fields and the forest.

A broad-shouldered youth
Was this Grísha; his face, though,
Was terribly thin.
In the clerical college
The students got little
To eat. Sometimes Grísha
Would lie the whole night
Without sleep; only longing
For morning and breakfast,--
The coarse piece of bread
And the glassful of sbeeten.
The village was poor
And the food there was scanty,
But still, the two brothers
Grew certainly plumper
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.
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 Dyómna, his wife,
Had been different entirely:
She worried and counted,
So God took her soon.
The whole of her life
She by salt 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 Dyómna
Had shared its bread freely;
And long, long ago
Would her two little children
Have lain in the churchyard
If not for the peasants.

And Dyómna 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,
While washing, while spinning,
At work in the fields,
While rocking her darling
Her favourite, Grísha.
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
As Dyómna 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."
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
Upon the bread,--
He eats at last!

The mother smiles
In pride and joy:
Her tears so salt
Have saved the boy.
* * * * *
Young Grísha remembered
This song; he would sing it
Quite low to himself
In the clerical college.
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
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
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
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
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.
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
Of Mercy not vainly
Was sung to our Grísha.
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.
* * * * *
The bright sun was shining,
The cool, fragrant morning
Was filled with the sweetness
Of newly-mown hay.
Young Grísha 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,
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.

"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
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,
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 Grísha,
And guided his steps
To a very broad hayfield.
The peasants were cutting
The hay, and were singing
His favourite song.
Young Grísha 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
(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 Grísha
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;
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
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;
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
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,
As if on a holiday,
Has a clean shirt on;
Some farthings are jingling
Aloud in his pocket.
Young Grísha 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.
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
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;
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--
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?
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,
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
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
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 Grísha was pleased
With his song; and he murmured.
"Its message is true;
I will sing it to-morrow
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
He sang the new song,
And his brother said, "Splendid!"

Then Grísha 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 Grísha:
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.