  Nekrassov was the poet of the proletariat, of suffering in general and of Russian woman's suffering in particular, but denouncing rather than sentimental, a realist from start to finish. He followed in the direct succession of Gogol as an apostle of a "To-the-People" movement. For the first time in Russian poetry we read in his work of the life stories of cabmen, carters, gardeners, printers, sweating journalists, soldiers, hawkers, prostitutes, convicts and peasants, descriptions of street scenes, fires, funerals, tragic weddings, cruel dissipations, vulgarity, platitudes of town life, and so on. He was as interested in the common life of the people as a newspaper reporter, as satiric in his outlook as Byron and Burns; with Dostoievsky his passion for Russia connoted unbearable suffering: he is pellucidly clear and writes down what he sees without moralising. He was a member of an aristocratic family which had fallen on evil days at the time of his birth. His early education was in the hands of a devoted Polish mother. When later he developed a turn for satiric verse at school he was requested to leave and went to Petrograd at the age of fifteen. On threepence three farthings per day, which had to be shared with another young man and his boy-serf, he managed just to exist, but he nearly died of starvation. He sought for work of any kind and in the meanwhile learnt much of low life that was afterwards to prove of inestimable value to him. His wit and general brightness of manner brought him to the notice of the well-to-do and lazy, and among them too he found valuable copy. He then attempted to gain a living as a journalist and among his multitudinous duties managed to spare a little time for the pursuit of his own art. He became the editor of The Contemporary, and spent twenty years of hard, continuous In 1866 his first volume was published and met with instantaneous recognition, which deeply touched him, though he was always a severe critic of his own work. "Thou hast none of poetry's light freedom, My severe and clumsy, rustic verse." After the publication of these, his best poems, his health gave way, and he spent much time on his brother's estate, where he got to know the peasantry intimately. Owing to his geniality, honesty and common sense the country people felt quite at home with him and did not mind recounting all their experiences to him. Consequently his peasant stories have a genuine ring about them that is unmistakable. He died in Petrograd in 1877, hard-worked to the end. He was a true representative of the best Russian Intelligentzia: not an extremist, but responsive (like Dostoievsky) at once to all suffering. His most famous poem, Who Can be Happy and Free in Russia? is the only one that I can attempt to deal with at any length here, but from it one may gauge the humanity and interest-rousing qualities of the poet. It begins by the chance meeting of seven peasants on a country roadway. They immediately begin to argue over the question of who in Russia is happy and free. "LukÀ cries, 'The Pope,' And RomÀn, 'the PomyÈschick.' And Prov shouts, 'The Tsar,' And DemyÀn, 'The official.' 'The round-bellied merchant,' Bawl both brothers Goobin, MitrÒdor and Ìvan. PakhÒm shrieks, 'His Lordship, His most mighty Highness, The Tsar's chief adviser.'" Unable to settle the question among themselves, they begin to fight. At last, with their ribs aching, they come to their senses, drink some water from a pool, wash in it "'Go straight down the road, Count the poles until thirty; Then enter the forest And walk for a verst. By then you'll have come To a smooth little lawn With two pine-trees upon it. Beneath these two pine-trees Lies buried a casket Which you must discover. The casket is magic, And in it there lies An enchanted white napkin. Whenever you wish it This napkin will serve you With food and with vodka: You need but say softly, "O napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants." But one thing remember: Food, summon at pleasure As much as you fancy, But vodka, no more Than a bucket a day. If once, even twice You neglect my injunction Your wish shall be granted; The third time, take warning: Misfortune will follow.'" They first meet the pope, or village priest, and ask him whether he is not the happiest man in Russia, to which he replies: "'Of whom do you make Little scandalous stories? Of whom do you sing The pope's honoured wife, And his innocent daughters, Come, how do you treat them? At whom do you shout Ho, ho, ho in derision When once you are past him?' The peasants cast downwards Their eyes and keep silent...." There follows a description of scenery, a charming lyric which I cannot forbear from quoting: "The cloudlets in springtime Play round the great sun Like small grandchildren frisking Around a hale grandsire, And now, on his right side A bright little cloud Has grown suddenly dismal, Begins to shed tears. The grey thread is hanging In rows to the earth, While the red sun is laughing And beaming upon it Through torn fleecy clouds, Like a merry young girl Peeping out from the corn." The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note: "'At times you are sent for To pray by the dying, But Death is not really The awful thing present, But rather the living,— The family losing Their only support. You pray by the dead, Words of comfort you utter, To calm the bereavÈd ones; And then the old mother And stretching her bony And toil-blistered hand out; You feel your heart sicken, For there in the palm Lie the precious brass farthings. Of course it is only The price of your praying. You take it, because It is what you must live on; Your words of condolence Are frozen, and blindly, Like one deeply insulted, You make your way homeward.'" In chapter two we are taken to the village fair. "The spring sun is playing On heads hot and drunken, On boisterous revels, On bright mixing colours; The men wear wide breeches Of corduroy velvet, With gaudy striped waistcoats And shirts of all colours; The women wear scarlet; The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water." In chapter three, "The Drunken Night," occurs the exquisite metaphor: "The moon is in Heaven, And God is commencing To write His great letter Of gold on blue velvet.... Then suddenly singing Is heard in a chorus Harmonious and bold, A row of young fellows, Come staggering onwards, All lustily singing: They sing of the Volga, The daring of youths And the beauty of maidens ... A hush falls all over The road, and it listens: And only the singing Is heard, sweet and tuneful, Like wind-ruffled corn." They then accost the pomyÈschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers: "'The joy and the beauty, The pride of all Russia— The Lord's holy churches— Which brighten the hill-sides And gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and that Was the nobleman's manor. Adjoining the manor Were glass-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it. On each of the buildings Gay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guest To partake of the pleasures Of rich hospitality. Never did Frenchmen In dreams even picture Such sumptuous revels As we used to hold. Not only for one day, Or two, did they last— We fattened great turkeys, We brewed our own liquors, We kept our own actors, And troupes of musicians, And legions of servants! Why, I kept five cooks, Besides pastry-cooks, working, Two blacksmiths, three carpenters, Eighteen musicians, And twenty-one-huntsmen ... My God ...' The afflicted PomyÈschick broke down here, And hastened to bury His face in the cushion.... [And now—] 'What has happened? When in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are passing A nobleman's manor! The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it.'" Part II. deals charmingly with the story of the last pomyÈschick: "A very old man Wearing long white moustaches (He seems to be all white); His cap, broad and high-crowned, Is white, with a peak, In the front, of red satin. His body is lean As a hare's in the winter, His nose like a hawk's beak. His eyes—well, they differ: The one, sharp and shining, The other—the left eye— Is sightless and blank, Some woolly white poodles With tufts on their ankles Are in the boat too." This venerable barin Prince YutiÀtin believes that the old regime still exists and his serfs have agreed to humour him in order to keep him alive. They agree to "'Keep silent and act still As if all this trouble Had never existed: Give way to him, bow to him Just as in old days.'" So the Prince has all his whims satisfied and peasants are beaten (voluntarily) at his pleasure. He orders his sons to dance and girls to sing. "The golden-haired lady Does not want to sing, But the old man will have it. The lady is singing A song low and tender, It sounds like the breeze On a soft summer evening In velvety grasses Astray, like spring raindrops That kiss the young leaves, And it soothes the PomyÈschick, The feeble old man: He is falling asleep now ... And gently they carry him Down to the water, And into the boat. And he lies there, still sleeping. Above him stands, holding A big green umbrella, The faithful old servant, The sleeping PomyÈschick From gnats and mosquitoes. The oarsmen are silent, The faint-sounding music Can hardly be heard As the boat moving gently Glides on through the water...." In Part III., having failed to elicit a satisfactory answer to their question from the men, they decide to try the women. They go to the woman MatrÒna [Who] "Is tall, finely moulded, Majestic in bearing, And strikingly handsome. Of thirty-eight years She appears, and her black hair Is mingled with grey. Her complexion is swarthy, Her eyes large and dark And severe, with rich lashes." They manage to prevail upon her to tell her life story: "'My girl-hood was happy, For we were a thrifty And diligent household: And I, the young maiden, With father and mother Knew nothing but joy. My father got up And went out before sunrise, He woke me with kisses And tender caresses: My brother, while dressing, Would sing little verses: "Get up, little sister, Get up, little sister, In no little beds now Are people delaying, In all little churches Get up, now, get up, It is time, little sister. The shepherd has gone To the field with the sheep, And no little maidens Are lying asleep, They've gone to pick raspberries, Merrily singing...." I never ran after The youths, and the forward I checked very sharply. To those who were gentle And shy, I would whisper: "My cheeks will grow hot, And sharp eyes has my mother: Be wise, now, and leave me Alone" ... and they left me.'" At last came the man to whom she was destined to give her heart: "'And Philip was handsome, Was rosy and lusty, Was strong and broad-shouldered, With fair curling hair, With a voice low and tender.... Ah, well ... I was won.... "Don't fear, little pigeon, We shall not regret it," Said Philip, but still I was timid and doubtful. Of course I was fairer And sweeter and dearer Than any that lived, And his arms were about me.... Then all of a sudden I made a sharp effort To wrench myself free. "How now? What's the matter? Said Philip, astonished, But still held me tight. "Ah, Philip, if you had Not held me so firmly You would not have won me: I did it to try you, To measure your strength: You were strong and it pleased me." We must have been happy In those fleeting moments When softly we whispered And argued together: I think that we never Were happy again....'" She marries Philip and joins his family. "'A quarrelsome household It was—that of Philip's To which I belonged now: And I from my girlhood Stepped straight into Hell. My husband departed To work in the city, And leaving, advised me To work and be silent, To yield and be patient: "Don't splash the red iron With cold water—it hisses." With father and mother And sisters-in-law he Now left me alone: Not a soul was among them To love or to shield me, But many to scold.... Well, you know yourselves, friends, How quarrels arise In the homes of the peasants. A young married sister Of Philip's one day Came to visit her parents. In her boots, and it vexed her. Then Philip said, "Wife, Fetch some boots for my sister." And I did not answer At once: I was lifting A large wooden tub, So, of course, couldn't speak. But Philip was angry With me, and he waited Until I had hoisted The tub to the oven Then struck me a blow With his fist, on my temple.... Again Philip struck me ... And again Philip struck me ... Well, that is the story. 'Tis surely not fitting For wives to sit counting The blows of their husbands, But then I had promised To keep nothing back.'" A baby is born to her, and her life becomes more and more of a burden to her: one friend alone of Philip's relatives, an old man called SavyÈli, has pity on her. SavyÈli has been branded as a convict for burying a German alive. She relates now the story of his life and more particularly the account of his crime: "'"He (the German) 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 earth With his boot while he scolded, Not far from the edge Of the pit. I stood near him, And happened to give him A push with my shoulder: And third pushed him gently.... We spoke not a word, Gave no sign to each other, But silently, slowly, Drew closer together, And edging the German Respectfully forward, We brought him at last To the brink of the hollow ... He tumbled in headlong! 'A ladder,' he bellows: Nine shovels reply. 'Heave-to'—the words fell From my lips on the instant, The word to which people Work gaily in Russia: 'Heave-to,' and 'Heave-to,' And we laboured so bravely That soon not a trace Of the pit was remaining, The earth was as smooth As before we had touched it: And then we stopped short And we looked at each other."'" MatrÒna gets SavyÈli to look after her infant DjÒma, and while she is away the pigs attacked and killed him. The country police as the custom is in Russia threatened to hold an inquest unless they were bribed: this MatrÒna could not afford. "'"My God, give me patience, And let me not strangle The wicked blasphemer!" I looked at the doctor And shuddered in terror; Before him lay lancets, Sharp scissors and knives. I conquered myself, For I knew why they lay there. I answered him trembling, I would not have harmed him." "And did you not poison him, Give him some powder?"'" They refuse to listen to her piteous cries: "'They have lifted the napkin Which covered my baby: His little white body With scissors and lancets They worry and torture ... The room has grown darker, I'm struggling and screaming, You butchers! You fiends! Oh, hear me, just God! May thy curse fall and strike them! Ordain that their garments May rot on their bodies! Their eyes be struck blind, And their brains scorch in madness! Their wives be unfaithful, Their children be crippled!... The pope lit his pipe And sat watching the doctor. He said, 'You are rending A heart with a knife.' I started up wildly: I knew that the doctor Was piercing the heart Of my little dead baby." Her husband is taken for the army, and MatrÒna goes, although her time is on her to bring to birth another baby, to plead for him to the Governor's lady. Somewhat to our surprise she wins her cause and gets her husband back again, but the peasants are cured after hearing her story of imagining that any woman could be happy in Russia. "'The Tsar, little Father, But never a woman: God knows, among women Your search will be endless.'" So they continue their wanderings, and having heard many grim stories of all sorts, they remain without a "In his breast rose throbbingly powers unembraceable, In his ears rang melody—henceforth undefaceable: Words of azure radiance, noble in benignity. Hailing coming happiness and the People's dignity." Happiness, Nekrassov concludes, can only be won in doing creative work. I have, I think, by my copious quotations from his most popular poem at any rate proved his claim to be considered "the Russian Crabbe," the uncompromising realist who can depict the sorrows of the poor with undeflected trueness of aim. |
|
